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scarletwinterxx · 21 hours ago

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never too much - chwe vernon imagine

hellloooo ~ i finallllyyy have some free time to edit😭 i swear i wrote a few fics weeks ago, i've just been sooo busy🥺 hope you like this one!

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(pics not mine, credits to rightful owner)

You’re the planner of the group.

It’s not a role you were assigned, not something you fought for either it just happened naturally. You’re the one who books the Airbnb, prints the itinerary, checks for weather updates, packs the portable charger, and carries the emergency meds.

You’re the glue. The clockwork. The walking checklist. And you know your friends appreciate it. Mostly. Just... not all the time.

You hear the sighs when you remind them to hydrate. The eye-rolls when you bring out the laminated day plan. The mutters when you redirect everyone because the cafe they wanted to go to didn’t take walk-ins.

“God, you’re always so uptight.”

“Can you chill for once? We’re on vacation, not a military drill.”

You laugh it off. Swallow it like medicine. Smile like it doesn’t sting. But on the last night of your Jeju trip, while everyone’s a little buzzed from makgeolli and high off beach air and fried chicken, it stops being playful.

“Honestly,” one of them slurs, “you make everything so... calculated. Like we can’t breathe without you hovering. You think we’d die without a plan?”

There’s laughter. Not malicious, maybe. But it echoes louder than it should. Like cymbals to your ears.

Someone else jokes, “Let’s do the next trip without her, see if we survive. Freedom sounds kinda fun, huh?”

You force out a small laugh, even as your grip tightens around your chopsticks. No one notices. Or maybe they do. But no one says anything.

Except Vernon. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t look amused. He’s sitting across from you, his eyes meeting yours briefly. Quiet, unreadable, but something in his gaze makes you look away fast.

You don’t say a word. Not during the walk back, not when the group chat starts talking about noraebang. You slip away to the room you shared, start folding your clothes and zipping your bag while the others get ready for another night of karaoke.

No one notices you’re not there but Vernon does.

He knocks softly. Just once. Then opens the door slowly.

You don’t look up. Just focus on rolling your jeans as tightly as you can. You hear him step in,quietly closing the door behind him. You wait for him to say something, maybe ask if you’re okay, but he doesn’t. He just sits on the edge of the bed next to your suitcase.

Silence fills the room like steam, thick and warm and stifling. You keep your head down, but your throat tightens.

“Hey,” he finally says, voice low.

You hum a soft acknowledgment, hoping it’ll be enough for him to leave you alone.

But he doesn’t.

“You’re not too much,” he says suddenly.

That makes you pause. You turn your head, just slightly. Not enough to meet his eyes, but enough for him to know you’re listening.

“They don’t realize how much you carry for everyone,” he continues. “How things actually work because of you.”

You swallow. Blink quickly. Look up at the ceiling.

“They don’t get it. But I do.”

You clench your jaw. “It’s fine,” you whisper. “They were drunk. It’s not a big deal.”

Vernon doesn’t call you out on the lie. He just says, “Still hurt, though.”

And with that, the dam almost breaks. Almost. You sit on the edge of the bed too, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the tears at bay. Your fingers fidget with your sleeve.

“I’m going with you tomorrow,” he says softly.

Your eyes flick to him. “What?”

“I moved my flight to the afternoon,” he shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “Figured you shouldn’t go to the airport alone.”

You blink at him, caught off guard. “Why would you…?”

He finally looks at you. “Because you’re not alone. Even if they made you feel that way.”

You don’t say anything else. Just sit there beside him, in the quiet comfort of his presence. It’s strange. How someone saying so little can make you feel seen in ways your whole group never managed.

Vernon doesn’t try to touch you. Doesn’t push. He just knows. And in a world where you always have to plan and anticipate and adjust for everyone else, it feels nice—for once—to be understood without explanation.

The morning feels fragile. You move through it like glass. You’re the first one up, as usual. You double-check the fridge to make sure no one left anything behind, tidy up the Airbnb out of habit.

The others start stirring around breakfast. Laughter returns, loud and carefree, like nothing ever happened.

“Guess we survived the night without a roll call,” one of them jokes, sipping on coffee someone else made.

“Wow, no itinerary for breakfast?” another adds, grinning at you. “Miracles do happen.”

You say nothing. You press your lips into a polite, tight-lipped smile and continue wrapping your charger. Your movements are calm. Precise. Measured. But inside, your hands shake.

You sling your backpack on and smooth down your shirt.

“Well,” you say softly, “I’ll head to the airport first.”

“Already?” someone says, barely looking up. “We were gonna take pics before check-out.”

“That’s okay,” you reply, already halfway out the door. “Just send them to the group.”

Not a single wait, not a sorry about last night, not even a safe trip.

You hear Vernon’s voice behind you—“I’ll go too”—but you’re already outside, walking ahead.

Vernon doesn’t follow right away. He watches the door close after you, chest tight. And when he turns back to the group, something in him snaps.

“You guys really don’t get it, do you?” he says, voice cold.

The room stills. Someone snorts. “Get what?”

Vernon steps forward. “How shitty you were to her last night.”

“Bro, we were joking,” one of them says. “She’s just sensitive.”

“That wasn’t joking,” Vernon says, louder now. Sharper. “That was disrespectful.”

A pause. Then someone dares to scoff. “Since when are you so pressed? You barely say two words during trips.”

“Maybe because I spend most of the time watching all of you dump everything on her,” he fires back. “And she takes it. Every time. She plans everything, solves your messes, fixes every little inconvenience, and you make her feel like she’s a burden?”

No one speaks.

“You think just because she smiles and doesn’t say anything, it doesn’t get to her?” he continues, his voice growing hot, unfamiliar even to himself. “You think you’re funny? That she doesn’t go to sleep overthinking every word?”

He’s not yelling. But his words cut. Vernon, always calm, always cool, is furious.

“She left without saying anything because she still didn’t want to ruin your trip,” he spits. “Even after what you said.”

One of them shifts uncomfortably. “We didn’t mean it like that—”

“Then say that to her,” Vernon snaps. “Because you didn’t apologize. You didn’t even notice. And she still cleaned up after you.”

He grabs his bag without another word, slinging it over his shoulder. As he reaches the door, he glances back once.

“You don’t deserve the way she shows up for you.”

Then he’s gone.

The airport is busy, buzzing with people and rolling suitcases, but it feels quiet in your head.

You sit at the departure gate with a coffee you haven’t touched, eyes glued to the screen in front of you but not seeing any of it. You told yourself you wouldn’t cry. That you’d swallow the words and forget the sting. That you’d take the high road. That it was just a joke. Just a one-off.

But the tears come anyway silent, stubborn, and unwanted. A few slip down your cheeks before you can wipe them away. You look down, pretending to scroll through your phone. Swallowing hard. Maybe you are too sensitive. Too much.

“Hey.”

You turn and Vernon is there, hair a bit messy from rushing, breath slightly uneven. But his eyes? His eyes find yours instantly, like he’s been scanning the whole airport for you.

“You okay?”

You wipe your cheek fast and nod. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He doesn’t push. He just sits beside you, pulling out a bottle of water and nudging it toward you. “Drink. You’ll get dehydrated before the flight.”

You huff out a tiny laugh through your nose. He smiles softly.

A beat passes. And then—

“I said something to them,” he says, eyes still facing forward. “They needed to hear it.”

Your heart skips.

You glance at him, surprised. “You did?”

He shrugs, lips pressed together. “They were out of line.”

You look away again, throat tight. “Thank you.”

It’s quiet for a while. Then you speak again, voice small. “I tried not to let it get to me.”

“I know,” he says gently. “But you don’t have to keep holding everything in.”

You turn your head toward him. His eyes are already on you. There’s no judgment in them. Just that same steady warmth. That quiet loyalty. And for the first time in days, you believe that might be enough.

That’s always been the thing, hasn’t it?

You take care of everybody.

The one with the tote bag full of things people forget. The one who checks in when someone’s gone quiet in the group chat. The one who makes sure everyone has a seat, a charger, a water bottle, an umbrella, a ride home.

And no one ever stops to ask who takes care of you.

But Vernon does.

Quietly. Always quietly.

He’s the only one who ever offers to carry your bag without making it a Thing. The only one who notices when you’re too tired to eat and splits his snack in half anyway. The only one who looks at you a little too long when everyone else is laughing—like he sees the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Even now, on the flight back to Seoul, when you’re not talking, not smiling, just sitting there with your hoodie drawn up and your face turned toward the window—he’s there.

Later, when your breath gets a little uneven and you lean against the window with your eyes closed, you feel the faintest pressure. his jacket draped gently over your lap, because the cabin’s cold and you didn’t think to bring one for yourself.

You want to say something. Thank him, maybe. But you’re so tired. Emotionally drained. So instead, you rest your hand on the jacket softly, and he lets you be.

Seoul is colder when you land.

The train ride to your apartment is mostly silent. The city rushes by in a blur, but your insides feel still. Heavy.

When you reach your stop, Vernon helps with your luggage without question. Follows you to your front door like he’s escorting you home from battle. He doesn’t say much, just stands in the hallway while you dig your keys out of your backpack.

You unlock the door. Step inside.

You turn to face him, and for a second, you don’t know what to say. Everything feels too big. Too raw. Too much. But Vernon gives you a soft smile. Not the kind that expects anything back. Just the kind that says I’m here.

“Get some rest,” he says gently.

You nod. “Thanks for… everything.”

He dips his head, like it’s nothing. Like you are everything.

And then he turns and walks down the hallway, leaving you standing in the soft quiet of your apartment, the click of the door behind you sounding louder than it should.

You drop your bags by the entryway. Walk into the living room. Just stand there.

Still.

And then it hits.

You cry.

Not a pretty cry. Not a polite one. But that deep, shaking, gut-wrenching kind of cry you only let out when you're finally alone. The kind that makes your knees weak. That burns through your chest. That leaves you breathless.

You cry for the way they joked like your feelings didn’t matter. For the way you didn’t stand up for yourself. For all the invisible work you always do—for people who rarely say thank you.

You cry because you’ve carried too much for too long.

In his own apartment across the river, Vernon lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. He still has the group chat muted. Still hasn’t opened their messages.

His phone buzzes once. It’s you.

Just a short message.

You: Got home safe. Thank you.

He types and deletes a dozen replies. Settles on:

Vernon: Anytime

Because he means it. Always has. And maybe someday, you’ll let him mean more.

You didn’t want to go.

You really, really didn’t.

The group chat had gone back to business as usual, pretending nothing had happened during that trip. The way they do. Messages about some new restaurant downtown, someone’s birthday coming up, “let’s meet up for dinner!” with five different locations suggested and no actual plan in place.

You tried not to care. You really tried.

But somehow, you still ended up at the table.

You arrived a little late, walked into a half-chaotic mess of people talking over each other, the server looking mildly overwhelmed, and your friends sitting in mismatched seats someone forgot to reserve properly. Of course.

The energy was loud and frenzied, drinks already halfway drained. Everyone was laughing, tossing inside jokes back and forth like they hadn’t spent the last few weeks pretending you didn’t exist.

You slid into the only empty chair near the edge, giving a small smile to whoever noticed.

Which, really, was just Vernon.

He wasn’t expecting you.

He nearly choked on his drink when he looked up and saw you across the table—shoulders tucked in tight, that practiced expression on your face. Not cold. Just… unreadable.

It pissed him off.

Not you being there. But the fact that you were there, clearly uncomfortable, clearly not part of the laughter, and yet still showed up like you owed them something.

And the worst part?

They were still doing it.

“Oh my god, remember when she made us walk like, twenty minutes uphill just because she didn’t trust the taxi app?” “She probably had a printout of the directions and a backup.”

Someone snorted. “Bet she planned her funeral already.”

You didn’t say anything. Not a single word. You just poked at your food with your chopsticks. Vernon sat straighter in his seat. The noise of the room faded under the heat rising in his chest.

You didn’t deserve this. You never did.

He could feel it bubbling up, clawing up his throat. His jaw clenched tight, hands curling slowly under the table.

He waited for someone to say one more thing.

And of course—someone did.

“Honestly, you gotta admire the control, though. Like, girl probably schedules her breakdowns too.”

That was it.

Vernon pushed his chair back with a sharp scrape of wood on tile.

“Say that again.”

The table fell silent.

The guy blinked. “What?”

“I said,” Vernon’s voice was low and tight, “say it again. See what happens.”

Everyone stared. No one had ever seen this side of him. Chill, quiet, go-with-the-flow Vernon.

Not this version. Not fists-on-the-table, voice-laced-with-venom Vernon.

The guy gave a short laugh, unsure. “Bro, relax. It was a joke.”

“You think it’s funny to pick on someone who plans your whole life for you?” Vernon shot back. “Who lets you treat her like crap and still shows up for you?”

His voice rose a notch. “You don’t get to laugh at her just because she’s better at giving a damn than any of you.”

“Vernon—”

“No.” He stepped forward, eyes locked on the guy who made the last comment. “You act like you’re harmless, like your jokes don’t mean anything. But you made her cry. She went home and cried and none of you gave a single shit.”

The guy stood, chest puffed. “You gonna hit me over a joke, man?”

“I’ll hit you for disrespecting her.”

Chairs scraped. The tension crackled like live wires. A server peeked over warily from the kitchen.

You shot up from your seat before it could get worse.

You wrapped your hand around Vernon’s wrist, firm and grounding.

“Vernon,” you said quietly. “Don’t.”

His jaw was locked, shoulders tense, but he looked at you. Looked only at you. Your eyes didn’t plead. They just asked.

Please. Let’s go.

He exhaled hard through his nose. Backed down, barely. Without another word, he grabbed his jacket and stormed past the table, knocking over an empty glass.

You followed after him.

Outside, the night was cool, but your skin felt hot from shame and rage and everything in between.

He was pacing.

You stood there in silence for a moment before quietly saying, “You didn’t have to do that.”

He turned to you. “Yes, I did.”

You stared at him. “They’re not going to change.”

“I don’t care,” he snapped, then softened a little. “I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it because I’ve had to watch you shrink yourself for people who don’t deserve even half of what you give. And I’m tired of it.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Then—barely a whisper—“You really would’ve hit him.”

He looked at you, voice steady. “If you hadn’t stopped me, yeah.”

You end up at a convenience store two blocks away, the fluorescent lights humming above you as you both crouch in front of the freezer aisle. You point to a box of ice cream sandwiches. Vernon grabs them. You throw in a bottle of banana milk. He grabs another one without asking.

When you leave, the air’s cooler, quieter. Seoul’s a little more forgiving this late—less honking, fewer crowds, just the buzz of neon signs and the occasional distant laugh.

You find an empty bench across from a closed bookstore and sit down, unwrapping your ice cream in silence. You glance at Vernon. He’s got his own sandwich, barely touched. He’s looking ahead, legs stretched out, jaw still tense.

Then, without looking at you, he says it.

“You should really stop hanging out with them.”

You blink. “What?”

“They’re a poor excuse for friends,” he says bluntly, tearing a small piece of wrapper off the stick. “And I mean that with my whole chest.”

You huff out a dry laugh, but it doesn’t quite land. “It’s not that easy.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve known them for years. Because we’ve shared so much. Because I used to think…” You trail off, sighing. “I used to think that was enough.”

Vernon finally looks at you. His gaze is soft, but steady. “Shared history doesn’t excuse bad treatment.”

You stare at your half-eaten ice cream.

“They’ve always joked around like that,” you mutter. “I guess I just… got used to it. Told myself it wasn’t personal.”

“It was personal.”

You swallow hard.

Vernon’s voice is quieter now, but firmer. “You don’t have to keep making space for people who don’t even notice when you’re hurting. You don’t owe them your silence.”

You blink fast. “I’m just tired of fighting.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s why I did it for you.”

You glance up.

He’s already watching you. Not intense. Not demanding. Just present. Solid. You look back down at your ice cream, now dripping slightly.

“I didn’t want you to get into a fight for me.”

“I didn’t want to watch you get torn apart again.”

Vernon nudges his shoulder lightly against yours. “Next time, let’s skip them. Just you and me. We’ll plan a trip. No chaos. No passive-aggressive jokes. Just real rest.”

You turn to him. “You’d let me plan every detail?”

He smirks. “I’d even carry your laminated itinerary.”

You laugh for real this time. It breaks something open and stitches something else in the same breath. You lean your head on his shoulder. It’s not a big moment, not a kiss, not a confession but it’s something.

You take another bite of your ice cream, the wrapper crinkling as it melts just a little too fast. It’s quiet for a moment. Just the soft hum of a streetlamp overhead and the buzz of a nearby convenience store sign flickering like it’s trying to give up for the night.

Then you say it. Real soft. Almost afraid to break the calm between you.

“...You don’t think it’s too much?”

Vernon turns to you slowly.

“What?”

“Me. The way I am. I know I can be intense. I plan everything. I stress over things people don’t even notice. I don’t do spontaneous well and I—” you breathe, “I get it if it’s annoying.”

He stares at you for a second, then lets out a small, amused huff.

“You’re an INFJ, aren’t you?”

You blink. “How—?”

He laughs quietly, mouth tugging into that easy half-smile of his. “You plan everything down to the tiniest detail. You get antsy when we’re not on time. And you remember, like, everybody’s birthday—even when they don’t remember yours.”

You pull your knees up on the bench a little, sheepish. “You hate it, don’t you?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t.”

He leans back, stretching his legs again. “I’m an ENTP.”

You look at him, wide-eyed. “That... actually explains so much.”

“Right?” he chuckles. “I live in chaos. You plan for it.”

You raise a brow. “And that’s cool with you?”

Vernon nods, more serious now. “Yeah. It is. Because I get you. Even if they don’t.”

He nudges you gently with his elbow. “You’re not too much. You’re just too much for people who don’t know how to hold you.”

That hits something deep in your chest. Makes your fingers tighten a little around the melting ice cream stick.

He continues, softer, “They make you feel like you’re the problem, but you’re not. They just don’t know how to appreciate you. I do.”

You turn your face toward him slowly. He’s not smiling now he’s just looking at you. Honest. Steady.

“I notice everything you do,” he says. “Even the quiet stuff. Especially the quiet stuff.”

Your throat tightens again, for a completely different reason this time.

You want to say something—thank you, maybe. Or don’t look at me like that if you don’t mean it. But the words catch in your chest.

Instead, you just lean against his shoulder again, the space between you closing like it’s always meant to.

“Okay,” you whisper. “But next time, I get to build the packing list.”

He laughs, soft and warm. “Deal.”

And for once, your heart feels like maybe—just maybe—it’s safe here.

Later Vernon gets back to the apartment a little past midnight.

Quietly closes the door behind him, slipping off his sneakers with a tired exhale. The hallway’s dark, save for the faint glow of the living room lamp probably left on by accident. Or not.

He’s halfway into the kitchen, mind still halfway back on that bench with you, when he hears it.

“You were out late.”

Vernon jumps a little.

Seungkwan’s voice, dry as a desert and sharp as ever, floats in from the couch. He’s half-sprawled with a tub of yogurt in one hand and a throw blanket dramatically draped across his legs like royalty.

“Jesus, dude,” Vernon mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “You scared me.”

“I live here,” Seungkwan says, deadpan. “Where were you? I called you twice.”

Vernon opens the fridge, grabs a bottle of water, and leans against the counter. “Out.”

Seungkwan squints suspiciously. “Out. As in... out with someone?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t you say you were just going to dinner with the group?”

Vernon takes a long sip. “I did.”

Seungkwan puts the yogurt down slowly. “...And?”

Vernon shrugs. “They were being assholes. Again.”

“Shocker,” Seungkwan mutters. “Let me guess. About her.”

Vernon nods. His voice is low now. “She was there.”

“Wait, seriously? After everything?”

“She looked like she didn’t even want to be.”

“And what did you do?” he asks, though he’s already half-smiling, like he knows.

Vernon sighs. “Almost punched one of them”

Seungkwan stares. “You almost punched someone?”

“Yeah.”

“Like. Fist raised?”

“Yeah.”

“In public?”

“Dude.”

Seungkwan breaks into a grin, then starts laughing. “Okay, wait—you—silent, unbothered Chwe Vernon almost got into a physical fight? That’s how deep it is?”

Vernon doesn’t respond right away. He just finishes the water, then tosses the empty bottle into the recycling bin.

“She stopped me,” he says eventually, softer.

Seungkwan tilts his head. “And then what?”

“We left. Walked around. Got ice cream. She… cried a little.”

Seungkwan frowns at that. “Again?”

“She’s holding too much in,” Vernon says quietly, staring at the counter. “Like she’s afraid if she says the wrong thing, everyone’s going to turn on her. So she keeps letting it happen.”

“She deserves better.”

“I know.”

Seungkwan narrows his eyes. “So what are you gonna do?”

Vernon looks up. Shrugs. But there’s a quiet kind of certainty behind it.

“Whatever she needs. However long it takes.”

Seungkwan leans back with a knowing smile. “That sounds dangerously close to a man in love, but I’m just gonna finish my yogurt and pretend you didn’t get soft on me.”

Vernon chuckles under his breath. “Thanks.”

He starts walking toward his room, but before disappearing down the hall, Seungkwan calls out one last thing:

“Hey, Vern.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re the only one who ever sees her. Don’t let her forget that.”

Vernon’s grip tightens on the doorknob.

“I won’t.”

You almost don’t go.

When Vernon texts “Wanna grab lunch? Got some people I want you to meet.” you hesitate.

You read the message twice. Then again. He says “some people” like it’s no big deal, like it’s not enough to send your brain spiraling into

What if they’re like the others? What if I don’t fit in? What if I’m too much again?

But it’s Vernon. So, you go.

The café he picked is warm and tucked in a quiet side street, all sunlit wood and gentle indie music. It smells like cinnamon and espresso the moment you step inside. You spot him right away baseball cap low, grey hoodie, that lazy lean against the back of the booth.

There are two others with him.

Vernon sees you and smiles instantly. Big. Like he’s genuinely happy to see you. It softens something in your chest.

“Hey,” he says, getting up as you approach. “You made it.”

He gestures to the two guys already mid-banter across the table. “This is Seungkwan,” he says, pointing to the one who’s got the loudest energy, expressive hands, eyes like he’s ready to fight or cry at any moment.

“And that’s Chan,” he adds, nodding to the younger guy beside him, bright smile and dimples for days.

Both of them look at you like they already like you.

“You’re the one,” Seungkwan says, dramatically clutching his chest.

You blink. “Sorry?”

“The planner! The woman Vernon nearly punched someone over!” Seungkwan beams.

Chan nods seriously. “You made him angry. That’s like watching a cat bark.”

You flush. “Oh my god.”

Vernon groans and rubs his face. “I literally told you not to make it weird.”

“Too late!” Seungkwan chirps. “Also, hi. I’m your new favorite friend.”

“Second favorite,” Chan corrects, sticking out his hand with a grin. “Nice to meet you. Finally.”

You laugh and it’s a little disorienting how easy it is to be around them. How warm they feel. Like a blanket fresh from the dryer.

You take the seat beside Vernon. “I feel like I’ve walked into a sitcom.”

“Welcome to our weekly chaos,” Seungkwan says, sipping his iced americano like it’s wine. “We’ve been interviewing new members. You might be overqualified.”

“You make itineraries?” Chan leans forward, curious. “We’ve been winging everything. Seungkwan once booked a trip on the wrong weekend.”

“Once,” Seungkwan says dramatically. “And Vernon didn’t notice either!”

“He doesn’t notice anything when he’s texting her,” Chan adds with a grin, eyes flicking to Vernon.

Vernon kicks him under the table. Hard.

“Ow! You saw that, right?” Chan gasps.

You raise an eyebrow. “Should I leave?”

“No!” all three of them say at once.

Then they break into laughter. Even Vernon, who looks red around the ears.

You end up staying longer than you meant to. The food’s good, but the company’s better. The conversation bounces like a ping-pong match, but no one talks over you. When you speak, they listen. When you pause, they wait.

And they don’t make you feel small.

At some point, Seungkwan leans over and whispers loudly behind his hand, “You know he talks about you, like, a lot, right?”

Chan nods solemnly. “It’s gross. In a cute way.”

Vernon mutters, “I literally hate both of you.”

You glance at him, and he’s smiling, half-embarrassed, half-fond. You don’t say anything. Just nudge his knee gently under the table.

He doesn’t move away.

Later, when the group disbands and you’re walking beside Vernon again, you bump shoulders lightly.

“They’re... really great,” you say quietly.

He nods. “Yeah. They are.”

“They made me feel welcome.”

“I wanted you to see what that felt like,” he says, voice softer now. “Real friends. Ones who get you.”

You stop walking for a second. Turn to him.

“Did you really talk about me that much?”

He looks down, smiling. “You know how I am.”

You don’t reply right away. You just let your hand brush against his as you walk again, casual but intentional.

And when he brushes back just once, you swear it feels like the start of something more.

It becomes a thing. Not officially. No one says it out loud. But it happens.

First, it’s another lunch the following week. Seungkwan finds a new tteokbokki place that’s “so spicy it’ll kill Chan and resurrect him for drama.”

Then it’s an evening in Hongdae because you found a hidden rooftop café online, and Vernon casually goes, “Let’s check it out?” like he didn’t already put a star next to it in your notes app.

And before you know it, it’s a weekly ritual.

Fridays, usually. Sometimes Saturdays, depending on schedules. Lunch or dinner, café hopping, escape rooms, indie bookstores, late-night walks with ice cream.

And every single time, you plan it.

At first, you tried to hold back. “Only if you guys are okay with it—” but they immediately shut that down.

“Are you kidding?” Seungkwan beamed the first time you made a color-coded itinerary. “You’ve got maps, budget breakdowns, snack stops—this is luxury living.”

Chan clutched your printed plan to his chest like it was gold. “I’ve never felt more seen.”

Vernon? He just smiled quietly to himself, watching you light up. Because this version of you—laughing, relaxed, thriving—he hadn’t seen you like this in a long time.

You’re not overthinking every move. Not flinching when someone interrupts. Not shrinking.

Because this time, when you hand over a checklist or suggest a new plan, they cheer. They let you be you and no one makes you feel like it’s too much.

You’re glowing. Not in a cliché way. In that real, unshakable way that happens when someone is finally, finally allowed to breathe.

Seungkwan takes a sip of his soda and leans over to Vernon with a grin. “She’s the glue now. You know that, right?”

“She’s always been the glue,” Vernon says softly, gaze still on you. “Just finally sticking somewhere that matters.”

Chan looks up from the itinerary, chewing a fishcake skewer. “You still haven’t told her, huh.”

“Told her what?” Seungkwan sings, way too loud.

Vernon rolls his eyes. “Eat your lunch.”

But his heart? Yeah. It’s gone.

After dinner that night, the four of you end up walking along the river. It’s breezy, lights reflecting off the water, music from a nearby busker floating in the air.

Vernon walks beside you, hands in his pockets, a quiet smile on his face as you point out constellations on your stargazing app.

“Thanks,” you say suddenly, eyes still on the sky.

“For what?”

“For this. For them. For letting me... take up space.”

He looks over at you.

“You don’t take up space,” he says. “You make it better.”

You glance at him. A beat passes. The moment sits between you—warm, unspoken.

And he doesn’t say it—not yet but he thinks it, loud and certain:

You finally found a place where you belong and he plans to stay right there beside you.

It’s one of those hangout days where it ends up just being the two of you.

Chan had practice. Seungkwan had brunch with his mom. You’d offered to reschedule, but Vernon just shrugged.

“Still down if you are.”

So here you are, walking along a quiet street in Seongsu after a café stop, your shared iced latte nearly gone, the sun dipping low and mellow. The city feels hushed. Slower. Like the universe gave you both permission to breathe.

You’re mid-rant about a recent article you read something about urban design and too-narrow sidewalks and he’s just listening, nodding along, quietly amused, when he suddenly stops walking.

“Oh,” he says, reaching into his tote bag. “Almost forgot.”

You pause too, watching as he digs around like he’s misplaced something. Then he pulls out a small paper bag—neatly folded at the top, sealed with a little sticker.

He holds it out toward you, nonchalant.

You blink. “...What’s this?”

He shrugs. “Something I saw and thought you might like.”

You take it cautiously, fingers brushing his for half a second.

Inside:

– a set of pastel highlighters

– a notepad with a grid layout and tear-away sheets

– sticky tabs in different colors

– a pen you’ve actually mentioned in passing before, weeks ago, during that time you reorganized Chan’s notes “for fun”

You press your lips together, trying to laugh it off. “I’m so predictable, huh?”

“No,” he says gently. “You’re just you. And I pay attention.”

You look back down at the bag. At the kind of gift that isn’t about money or grand gestures. It’s the kind that says, I see how you love things. I see what matters to you.

“Most people wouldn’t think this kind of stuff is a gift,” you say quietly, still turning the pen between your fingers.

“Most people don’t know you like I do.”

You look up at him. He’s watching you, eyes warm. No teasing. No pretense. Just Vernon, seeing you as you are.

To be loved is to be known. And right now, you feel more known than ever.

“Thank you,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

He smiles again, looking down with a shy little nod. “Anytime.”

You don’t know what kind of night it is exactly but it feels like something’s about to shift.

You’re sitting side by side on the bench outside that tiny bookstore you stumbled across months ago. It’s closing time. The shutters are half-down, the city behind you moving at half-speed.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet for how fast your heart is beating.

Vernon’s been acting strange all evening. Not in a bad way—just different. Fidgety. A little quiet, but not like he doesn’t want to be around you. More like... he’s thinking about every word before he says it.

You thought maybe he was tired.

But now, sitting here, he suddenly speaks.

“Hey.”

You glance at him. “Hm?”

He’s looking down at his hands, twisting a ring on his finger.

“I’ve been thinking about saying something for a while,” he says, voice low.

You blink. “Okay…”

“And I don’t want to ruin anything. But I also don’t want to keep pretending it’s not there.” He finally looks at you. Really looks at you.

And something about his eyes makes your breath catch.

“I like you,” he says, steady. “I’ve liked you. For a long time.”

The world slows. Everything narrows to that one moment.

You blink again. “...Me?”

He lets out a breath half laugh, half disbelief. “Yeah. You.”

There’s this pause, you could hear the sound of your heartbeat in your ears.

“You like me?” you say it again, like you’re still waiting for someone to call it a prank.

Vernon’s brows furrow softly. “Why do you sound surprised?”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again.

“I just— I mean, I’m not—” You fumble for the right words. “I’m the background person. The one who makes sure the train’s on time. The one people tolerate, not… choose.”

His jaw tightens. Not in anger, just in that way he gets when you say something too harsh about yourself.

“You’re not in the background to me,” he says gently. “You’ve never been.”

You swallow hard.

“I notice everything,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper now. “How you always walk on the outside of the sidewalk. How you write to-do lists on receipts when you forget your planner.”

You feel your throat close. A little overwhelmed. A lot stunned.

“I like all of it,” he says. “I like you.”

You stare at him, cheeks warm, blinking fast.

Then, so softly it almost doesn’t come out: “...What do I do now?”

He smiles, lopsided and nervous. “Whatever you want.”

You reach for his hand. He blinks down, surprised, as your fingers intertwine with his. Carefully. Intentionally.

There’s a breeze that plays with your sleeve as you walk home side by side, your fingers still lightly laced with Vernon’s like you’re both afraid letting go might undo the whole moment.

Your heart is still doing the absolute most.

He’s quiet, humming something under his breath, a little smile playing on his lips. And then suddenly he laughs. A quiet, amused kind of laugh.

You turn to him. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

You narrow your eyes. “No, tell me.”

“Just remembering something.”

You stop walking. “What?”

He looks down at you with that annoyingly soft expression and says, “You. Earlier. Asking me what to do.”

You blink. Then it hits you.

“I— okay, wait—”

He laughs again, holding his hands up like I surrender.

“I just never thought I’d hear those words from you, of all people,” he says teasingly. “Planner of all things. Master of logistics. Keeper of backup umbrellas.”

“I panicked!” you protest, blushing furiously now. “That was a very high-stakes situation, Vernon.”

“It was adorable,” he says, still smiling, not even trying to hide it.

“Oh my god.” You hide your face behind your hands. “Forget I said it. Erase it. We’re moving on.”

“Nope,” he says easily, nudging your arm. “I’m keeping it. Framing it, even.”

You peek at him through your fingers, pouting. “You like me and you’re already bullying me?”

“It’s part of the package,” he says with a shrug. “Affection comes with teasing. You’ll adjust.”

You drop your hands and try to glare, but your face is so hot there’s no strength behind it. “You’re really enjoying this, huh?”

“Very much.”

You huff, but there’s no real heat behind it.

And then so quietly, like you’re sneaking it past your own fear you mumble, “...Still kinda don’t know what I’m supposed to do next.”

He looks at you. Not laughing now. Just that soft, patient expression that makes you feel steady even when your brain is all jittery.

“That’s the best part,” he says. “You don’t have to figure it out alone.”

You glance up at him.

“Whatever this turns into,” he says, “I’m right here. We’ll figure it out together.”

Your stomach does that little flip again. The sweet kind. The oh no I really really like him kind.

The quiet stretch of road back to your place is familiar same storefronts, same flickering lamplight, the same gentle hum of the city at rest.

But tonight, it feels like you’re walking through something brand new.

Your hand’s still in his. Warm. Solid. Safe. And still, your mind won’t stop spiraling.

It’s been doing backflips since he said he liked you. Since you saw it in his eyes that this wasn’t a sudden crush, or a maybe. He meant it. He’s been meaning it.

And that’s the part that both thrills and terrifies you.

You stare down at the sidewalk, shoes scuffing the edge of a manhole cover, and finally say

“What if I’m bad at this?”

He glances over, slowing his pace without saying a word.

You keep talking, voice softer now. “Like… what if I mess it up? What if I start overthinking and pulling away? What if I don’t say the right thing at the right time? Or I get too much, or too quiet, or… I don’t know.” You exhale. “What if you realize I’m not who you thought I was?”

You can feel the knot twisting in your chest as the words tumble out. They’ve been sitting there since he confessed. unspoken fears, dressed up in the familiar clothes of doubt.

He stops walking. Gently tugs your hand so you stop too.

You look up at himand he’s already watching you. Quiet. Calm.

Then he says, with that low voice that always grounds you:

“Then I should’ve realized it back then.”

You blink. “What?”

“If any of that was true,” Vernon says, “I should’ve figured it out ages ago. When we were just friends. When you made me tea on the day I felt unwell, and didn’t ask anything—just sat beside me until I could breathe again.”

You stare, stunned.

“When you organized that trip for people who didn’t deserve half your effort, and you still smiled the whole time. When you remembered I liked my fries extra crispy and always gave me yours.”

He laughs a little, quietly. “Even when you pretend you’re not paying attention, you do. All the time. And I noticed.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts in soft, but firm:

“I’ve asked myself over and over again, if this feeling was just a phase. If I was imagining it. If maybe I was just grateful for your kindness. But no matter how I tried to shake it off, it stayed.”

He steps closer now. Just slightly. Enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him.

“And after everything, after watching you break your back trying to keep people together, after seeing you cry quietly in the corner of a plane, after you still offered kindness to the people who hurt you… I still liked you.”

Your heart is thundering in your ears now. He’s so close and so certain.

He softens, tilts his head. “So if you’re scared? That’s okay. I get it. You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to know how to do everything.”

He squeezes your hand, gentle.

“You just have to let me try. Let me stay.”

There’s a lump in your throat now—too full of all the things you never thought someone would say to you.

“I don’t want to ruin it,” you whisper.

“You won’t,” he says without hesitation. “You couldn’t.”

You look at him, eyes stinging. “Even if I’m awkward and nervous and bad at expressing things—”

“I like awkward,” he says, smiling. “I like nervous. I like you. The whole version, not the polished one.”

You breathe in shakily, then exhale.

And when he steps forward just a little more, not to kiss you, not to rush you, but just to stand there with you, forehead almost touching you think maybe this is what love feels like.

Not fireworks. Just someone standing beside you and meaning it.

You whisper, barely audible, “Okay.”

And that’s all he needs.

The moment Vernon leaves, the door clicks shut behind him, and you stand frozen in the middle of your apartment.

Still.

For like, three whole seconds.

And then Pure chaos.

“Oh my god.”

You spin around like you’re suddenly being chased by the reality of it. Hands in your hair. Mouth wide open. Brain looping on one single sentence:

“He likes me. He likes me?”

You stop in your hallway, stare at your own reflection in the mirror.

“He likes me. Vernon. Chwe Vernon. With the hoodie collection and the soft voice and the jawline of doom. That Vernon??”

You cover your face and squeal. Loud. Like an actual sound leaves your body that would make Seungkwan proud.

You start pacing, then stop, then walk in a tiny circle before flopping face-first onto your couch. You let out a muffled scream into your cushion.

“He likes me. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Then you sit up straight again. Eyes wild. “Do I have snacks? I need snacks. I need to walk this off. Or run. Or call someone. NO, no, I’m going to act normal. Chill. Cool.”

You stand up, then do a little spin and hop on your feet. A giggle escapes before you can stop it. Then another. And then you’re skipping toward your kitchen like some sort of rom-com heroine with no dignity left.

“He likes me,” you say to your fridge. “I can’t even function right now.”

It’s not like anything exploded into existence after the night he confessed. There was no montage of kissing in the rain, no fireworks, no whirlwind declarations.

It just…unfolded. Softly. Like the way morning sunlight creeps into a room slow, warm, and steady.

You and Vernon take your time. No pressure. No countdown. No expectations. He doesn’t rush you. He doesn’t pull or tug or ask for more than you can give.

A few weeks turn into a month. Then two. And everything about this still feels new but safe.

You still get shy sometimes. Still overthink your texts before sending them. Still have those moments at night where you stare at the ceiling wondering what if he changes his mind.

But then he’ll send you a picture of something you like—an art book, a row of color-coded pens, a storefront you mentioned once in passing.

He has that effect on you. He doesn’t erase your anxiety he just sits with it. Holds space for it. And you.

To everyone else, he’s still Vernon.

Cool. Collected. Half-smiling at best. Stoic to the point people think he’s either tired or just doesn’t care.

But you know better.

Because when he’s with you— He softens.

You’ll be walking side by side, and he’ll just quietly link his pinky with yours like it’s second nature. He never makes a big deal about it. He never even looks down. But he does it. Every time.

Or when you two are ordering at a café, you’ll rest your cheek against his shoulder while you wait in line. Absently, just because he’s taller and warm and right there and his breath will catch.

He’ll stay still. Just barely lean into you. Pretending like it’s nothing while every cell in his body is screaming.

Chan caught it once. The pinky thing.

“Hyung.” he said across the table, grinning like he just discovered treasure. “Did you know your face literally lights up when she does that?”

Seungkwan, ever dramatic, gasped. “He smiled with teeth. With teeth! Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?”

Vernon just rolled his eyes, deadpan. “Do you guys want to be in a relationship with me, or what?”

But he was smiling quietly, shyly, and genuinely the rest of the day.

And you, well… you don’t even notice the things you do to him.

The way your eyes light up when you talk about something you care about. You get so animated, hands moving, voice rising in excitement.

Vernon just watched you the whole time like he was memorizing the sound of your voice.

You always look at him like he matters. Like you trust him Like you actually see him and not just the chill guy with the quiet voice and dry wit.

One time, you caught him looking at you like that, like he was storing your expression in a vault.

You blinked. “What?”

He shook his head slowly. “Just. You’re really something when you talk like that.”

You blushed, immediately covered your face with your hands. “Stop watching me!”

He chuckled under his breath. “Impossible.”

And maybe this thing you have this slow, quiet, real kind of love isn’t loud. It doesn’t demand attention.

But it’s in the details.

In the pinkies that wrap together when no one’s looking. In the way he lets you rest your cheek on him without moving a muscle. In the way you ramble about planner tabs and obscure exhibitions while he looks at you like you’re the only person in the world.

And maybe you were scared. Maybe you still are.

But it’s different now. Because someone stayed. Because someone knows you down to your smallest habits and still chooses to come closer.

Every single time.

You’re both sitting at your usual spot in your usual café—same corner table, same window view, same half-sipped drinks.

You’re leaned in just slightly, talking animatedly like you always do when you’re telling a story. He’s watching you with that soft, half-smiling gaze of his, elbow on the table, chin propped on his hand.

You’re in the middle of describing an exchange you had earlier that day—something with a coworker who was being weirdly dramatic over nothing.

“And I told her—verbatim, I swear—I was like, yeah okay, my boyfriend has that exact thing and it works fine, but she was acting like I’d just personally insulted her entire family tree—”

You don’t even notice it until you see Vernon blink once. Then slowly tilt his head. That little pause in the air.

Your words screech to a halt.

Your brain replays it.

My boyfriend.

Oh no.

Oh no oh no oh no—

You freeze mid-sip of your drink, straw hovering near your lips.

“...Did I just—?” you ask in a small voice.

Vernon’s smile starts slow. Very slow. Dangerous. “Yeah.”

“I— oh my god.” You slap your hand over your face. “I didn’t mean— I mean I did mean— but I didn’t— like, I wasn’t trying to make it a big deal—”

He lets out a soft laugh. “So I’m your boyfriend now?”

You peek at him through your fingers, mortified. “Technically… I guess?”

“You guess?” he repeats, amused. “Bold.”

You groan, dragging your palms down your face. “I knew I was gonna mess it up by saying it out loud. Ugh. I had a whole mental plan to bring it up in a calm, adult way. Maybe with a PowerPoint.”

He laughs again low and warm and fond.

“I mean,” he says, sipping his drink like he’s not enjoying this way too much, “I’ve been calling you my girlfriend in my head for weeks.”

You snap your head toward him. “What.”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “You think I was just linking pinkies with random people on the sidewalk?”

You stare, completely thrown off your axis.

“I can’t believe you’re making this look so smooth,” you mumble.

“I’m just enjoying watching you short-circuit,” he says, grinning. “It’s cute.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m your menace,” he says, matter-of-fact.

You sink into your chair with a groan. “This is so embarrassing.”

He bumps your knee gently under the table. “Or maybe it’s just… official now.”

You never planned for this. Not this.

You planned a lot of things—trips, birthdays, color-coded spreadsheets for friend group outings, backup umbrellas, extra snacks, medicine pouches “just in case.” You planned for deadlines and detours, for how to get home when it rains, for everything and anything that could go wrong.

But you never planned for him. Never planned for soft glances across café tables, or pinkies that linked like they belonged there, or a boy with a quiet voice who somehow made you feel loud in the best way.

You didn’t expect to fall in love with someone who let you be everything.

Someone who didn’t flinch when you were overwhelmed. Someone who never once said you’re too much or you’re overthinking just stayed. Just looked at you like you made perfect sense.

You hadn’t scheduled this. Hadn’t put it in the calendar. Hadn’t made room for it on your carefully curated timeline of “things I’m probably never going to get right.”

But there he is.

Sitting across from you in a café, laughing quietly to himself while you rearrange the table to fit a slice of cake and two drinks. Wearing his hoodie and cap like always.

Looking at you like there’s no place else in the world he’d rather be.

And you realize, in the stillness of it all: Maybe some things are better when they’re not planned.

Maybe love isn’t supposed to arrive with an itinerary. Maybe it just… slips in—soft, patient, and exactly when you’re not looking.

The two of you are wandering through a convenience store late at night. The kind of night where everything’s a little quieter, the fluorescent lights a little too bright, the city outside buzzing just enough to remind you that you’re not dreaming.

You’re not in any rush. Just strolling, side by side, fingers lazily linked as you wander through the aisles.

You’re holding a bag of honey butter chips in one hand and his hand in the other, debating internally between two different brands of milk soda. Vernon’s reading the ingredients on a pack of seaweed snacks like it’s fine literature.

You glance at him. Then tug gently at his hand.

He looks up immediately. “Yes, baby?”

Your heart stutters. He says it so casually. So softly. Like it’s the most natural word in the world.

You blink, brain buffering, a little thrown.

“...I forgot what I was gonna ask.”

He chuckles, moving closer. “You sure it wasn’t just to get my attention?”

You pout. “Maybe it was. Maybe I do want attention. You ever think about that?”

He hums, amused. “All the time.”

You lightly bump his shoulder. “You’re annoying.”

“And yet,” he says, squeezing your hand gently, “here you are, dragging me to the ice cream freezer.”

You gasp dramatically. “I knew you were only here for the snacks.”

“Actually,” he says, leaning in a little, “I’m here because you texted me ‘I need seaweed, soda, and your face.’ In that order.”

You laugh so loud a student at the ramen aisle turns around. You don’t even care.

You end up picking both sodas. He pays, of course—always sneaks his card first, always brushes off your protests like it’s instinct.

Outside the store, you’re sitting on the curb sharing shrimp chips while he opens your soda for you without a word, handing it over like he’s done it a hundred times. Because he has.

And as you rest your head against his shoulder, cheek pressed softly into him while you crunch on snacks you didn’t need, he shifts a little to make it easier for you.

No teasing. No you’re heavy, no you’re clingy. Just him. Adjusting quietly. Letting you rest.

“You always let me be like this,” you mumble, not really expecting an answer.

But he says, “It’s not letting you. It’s loving you.”

You look up, heart turning to melted candy in your chest.

He raises an eyebrow. “What?”

You smile, nudge his side. “Nothing. Just… you’re so good to me.”

He just shrugs. Leans down and presses a kiss to your temple, casual, like muscle memory.

“Of course I am,” he murmurs.

You’re sitting in his living room, curled up on the end of his couch, a blanket over your legs and your fingers tangled nervously around a mug of tea he made for you.

It’s been a weird day. One of those off ones where you couldn’t quite shake the heaviness from your shoulders. You’d brushed it off with a smile when he asked if you were okay earlier, but Vernon? He doesn’t miss much.

You’d been quiet. Too quiet.

And now, after he gently nudged you for the third time about why you flinched when he offered to pick up something for you, you finally said it.

“I don’t know. I just…”

You keep your eyes on the mug. “Sometimes I feel like it’s too much. Like I’m too much. And you being so—kind. It’s like I’m waiting for the catch.”

He doesn't respond immediately.

Instead, he sets his own mug down, shifts closer on the couch, one arm resting along the back just behind you. Not crowding. Just near.

Then he says it—calm, steady, but with something firmer behind it than usual.

“You go through lengths for everyone.” His voice is gentle, but it doesn’t waver. “You bend yourself backwards. You take care of people who don’t say thank you. You anticipate needs before anyone even says a word. You show up when no one else does.”

You glance at him, eyes already stinging.

“And then your boyfriend—” he adds with soft emphasis, “—treats you right. Does the bare minimum to love you back, and suddenly you think you don’t deserve it?”

You open your mouth, but he holds up a hand—not to cut you off, but to finish.

“I don’t do these things for you because I want you to owe me. I do them because you deserve softness. Always have. You just never had people who reminded you of that.”

Your breath catches.

Vernon leans forward, elbows resting on his knees now, eyes level with yours.

“You don’t need to earn love from me. You don’t have to do something for me to care.” He pauses. “I care because you’re you.”

You blink hard, staring down at your tea to keep it together.

“And if you need me to keep reminding you, I will,” he says. “Even if it takes years.”

You let out a shaky breath. “You’re making it really hard not to cry right now.”

“Cry,” he says without missing a beat. “I got tissues. And snacks.”

You laugh through the lump in your throat.

He nudges your leg with his gently. “I mean it. You don’t have to shrink to be loved. Not here. Not with me.”

Your shoulders finally drop. Just a little.

And then you lean into him, your body curling into his side as he wraps an arm around you with ease, like it’s instinct now.

And for once, you let yourself feel deserving.

You’re tucked into his side now, your cheek resting lightly against his shoulder, the scent of his hoodie and the warmth of his arm wrapped around you doing more to calm your nerves than any tea ever could.

You shift slightly, just enough to glance up at him, and say it with a half-smile:

“Must’ve done something right in my past life to deserve you.”

You say it jokingly, with that deflective lilt in your voice you always use when you mean something more than you want to admit.

You expect him to laugh. Maybe tease you for being cheesy. Maybe make a dumb joke about karma points.

But he doesn’t. He just blinks down at you slowly.

And then he leans in, forehead resting lightly against yours, so close you can feel his breath ghost over your lips. His voice is quieter now. Lower. Like it’s only meant for you.

“No,” he murmurs. “I think I’m the one cashing in karma.”

You blink. “What?”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb grazing gently along your arm.

“You think I don’t notice how you always put yourself last? How you fight for everyone and don’t ask for anything back?” His voice is soft but steady.

“You think that kind of love goes unnoticed by the universe?”

Your throat goes tight again, but you try to play it off. “Okay, Buddha Vernon.”

He smiles, eyes crinkling just a little, but he doesn’t let go of the thread.

“I’m serious,” he says. “You always talk about deserving things like it’s something far away. Like love’s some exam you haven’t passed yet.”

He reaches down and gently hooks your pinky with his again—your little thing. Your grounding point.

“But I’m right here,” he whispers. “And you don’t have to earn me.”

You stare at him. Every word so matter-of-fact. So him.

You want to say something, anything. But the tears are already threatening to spill again, and you’re not trying to ugly cry twice in one night.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says into your hair. “Even if you say cheesy stuff like that again.”

You laugh through your tears. “It was cheesy, huh.”

“Very. But also cute,” he murmurs.

You hold onto him tighter. And in that quiet, with your heart full and your fears shrinking just a little, you think: Maybe it wasn’t just a lucky past life.

Maybe this is what it feels like to be loved right in this one.

You sniff once quietly and wipe your cheek on your sleeve, muttering, “God, I probably look like a mess right now.”

He laughs gently, the sound warm against the crown of your head then he leans back just enough to look at you.

“Look at me,” he says softly.

You hesitate.

And then his fingers are there tilting your chin up with the lightest touch. His thumb brushing lightly at the corner of your mouth, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

You blink up at him, breath caught in your throat, lips slightly parted. Your eyes flutter, confused by the closeness, the weight of the moment settling on your skin like silk.

He just gazes at you, his own eyes soft—so soft—like he’s seeing something precious.

Then, without a word, he leans in. Not rushed. Not dramatic.

Just closes the space.

And the kiss—

Oh.

It’s soft. Unbelievably soft. Like a secret. Like something he’s been holding onto for a long, long time and only now has permission to give.

His lips just barely brush yours at first, and it’s enough to make your eyes flutter shut. It’s not even a full kiss at first more a question, a breath, a can I?

You answer with the way you lean in. The way your fingers curl into his hoodie like you’re anchoring yourself. Like if you don’t hold on, you’ll float straight into the clouds.

When he kisses you again deeper, still tender, still slow it makes your heart ache in the most beautiful way. Because it’s not just a kiss.

It’s a promise.

You pull back just slightly, dazed, eyes blinking open like waking up from a dream.

He’s already looking at you.

You whisper, almost afraid to break the moment, “That was…”

He tilts his head. “Too much?”

You shake your head slowly. “No. That was… everything.”

He smiles and you swear the universe shifts a little to make space for this version of you, the one who gets to be loved like this.

And then he leans his forehead against yours again and murmurs, “Good. ‘Cause I’ve been waiting a long time to do that.”

You let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, your nose brushing his. “Worth the wait.”

The weather is perfect.

Blue skies, a soft breeze, not too hot—and you, in your sunniest mood, holding a folded map in one hand and a color-coded itinerary in the other, grinning like a kid on a field trip you planned yourself.

Which, let’s be honest you did.

“Okay, if we keep a steady pace and don’t get distracted by every single snack stall, we can hit the bookstore, the botanical garden, and the little record shop before sunset,” you declare, spinning around mid-step.

Behind you, Vernon blinks at you from under his baseball cap, already holding your tote bag

He just smiles. “Lead the way, babe.”

You squint at him, suspicious. “You sure you’re okay being my pack mule for the day?”

He gives you a slow, deliberate nod and lifts the tote higher on his shoulder. “As long as I get to see you this excited, I’ll carry your whole apartment if I have to.”

You try to hide your smile and fail miserably.

The rest of the day is like a montage of every tiny thing that makes your relationship yours.

You pull him by the wrist into cafés and art stalls, pointing things out with bright eyes and wild hand gestures. You pause at every random wall mural, every weird-shaped plant, every shop that looks remotely cozy.

Vernon doesn’t complain once. Just follows, content, like this is exactly where he wants to be.

At the bookstore, he rests his chin on your shoulder while you flip through a poetry collection.

At the botanical garden, he lets you walk ahead so he can take secret pictures of you pretending to name plants like you're giving them personalities.

And when you finally sit down at a tiny street-side table with drinks and pastries, he watches you talk about the last place on your list, eyes full of fondness so soft it could break you in the best way.

You pause mid-sentence, catching the look.

“…What?”

He shrugs, reaching out to fix your hair where the wind had messed it. “Nothing. Just—you’re really something when you’re happy.”

You blink. Heart quietly imploding. “You make it really hard not to fall in love with you more every day, you know that?”

He grins, tapping your drink with his. “Right back at you, planner girl.”

Later, you’re walking home, the sun melting behind the buildings, your steps slower now but your hand still swinging lightly in his.

You turn to him and say, “Thanks for letting me drag you around today.”

He looks at you like you’ve just said something ridiculous. “You didn’t drag me. I followed you willingly. Like a golden retriever.”

You laugh, bumping your shoulder into his. “Do you ever get tired of being this good to me?”

“Not even once.”

And as the city lights flicker on and you walk the rest of the way home in step with him, you think. You never planned for this but somehow it became the best thing you ever had.

A quiet, everyday kind of love. One that holds your tote bag, your extra jacket, and your whole heart.

All without being asked. Just because he can.

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basket-of-radiants · 2 days ago

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#wind and truth spoilers #i think the very image of nale sadboy hours constitutes spoilers? whatever #hey......what if i just took a HARD left turn and threw away my whole script and turned this comic into a sznale comic #is that the ship name? you've probably noticed i don't know very much about shipping. i'm bad at fandom.#get this to ten thousand notes before i post it tomorrow and i'll toss out of all of my heartfelt kaladin dialogue about food or whatever #it'll just be six pages of these two kissing #(THIS IS A JOKE. I AM JOKING. (as if i'd ever need notes to motivate me for anything.....))#seriously though day 9 content ugh i hate it. everyone's so open and emotionally available. how am i supposed to write dialogue like this.#i've drawn like ten sincerely smiling szeths. fucking bullshit. never doing THAT again.#nale wasn't even going to be in part 4 for my original script. it was gonna be a ''kaladin and szeth do the dishes'' scene.......#i just thought it would be cute if he was sadly sitting there the whole time while szeth and kaladin chatted...#plus if nale can use division to cook then szeth can use it to do the dishes instantly so i realized it made no sense for the narrative #anyway i'm rambling in the tags bc i'm delaying the long and arduous process of putting everything into panels/speech bubbles. as always.#maybe the next time i try making comics i should start from panel layout and work out from there #instead of just freeform stream-of-consciousness writing/drawing everything in the most random arrangements on a vast empty canvas #if you actually understand how to make comics then i guarantee my work process would give you nightmares

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lveegsoi · 3 days ago

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.ೃ࿐RESTRICTED 심재윤

a/n.. click the link for a surprise ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

Jake knew he had made a good decision when he bought the chain wrist cuffs from the sex shop down the street on his way to your shared apartment. He had you on your stomach, knees bent and ass slightly up in the air, the second he came through the front door.

You had no time to process what was happening. One moment you were in the kitchen, making yourself a cup of tea and the next you were on your shared bed, leather collar and wrist cuffs on your neck and wrists, only wearing your panties. A long metal chain that began from the back of your collar ran down through your spine and connected the wrist cuff that held your hands behind your back.

Before fucking you like there was no tomorrow, Jake liked to take his time making you as wet as possible. A small whimper left your mouth as you felt the cold chain through your panties. Jake continued to drag the chain between your puffy folds as more soft moans left your mouth.

“ That’s it, baby. You’re doing great.” He praised you as he let go of the chain to slap your soaked pussy a few times, dragging another whimper out of you.

“Jake, please fuck just fuck me already” You whined, no longer able to endure your boyfriend’s teasing.

And how couldn’t Jake listen to his pretty girl? Pulling your drenched panties down, he positioned himself right behind you. Jake had no problem sliding his dick inside your pussy due to how wet you already were. Both of you moaned the moment his dick went inside of you.

“Baby, look how well she’s sucking me in, yeah?”

His hand gripped a handful of your hair, pushing your face into the mattress, as he began to thrust his hips, making you scream into the bed. You could confidently say that being fucked from behind is the fastest way to make you cum. You can feel him deeper and with every thrust he hits spots that make your legs shake uncontrollably.

For Jake watching you coming undone under him is the best way to relax after a stressful day at work.

divider by cursed-carmine

#enha x reader #jake enhypen #enhypen x reader #enhypen imagines #jake x reader #jake smut #jake hard hours #enhypen hard hours #enhypen heeseung #enhypen jungwon #enhypen niki #enhypen sunoo #enhypen sunghoon #enhypen jay #twitter links

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paddockletters · 13 hours ago

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running the opposite way | oscar piastri & lando norris

summary: he stopped showing up. she stopped waiting. a/n: i wrote this and it kinda ruined me😭

Oscar used to bring me flowers. Not big, showy bouquets—nothing that looked like it belonged in a film. Just a single flower, whichever one he found on his way to the hotel. Sometimes stolen from a garden in passing. He said it was his way of reminding me that I was always on his mind, even when his head was buried in telemetry and race strategies.

That was before the 2025 season.

Now he arrives in a rush. Sometimes not even that. He no longer smells of freshly cut grass or expensive shampoo, but of thirty minutes of sweat under the sun, surrounded by press and commitments. I watch him enter the hotel room without even glancing at me. His eyes glued to his phone, checking messages from the team, and when he finally looks at me, it’s like he’s seeing me through fogged glass.

“Hi,” he says, as if that were enough.

I reply in kind. We kiss, but there’s no warmth. Just routine. As if we’re clocking in to a relationship that used to burn like fire and now is just smoke. There’s a silent gap between us that no “I love you” has been able to bridge lately.

I sit across from him on the bed while he scrolls through his notes on the iPad. I’m right there, less than a metre away, and still it feels like we’re in different rooms. I make an effort:

“How did the simulator go today?”

He doesn’t look up.

“Good. I’m getting used to the tyre wear in Turn 3. Lando’s still quick through that section, but I think I can match him if we tweak pressures tomorrow.”

I nod, even if I don’t fully understand. I just want him to see me.

“Do you want me to come with you to the track tomorrow?”

“No need. It’ll be a heavy day,” he replies without much thought.

The worst part isn’t that he says no. The worst part is that it doesn’t matter to him whether I go or not.

The change wasn’t sudden. It crept in. Like the sea slowly pulling away from the shore. Like memorising the menu at your favourite restaurant and realising… you’re no longer surprised.

Oscar started spending more time in the garage, in meetings, in interviews. And I started being alone. In hotels we used to explore together, in hallways where he no longer reached for my hand. It’s not that he became cruel. Just… absent. And when you’re in love, absence hurts more than coldness.

I arrive at the paddock with him, arm in arm, like we used to when we were in sync—when we were a team, not just two people sharing space.

But this time, he doesn’t squeeze my hand. His grip is loose, distracted. I look ahead, at his focused face, at eyes that no longer light up when they see me, that no longer find comfort in my presence. The noise of mechanics, media, and fans surrounds us, but I feel like I’m walking alone, next to him like an invisible echo.

“Do you want a coffee?” I ask, trying to break the awkward silence as we cross the hospitality tent.

“No, thanks,” he replies, not lifting his eyes from his phone.

I sit next to him on a bench, watching his fingers dart across the screen. I offer a timid smile and say:

“You know I like seeing you focused… but I’d also like it if you looked at me from time to time.”

He sighs, puts down the phone, and glances sideways, like he’s deciding whether the conversation is worth it.

“There’s just so much on my mind,” he says. “The championship, the team, expectations… It’s not that I don’t want to see you—it’s that I don’t know how to split myself in two.”

“I’m not asking you to split,” I reply, gently squeezing his arm. “Just to be present.”

Oscar looks away and mutters:

“I don’t know if I can be everything for you right now.”

A heavy silence falls between us, thicker than the smoke coming out of the cars’ exhausts. I feel small. Invisible.

I realise something has shifted when Lando starts staying longer in the hospitality suite. He used to just greet me with that cheeky grin, those half-joking, half-charming remarks I never took seriously. Oscar always said it was Lando flirting with the universe, not with me. But now it feels different.

Lando waits until Oscar drifts away, then approaches me with a cup of coffee.

“Have you eaten yet?” he asks, voice soft. Almost secret.

“Not much,” I admit, surprised he even noticed.

He sits beside me, legs crossed, giving me that look that feels like an unspoken promise.

“Oscar’s been impossible lately. I don’t know how you put up with it.”

“He’s focused,” I answer, like I’ve been trained to. Like I need to believe it.

Lando chuckles, shaking his head. “That’s a sweet way of saying he’s being a dick.

I laugh, and for a moment, I feel alive, heard. He keeps talking—about his insomnia, the pressure he’s under—and before I know it, I’m opening up. I tell him about sleepless nights, the sadness weighing on me, and how I feel like a ghost in Oscar’s life.

He nods, as though he understands without judgment, and says:

“You don’t deserve to be invisible. Ever.”

But memories don’t wait. They rush in like fleeting films projecting in my mind without invitation. Like that day, just a few weeks ago, when Oscar won a race and didn’t hug me.

Flashback — Miami GP.

The sky was electric blue, like something out of a postcard. The track gleamed under the Florida sun, and the air smelled of adrenalineand burnt rubber. Oscar crossed the finish line first, and the whole garage erupted in joy. A flawless performance.

I was in Parc Ferme, heart racing, palms sweating, a grin aching on my face. I knew the script: he’d get out of the car, run towards me, and pull me into one of those hugs that makes the world stop. We’d done it a thousand times. That was us.

But that day… it was different.

Me and the team were waiting for him, as he took off his gloves, holding back tears of pride, waiting to meet his eyes. But Oscar walked straight past me. Didn’t even glance my way.

“Congratulations!” I said, voice steady though something inside was already cracking.

“Thanks,” he replied, almost by reflex, not breaking stride.

He headed straight for the microphones, the team’s embraces, the cameras chasing him like he’d just conquered the world.

I stood there, arms half-raised. The celebration went on without me.

I stepped aside, pretending to check my phone, though all I saw were messages congratulating him. No one asked about me. No one noticed the champion had forgotten me.

And then… I saw him.

Lando.

Suit rolled down to his waist, face still red from the heat, hair damp against his forehead, frustration in every step. But when he saw me—he stopped.

He came over without hesitation, tilting his head slightly. He knew something was wrong. It showed. I felt like I was trembling inside, trying not to break.

“Didn’t see you in the celebrations,” he said gently.

“He didn’t see me either,” I replied with a bitter smile.

Lando frowned. “You alright?”

I nodded. We both knew it was a lie. He looked down for a moment, then back at me—eyes more intense than I’d ever seen.

“Came second again,” he said with a crooked smile. “But I’d trade the podium for someone like you waiting at the end.”

I stared at him, confused.

“Don’t say that, Lando.”

“I’m not saying it to confuse you,” he said calmly. “Just… so you know not everyone would take you for granted.”

Even when I’m pissed off. Even when I lose. I still have time for you. That has to mean something, right?

I couldn’t respond. Frozen. My heart pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it.

Then, out of nowhere, he pulled out a little bag of mini chocolate biscuits.

“From hospitality?” I asked.

“Stolen just for you. Don’t say I don’t look after you.”

I laughed. A bit for the biscuits, a bit for the audacity—and mostly because I needed to. He made me laugh when I wanted to cry. And that was more than Oscar had done all day.

“If you ever need to escape all this…” he added, voice dropping a tone, “I’m here.”

And then he left. Not waiting for an answer. Just leaving that truth hanging in the air between the engine roars and the echo of something I already knew—but didn’t want to admit.

Hours later, when Oscar returned to the motorhome, I tried to recover a piece of us. Just one.

“Shouldn’t we celebrate?” I said with a fragile smile. “We could order something, stay here… just us.”

Oscar slumped onto the couch, eyes distant.

“I’m exhausted. Simulator tomorrow, interviews all day. Now’s not the time for distractions.”

“Me—disrupting you?” I asked, swallowing the knot in my throat.

He pressed his lips together, rubbed his face.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” he sighed. “It’s just… I can’t afford to drop my guard now.”

I sat on the edge of the sofa in silence, watching him open his laptop and dive into race data. He muttered something about second stint pace, tyre degradation, and I knew he’d drifted away. To somewhere I was no longer part of.

And the worst part? Even though Oscar had won, that night I felt like I had lost everything.

End of flashback.

There had been so many signs. But somehow, I couldn’t see them—until that fight in Monaco.

Oscar returned from qualifying looking furious. He’d qualified third—behind Lando. Again. He threw hat onto the sofa and didn’t look at me. I’d been sitting there, waiting like a fool, for nearly an hour. I’d bought his favourite drink and memorised some track talk in case he needed to vent. But he said nothing. Not a word.

“Could you at least tell me what’s wrong with you?” I whispered, not raising my voice, but carrying the weight of weeks.

He looked at me as if he barely remembered I was there.

“I can’t do it all. I can’t be the best driver, the best boyfriend, the perfect son and… everything.”

“I’m not asking everything. I’m only asking you not to ignore me. Not to treat me like part of the background.”

Silence. I reached out. He pulled away.

“If you can’t handle this… maybe you don’t want to be here.”

He didn’t shout. No drama. Just those words. And the worst part? They didn’t come from anger, but from resignation.

From exhaustion. As if giving up was easier than fighting.

“Don’t say that, Oscar,” I cried, my voice breaking. “Don’t put me in that position! I’m trying to stay!”

He closed his eyes for a moment. Then he shrugged.

“Perhaps you’re not trying hard enough.”

That night I left. Packed my suitcase without looking back. The corridor air was cold and smelled of disinfectant. Every step felt like a betrayal. Not to him— to what we had.

Lando saw me crossing the hotel hallway.

He wore a grey hoodie, his hair damp. He looked at me as if he knew exactly where I’d come from.

“You okay?”

“No.”

Silence.

“Do you… want some air?”

That night I ended up eating with him on a terrace overlooking the city. We shared a pizza we didn't finish and a bottle of wine we drank. He talked about the race. About the championship. Anything, except Oscar. And I was grateful for that.

Until he fell quiet. He stared at me for a long time.

“You know I’d be crazy if I had what he has, don’t you?”

I didn’t reply. The answer caught in my throat.

“I mean it. I don’t know what it’s like to have someone like you… and not notice.”

“It’s not that simple,” I murmured.

“No. But it’s not that complicated either.”

I stayed still. I couldn’t breathe. Not because I liked what he said, but because a part of me wanted to believe it. Because that part was tired of feeling invisible.

Lando didn’t move closer. He didn’t try to kiss me. He didn’t cross that line. But he looked at me as though he had already done so in another life.

“I’m not asking you to leave everything for me,” he added softly. “Just… don’t forget about yourself. What you deserve.”

Oscar wins in Spain. Lando comes second. I stay home that weekend. I ignore messages. I don’t want to see any press conferences or trophies. I only want silence.

But Oscar shows up at our flat door at three in the morning, with a single flower in his hand.

His face is weary. He has dark circles, and his voice is rough. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just stands there. I remain silent too, waiting for him to break the air between us.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he says.

And I believe him. But I also know wanting isn't always enough.

I let him in. We sit on the floor of our kitchen, legs tangled under the table, like we used to when things were simple and takeout pizza felt like a celebration.

“I don’t need promises,” I whisper. “I need presence.”

“I’m trying,” he says. “Even if it’s messy. Even if I get it wrong.”

And maybe that’s the most honest thing he’s ever said.

I reach for his hand. He lets me.

But in the quiet, I think of Lando. His words. His silence. His laughter when I needed it. The look in his eyes when I was breaking and he noticed.

I think of the way my heart didn’t ache when I was with him.

And I wonder— What happens when you realise someone else made you feel more like yourself than the person you love ever did?

I don’t know where this story ends. Maybe it’s not about endings at all. Maybe it’s about the shift. The moment you start choosing peace over patterns.

So I stay, for now. But not because I’ve forgiven. Not because I’ve forgotten. Just… because I’m still figuring it out.

And maybe that’s allowed too.

#oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri one shot #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri angst #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris imagines #f1 imagines #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #lando norris #lando norris one shot

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thatonegrimm · 16 hours ago

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Hi Grimm! I asked for the oppa fic and I love it! can i/we get a sequel where they call you noona? Take your time and take care of yourself!

Thank you!! 😭💖 I was literally messing around with this at like 3am trying to get the tone just right! I honestly think it makes a great sequel 👀 Your ideas are so dangerous. Keep them coming. LMAO

“They Called You Noona?!”

Sequel to: You Called Them Oppa?! Summary: It starts casually. A slip, a tease, a title. But the moment one of the boys calls you noona, something shifts—and now you’re the one spiraling while they pretend like nothing happened. Except… they know exactly what they’re doing.

------------------------------

It started innocently.

You’d been wrangling them all day—prying spicy chips from Baby’s fingers before a stage fit, convincing Mystery not to melt the lighting rig after it “offended him,” and threatening Romance with a clipboard if he didn’t stop adjusting his shirt mid-interview.

Abby had broken a chair trying to “fix” it. Jinu had stress-checked the schedule six times. Someone (probably Baby) had drawn fangs on your tour binder.

You were tired. Done. One breath away from collapse.

And then Jinu—sweet, responsible, secretly-evil Jinu—walked over, pressed a heat pack gently into your hands, and murmured:

“Take it easy, noona.”

The word hit like a rogue soundwave. Soft. Warm. Devastating.

You froze.

The boys didn’t.

Romance turned like he’d been summoned by fate. Abby blinked in real time. Mystery’s eyes narrowed—just slightly. Baby actually stopped chewing.

The air changed.

And you realized—you were not going to survive this.

Not today. Not tomorrow. Not now that they'd figured out exactly what to call you.

And worse? They knew it worked.

------------------------------

🧿 Jinu

He looked just as surprised as you.

His mouth moved before his brain could catch up. That soft-spoken instinct of his, slipping out like a reverent truth:

“Take it easy, noona.”

And then he froze. Like he’d accidentally summoned a god.

“I didn’t mean— That is, I meant the heat pack, not—noona— That wasn’t—!”

You raised a brow.

He backpedaled. Physically. Emotionally. Existentially.

“It’s cultural!” he insisted. “Respectful! You’re older! Technically!”

“You called me noona,” you said, slowly, like if you repeated it he’d glitch again.

He flinched.

“Once,” he whispered.

“Twice,” you corrected. “Just now. And then when you panicked.”

He stared at you like you were holding a weapon.

Maybe you were.

He scrambled for a counterargument—anything—but his brain was lagging.

“It’s just a title,” he muttered. “It’s not like I—”

“Like you what?”

He flushed so hard his ears turned red.

“Nothing. Nothing.”

You leaned in.

“Say it again.”

He made it three steps before walking directly into a standing mic stand.

Somehow, that was still less painful than your smile.

Later, when you passed him a checklist without looking, his hand hovered a little longer under yours.

He didn’t say it again. Not right away.

But the next time he did—it was quiet. Careful. Intentional.

And he said it like it meant something he wasn’t ready to name yet.

------------------------------

💪 Abby

He was helping you carry gear. You were trying to be strong about it—pretend your back wasn’t aching, your shoulders weren’t sore.

He noticed anyway.

Took the weight from your hands without asking. Lifted it like it was made of foam.

“Let me handle it, noona. You’ve done enough today.”

You stopped walking.

He didn’t even notice until he glanced back and saw your expression.

You blinked once. Twice.

“What?” he asked, confused. “Did I say it weird?”

“You said noona.”

“Yeah?”

He said it again—soft, like he didn’t understand why it made your spine straighten and your ears go red.

It wasn’t flirty. It wasn’t teasing. Just natural. Like he’d been saying it in his head for weeks and it finally slipped.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded too fast.

Later, he caught you staring. Not at him—at your own hands. At nothing.

“Want me to stop saying it?” he offered.

You meant to say yes.

You didn’t.

“You look like you’re short-circuiting,” you said instead.

He grinned.

“Then we match.”

That night, when he passed you a water bottle and whispered “Thanks, noona,” under his breath, it felt less like a nickname and more like something you'd been waiting to hear without realizing it.

And you didn’t stop smiling for a while after.

------------------------------

📚 Mystery

You didn’t even hear him enter the room.

One moment you were muttering about scheduling conflicts and headset malfunctions, and the next—

“Let me,” he said, reaching past you to grab the file.

And then, barely above a whisper:

“You’re tired, noona.”

It wasn’t even a tease. Just… a quiet observation.

You froze.

Turned.

He was already gone.

The word hung in the air like smoke, soft and unshakable.

You stood there longer than you’d like to admit.

When you finally moved, you found a sticky note on your clipboard.

“Eat something. You’re shaking.” – Noona privileges: enforced.”

You stared at it. Blinked.

Then your phone buzzed.

New calendar event: “Noona said rest time.” Location: Behind the speaker stack. Bring snacks.

You groaned. You smiled.

Later that night, you caught him watching you from across the venue—shadowed, still, unreadable.

You didn’t say anything.

But you held the sticky note in your pocket for the rest of the week.

And when your name appeared scrawled into the corner of a fogged-up mirror—next to one word, underlined twice—you didn’t ask questions.

You just touched the glass and smiled.

------------------------------

💋 Romance

Romance was born to say it.

He said it like a sigh. Like a secret. Like he’d been waiting for the right moment his entire life and this was it.

“You’re working too hard, noona. Let me steal you away.”

Your brain short-circuited. You blinked at him like he’d just hexed you.

“Don’t,” you said automatically.

“Don’t what?”

“Say that.”

“Say what, noona?”

You swore you saw sparkles behind him. Like his ego had summoned confetti.

“You’re not younger than me,” you snapped.

“You’re in charge. That counts.”

“No, it doesn’t—”

“You scold me. You bring me snacks. You adjust my mic pack like a concerned girlfriend.”

“Manager.”

“Girlfriend energy.”

You tossed a folder at his head. He dodged. Smiling.

“Say it again and I swear—”

“What? You’ll punish me, noona?”

You left the room.

Your face was still burning twenty minutes later.

And when he passed you in the hallway, he didn’t say a word—just winked.

You didn’t sleep that night.

And the next day, when you tried to be serious, tried to remind him to stay focused, he leaned in and murmured:

“You’re cute when you try to be stern, noona.”

You dropped your clipboard.

He caught it. With both hands.

And said it again—softer.

------------------------------

🔥 Baby

You were mid-argument. About schedules. Rehearsals. Or him sleeping in the prop van again.

“You think rules don’t apply to you,” you snapped.

“They don’t,” he muttered, arms crossed.

“You’re lucky I haven’t buried you in paperwork.”

He snorted. Then, under his breath:

“You’re acting like a noona.”

You stopped cold.

He did too.

A beat. Two.

“Excuse me?”

He shrugged. Unbothered.

“You’re bossy. You glare a lot. You pack my lunch sometimes.”

“That was once.”

“And it was perfect.”

You stepped closer. “You want me to bury you now?”

“Noona, please.”

You flinched.

He smirked.

“You like it,” he said, voice low. “Don’t lie.”

You shoved his shoulder. He leaned into it.

“Say it again,” you challenged.

He raised a brow. “You threatening or begging?”

You turned and stormed off.

He popped another chip in his mouth and grinned to himself.

And later, when you said his name across the hallway and he answered with—

“Yeah, noona?”

You almost walked into the doorframe.

He saw it. Didn’t say anything.

But the smirk on his face said enough.

------------------------------

Now they all say it sometimes.

Not constantly. Not enough to raise questions from staff or fans. Just enough to keep you perpetually on edge—wondering when it’ll slip out next, wondering if you’ll flinch or smile or both.

Noona in the morning, when you hand out coffee and they brush their fingers against yours like it’s normal. Noona when they’re teasing you in the green room, leaning too close with half-lidded eyes and smiles that don’t belong on a rehearsal day. Noona when they’re tired, when their walls drop, when they forget to perform for the world and just look at you like you’re the only thing that makes sense.

They don’t overuse it. They don’t need to.

They’ve weaponized it into something gentler—something intimate. It’s not just a word anymore.

It’s a promise. A provocation. A door you’ve accidentally left open.

You should tell them to stop.

You really should.

But you don’t.

Because somewhere deep down, in the part of your chest you keep padlocked for professional reasons, you don’t want them to stop.

And worse than that—

They know. They all know.

------------------------------

M-List

#kpdh x reader #saja boys x reader #baby x reader #abby x reader #jinu x reader #mystery x reader #romance x reader #kpop demon hunters #kpdh

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nymphaura777 · 3 days ago

Note

HELLO, THIS IS A SUCCESS STORY!!!

Right now, as I’m writing these words, I am crying tears of happiness. My biggest dream was to come back to Tumblr one day with a success story. I first learned about Void State in 2022 from an Instagram manifest blog called @/moncherry (whose account is now closed). Since that day, I became obsessed with it. (If there are people obsessed with Void State and as a result delaying their lives and sinking deeper, don’t feel alone because I was exactly like that.) From 2022 until June 14th, if you ask me how many times I truly tried Void State, the count probably wouldn’t exceed the fingers on two hands. “I’ll try tomorrow,” and “I just turned over and fell asleep” were my habits. But I realized that I was constantly postponing my life this way and decided to take the reins of my life back. Since the beginning of June, I stuck to one plan — ‘DON’T MOVE’. I know it sounds like a very limiting belief, but it worked for me. I chose the late hours when I wasn’t sleepy, between 9 pm and 10 pm, to keep my brain awake with caffeine, lying on my back in the starfish position, and I didn’t move after that time. Here’s what I did, step by step:

Wim Hof breathing technique (about 10 minutes)

Any Yoga Nidra meditation (about 30 minutes)

This way, you stay motionless for 40 minutes but your mind remains awake. Then I use a Void State meditation I recorded with my own voice. I’m sharing the text below for you:

Void State Meditation Script: “Find a place where you can feel comfortable. Make sure your body is as comfortable and relaxed as possible. It’s very important to take your time preparing your body for this practice. If needed, pause, take a deep breath, and come back when you feel ready. When you feel ready, lovingly close your beautiful eyes and allow your awareness to gently turn inward. Gently focus your attention on your breath; notice your belly expanding as you inhale and relaxing as you exhale, maybe feeling a sense of relief.

Let gravity do its work. Feel all the muscles in your body relax and release: your head, face, neck, shoulders, arms, hands... your chest, back, belly, hips, legs, and feet becoming heavier. Because right now, they don’t need to do anything. Whisper gently to your body: “Body, it’s time to relax now. I give you permission to relax.”

With each breath in, fill yourself with deep relaxation, and with each breath out, let all tension flow out of your body. Breathe naturally, at a rhythm that feels good to you, without overthinking it. Trust that even if you don’t consciously understand, your body benefits from this process and is doing what’s right for you. Knowing that your body understands, allow yourself to let go even more.

Now, imagine a vast and dark emptiness in your mind. An infinite, silent, shapeless space... This emptiness gently surrounds you, all your thoughts, feelings, and worries dissolve into this darkness. You no longer need to do anything; you simply exist. All remaining thoughts drift away like clouds floating in the sky. Your body’s boundaries become indistinct; you are now pure awareness in this infinite space. This emptiness fills you with peace; here there is no time, no place, no right or wrong.

Allow the darkness to envelop you. In this void, feel a nameless peace slowly wrapping around you. As this peace deepens, notice a light being born inside. This light is soft, warm, and reassuring. It slowly expands, enveloping your entire being, filling you with love and tranquility. Now, realize that this light actually comes from within you. Fully surrender to this moment.

Rest peacefully in this space for a while. Whether you stay in the endless darkness or watch a colorful display within it doesn’t matter. Trust that this moment and space are with you. With every inhale, notice how good this emptiness and light feel, and with every exhale, sink deeper into relaxation.

When you’re ready, on your next inhale, feel deep gratitude for this darkness and emptiness. Hold your breath and feel your body filling with a sense of lightness. When ready, notice this lightness spreading through your entire body and touching every cell. A sense of enlightenment arises within you; you realize you have the power to choose what your mind perceives, choosing non-judgment and acceptance. You can rest in this feeling as long as you want. Carry the peace, trust, and acceptance this experience gives you inside.

Now, I will count down from 10 to 1. With each number, you will feel closer to the void state: 10: Keep focusing on your breath. 9: Feel yourself getting closer. 8: Take one more step closer to the void in your mind, body, and emotional state. 7: Notice how wonderful it feels to breathe. 6: You are entering the void state. No struggle, no problem, no doubt. 5: You’re very close, feel how near you are. 4: You become one with the void. 3: Closer than ever before. 2: Almost fully in the void state. 1: You are now completely in the void state.”

You can either record this with your own voice or use a text-to-speech app to turn it into audio.

After the meditation, the next step is tricking the brain. Without moving, and with eyes closed, move your eyes left, right, down, and up. 1-2 minutes is enough.

Then comes a robotic affirmation: “I am the Void. I am aware that I am in the void state right now.”

Your body will already be relaxed and numb from immobility, your brain between dream and reality. When the moment comes when all sounds fade away, your entire destiny will change. This was my journey. To make your life even better than your dreams, all you need is 1 to 1.5 hours of not moving, relaxing, and affirming. It’s that simple.

What I have achieved:

୨୧ An extraordinary, never-before-seen facial beauty — green feline eyes, Russian lips, and a Cindy Crawford nose.

୨୧ Slim, narrow shoulders and rib cage, a slender waist and abdomen, proportionate wide hips, and long model-like legs.

୨୧ Hairless, crystal-clear skin free from all skin issues (Goodbye to eczema I had for years).

୨୧ Perfect, flawless, full, soft, shiny, non-frizzy, never breaking, never smelling bad, never greasy, healthy, and always beautifully scented thick wavy light brown hair.

୨୧ Always super clean, attractive, sexy, and sweet-smelling everywhere. Never sweat or smell bad. No sweat stains ever. My clothes and underwear always smell very clean, nice, and sexy. Both my bathroom visits always smell good. No sounds from the bathroom, no discharge, no gas or burps. This doesn’t harm my health.

୨୧ Graduated from Yale Law School and currently accepted to Harvard Law School for my master’s degree.

୨୧ A passive income job earning $15,000 per month and a $5,000 scholarship for my master’s degree.

୨୧ Currently living in a Bosphorus-view loft apartment in Istanbul, with a Mercedes iX.

୨୧ All the skincare products, Dyson, Apple devices, luxury cosmetics, books, cameras, and more from my Pinterest wishlist.

୨୧ My sister overcoming PCOS, and a summer house in Muğla for my mother.

୨୧ Meeting the man of my dreams in the summer of 2026.

And countless other details I can’t list here…

Learning Void State — even if years pass — never lose hope, and remember that something that has never happened before might just happen in one day. Let this be the moment your luck turns around. Thanks to all the Tumblr blogs, I am grateful beyond words. Now, to live the best summer of my life, I’m going to the Bahamas with my sister and my closest three friends. (And yes, I manifested my friends too ;) )

— OPIA (maybe I’ll use this nickname to share motivational talks and thoughts again. I love you all <3)

OHHHHH MYYYY GODDDNESSSS, CONGRATULATIONSSSSSS LOVEEEE AND THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR SHARING THIS TO ME!!!!!!

DID YOU SEE FOLKS??? HOW EASY IT IS TO INDUCE VOID!!????? GOODDDDDD I AM SO HAPPY FOR YOU!!!!!

HAVE THE BEST LIFE AHEAD OPIA! 💗✨THIS SUCCESS STORY MADE MY FREAKING DAY!!!

#law of assumption #shift #shifting community #loassblog #loassumption #loa blog #affirm and manifest 🫧 🎀✨ ִִֶָ ٠˟#affirm and persist #manifesting #reality shifting #voidblr #the void #void #void state #voidstate #manifestation success #loa advice #loa success #success story

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screamlet · 19 hours ago

Note

For the cuddling prompts. 24, which I think could be really interesting, or 11 or 21. Whichever inspires you. =)

omg thank you for this! this is for: cuddling between strangers (24) and post-coital (11). ~600ish words. S3 AU where buck and tommy are strangers who hook up in the direct aftermath of the tsunami. so, uh, kind of related to "in the water" (21), too.

---

In the middle of the night, Tommy wakes up coughing, then gasps for air like he's drowning, then opens his eyes to a guy pinning him to his bed, heavy hands on his shoulders. "You're awake," the guy says, but it's a chant, a rush of words spilling into each other: you're awake you're awake you're awake.

Tommy catches his breath. He moves his hands so he can grab onto the guy's wrists and nod. "You are, too. You're awake. We're here. We're okay."

That shakes the guy—Evan, thank god he remembered his name—out of it. They stare at each other in the dark of Tommy's bedroom, chests still heaving and terror in their eyes. "We're okay," Tommy repeats.

"We're okay," Evan echoes, then lays down next to Tommy again. He's hesitant, now, but Tommy's not; he needed a body tonight and Evan was more than willing, but maybe it's all sinking in (ha). He takes slow, deep breaths as he holds Evan, who's still trembling.

"I can't stop feeling the water," Evan whispers. "Like it's still moving around me."

"I'm here. I'm not moving. I'm not going anywhere."

Evan laughs and gives in, their naked bodies close again under the sheets, but they want warmth, not heat right now. "How long did they give you?"

"Four days. How about you?"

"Three. Um. It's complicated, actually."

"Is it?"

"I'm recovering from something so I'm on light duty with my station now, so." Evan shivers again. "They won't miss me."

Tommy laughs. "Still gotta go to work, you know."

"Three days, then," Evan says. "It's like two steps forward, one step back, like I'd be back at my light duty shift tomorrow except I—"

"You almost drowned in a tsunami?"

Evan nods, and he laughs, too, but Tommy can hear the teariness in his voice. "Can one thing go right?" He catches himself suddenly, and reaches for Tommy's face, his fingers brushing his jawline. "You're pretty okay."

Tommy laughs and leans into the touch, bravely pushes his body closer to Evan's. "I mean, I think so."

"What were you dreaming about?"

He wants to say, don't ask that, but that's—that's why they found each other. A tsunami had hit Los Angeles and Tommy had been in the air when it did, watching the wave sweep through the city like a light breeze. He had been about to land at Harbor after a call and instead watched two helicopters (near the water, at Harbor Station) get swept away like they were nothing.

He was dreaming about bodies. He'd been frantically busy working with dispatch and other houses to report on what was happening on the ground, but he left out one crucial detail: bodies floating everywhere. Some still struggling, some holding on, so many swept away beneath him, so many lifeless ones floating along with the current. That was only yesterday. That's why he can't sleep.

That's why tonight he had wandered to the last queer bar standing and picked up this guy who had cuts and exhaustion all over his face. He looked as haunted as Tommy felt. That's why they ended up in bed together, fucking to forget and holding each other as they remembered.

"Bodies," Tommy says quietly. "That's what I can't stop seeing."

He feels Evan (Evan, Evan Buckley, everyone calls me Buck but—but Evan's good, too, I like the way you say it) press a leg between Tommy's and push closer to him. "Hold onto mine," Evan says, and he does, and he will.

#911 fic #bucktommy #bucktommy fic #tevan #tevan fic #my writing #my fic #evan buckley #tommy kinard #writing games #writing games: cuddle prompts #and now another blue prince run

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tovibeornottovibe · 2 days ago

Text

Broken Things

Azriel x Fem!OC (Sereyna)

this is based on this request! thank you, anon, for being so patient with me, i hope this is worth the (month long, i'm so sorry) wait and that you enjoy it <3 (if not, i can always write you a different version, i have about five drafts all with different plot points lmao)

After a terrible night in the Day Court, one where he feels more lonely than ever, one where his heart won't stop fucking shuddering in his chest, Azriel unexpectedly meets his mate. The problem? She wants absolutely nothing to do with him and rejects him in all but name. He goes to Rhys for answers, and doesn't like what he hears. [8.5k words]

warnings: we're dealing with Under the Mountain here so abuse, implied sexual assault, canon typical violence, Amarantha, but also angst, fluff, suggestiveness, horny azriel, angry azriel, protective azriel, drinking, smoking, swearing, protective rhysand, asshole rhysand, az is also kind of an asshole at the start of this, but he's a sweetie at the end

masterlist | Prefer Ao3?

So they’re in a club. Him, Rhys, Feyre, Cass and Nesta, Mor and Helion, all in the Day Court. Rhys had called it a diplomatic mission. Everyone else is in agreement that it’s an excuse to drink all of Helion’s wine, play some games, dance a little.

It’s called letting loose, Az, Cass had told him. Have you heard of it?

Az had said nothing, had done nothing. He let his brother primp and preen and enjoy calling him a killjoy. Tonight, he doesn’t feel like snarling or snarking. He thinks everything will be easier if he just waits out the night alone, quietly, letting everyone get cosy and coupled, too drunk—even Nesta—to wonder if he isn’t doing the same. Maybe tomorrow, when they’re back home, his chest will stop feeling so fucking heavy.

It’s like his heart is working to claw out of his chest and his ribs are tightening and tightening and tightening to try and stop it. The music’s loud and his shadows hate the lights; they keep hissing at him to go outside, curling around his ears and ducking under his wings. People keep bumping into him. He’s remembering why he hates clubs. The female next to him at the bar is eyeing him like she wants to ride him like a horse and thinks he’s hung like one too.

Suddenly, he’s feeling sour and he’s dying for a drink that’ll make his head go quiet. He catches the bartender’s attention, asks for a shot of something stupid expensive and strong. Necks it in one. The female next to him chuckles.

“Rough night?” she asks, her voice dipped, sweet like honey, raspy, sultry, practiced.

He glances at her and motions for another shot (it’s all on Helion’s tab, so why not?). She’s pretty in the same way that all High Fae are pretty. Long legs, long lashes, tanned and toned in places meant to please. She’s blonde, wearing red. Az scoffs at the sight, thinking of Mor, then, resentfully, of Elain, while his fifteenth shot of the night runs down his throat and beats down his heart trying to crawl up his gullet.

“Worse now someone’s talking to me,” he says. Rude, his shadows bark. So what, he thinks. Still he tucks in his wings, keeps his gaze firmly uninterested, and tries not to look like he’d punch her in the mouth if she said the wrong thing. Which he wouldn’t, but he’s seen it happen. Character building, that’s what Devlon used to call it, until Azriel held him over the side of the cliff which marks the edge of Windhaven and threatened to drop him. They’d bound his wings first, of course.

Anyway.

If this female would kindly leave him alone and let him do another shot, he’d be much happier.

Instead, she whistles low and takes a sip of whatever cocktail she ordered, placing it back on the bar with a clink. A martini, maybe. She seems the kind, and his shadows trill to confirm it. “So it’s true,” she says. “The famed Shadowsinger is a mean son of a bitch.” His mother aside, she might be right. “I’m Rhona.”

Az turns his back on the bartender and leans against the bar, scanning the crowd. Rhona glances at his forearms braced against the side. So, Cassian had it right for once—he says ‘The Forearm Effect’ is part of Az’s strategy to pick up lovers in bars, even in spite of the scars.

He asks, “Is there something you want from me, Lady Rhona?”

She laughs. Gets closer. Touches his upper arm as she does. He clenches his jaw and stills, but his shadows spike. “I’m not a lady,” she says, “but I appreciate you saying so.” He stares. She gets the idea. “To answer your question, yes, Shadowsinger, I do want something from you.”

Again, Az doesn’t talk—he’s good at waiting, and people hate silence. Rhona’s no different.

She leans in. Her chest brushes up against his bicep and she starts to stroke his forearm, tracing the uneven skin with the pad of her thumb. Az can smell liquor on her teeth.

Her lips graze his earlobe.

“I want you to fuck me until I can’t remember my own name,” she murmurs. “Can you do that for me?”

Hm…

He can.

On a different night, he probably would. There’s nothing wrong with Rhona. In fact, Az would say the only thing she has to improve on is picking who she wants to go for in clubs. Plenty of males are capable, and if Rhys and Cass weren’t mated, he’d send her their way in a heartbeat.

Gently, Az places his hand on hers, barely touching, and moves it off him. “Not tonight,” he says, and his heart thunders again to the point of pain.

To her credit, Rhona takes it on the chin. She shrugs and moves away completely. “Pity.” And for a moment, she just looks at him, assessing if perhaps she could persuade him otherwise, then she picks up her glass and drains it with a grimace. All the grain spirit had settled at the bottom, Az guesses. “See you around then.”

“Sure.”

With a playful little wave, she turns and stalks into the crowd. If she sways her hips when she walks away, Az doesn’t have the inclination to notice.

His shadows smoke and fizzle in his ears. Outside, they seem to say. Go now. Now. Now.

Why? he asks, catching sight of Rhys and Feyre in a booth. She’s draped over his lap and he’s looking at her like she’s the only person in the world, like she hung the moon and stars just for him.

Go, they repeat in a whisper. Outside, outside, outside. There’s distinct urgency in their tone but no threat, it’s not life or death. Just important, somehow.

Az takes another look at his friends. Cass and Nesta are dancing hip-to-hip, smiling, laughing, to the thumping music. Mor and Helion are talking quietly by the band, but it’s not particularly amorous—they look serious, involved, and decidedly aren’t looking in his direction. Feyre and Rhys are kissing slowly, his hand snaking up her thigh and rucking the hem of her dress beneath his fingers, until she pulls away, peppering his jaw and his neck with glittering marks of her lip gloss. He sees Rhys sigh, his throat bob when he surely makes a noise that causes Feyre to smirk down at him, shifting on his lap carefully, positioned just right to feel what she can do to him. She coaxes his mouth open. Trails her hand up his neck. Sticks her tongue down his throat and—Az snaps his gaze away, swallowing harshly, appalled, less than he should be, by the growing heat starting to flood through him at the sight.

By the Mother, he needs air. And maybe a tab of mirthroot or two, though he hasn’t smoked since Rhys got back and he shouldn’t break his streak. Still, he’s drunk enough to want it, and turned on enough to think he might need it.

So.

The crowd parts for him, but not in a way that draws attention. It’s glances behind them, sudden realisation, and shuffling to give him room. When he slips out the front door, his hearing is dull and muffled and that annoys him. He hops the barrier before the bouncers can even think about moving it for him. The queue to his right makes sounds of excitement, thinking that now he’s leaving, they’ll be able to get in, but Az is walking away and tuning them out before he can see if they do.

Away from the club, the street is quiet. It’s narrow, would be shaded even in the day, and lined with rows of townhouses with cafes and family businesses on the ground floor. The soles of his black leather shoes clack against the cobbles. He rubs at his ear, hoping to regain some of what was lost in the blaring music, and his hearing slowly gets replaced with high-pitched ringing, which might be worse, honestly.

He doesn’t know where he’s going; he doesn’t have a plan or a goal, only places he knows he doesn’t want to end up: the palace; back at the club; any of the libraries; nor the tavern he visited once with Rhys and Cassian when they snuck past the wards of the city and ended up running half-naked from the barmaid’s father down the street. Az is simply moving, one foot in front of the other, letting himself get pulled in whatever direction seems the right one. No one is following him, nor does he have Rhys or Feyre tapping against his mental shields, so he’s in the clear.

His shadows chirp contentedly while the buzz of the alcohol starts to drain from his body in the cool night air and it settles in his blood, slightly jittery, but pleasant enough. Eventually, he finds himself down by the river banks, faced with the boardwalk by the water, and the view.

Az remembers it—or, rather, what it used to be. Over the other side of the wide water, right up against the banks and lined with piers and boats, there were hundreds of buildings. Libraries mostly, but houses, restaurants, all manners of shops too. He always thought that of all the places in Prythian, that stretch of Helion’s city was the only one which could rival Velaris.

Every building intersected. You could walk from one end to the other and never step foot on the street, and if you wanted a taste of the outdoors, all you needed to do was find one of the terrariums. The largest collection of ancient relics, books, and scholars had made it their home.

Now, it’s flat. Utterly, completely razed to the ground, replaced with a park, littered with grey stones, names etched onto each one. A memorial for those who were killed when Amarantha and, Az reminds himself bitterly, Rhys tore through the city. Rhys had been earlier that day, quietly, without the rest of them in the first hours of the morning. Az knew, but didn’t follow.

Thousands of years of knowledge had been destroyed when she had those libraries burnt. Yet more souls were lost. It looks different at night, faintly lit up so anyone can visit at any time. Something about it is so intensely lonely.

At the edge of the river, a little ways away, a plume of smoke catches his eye.

With her legs swung over the side, dangling just above the calm water, a female sits, staring out at the park. Then it hits him, that woody, earthy scent—mirthroot. By her side, she has a case, glinting gold under the faelights which brighten the street, with rolled tabs inside it. One hangs from her mouth, half smoked.

Would she share? he wonders.

Oh, but he shouldn’t.

No, really, he shouldn’t. It always makes him feel like shit the morning after in a way that alcohol and sex and blood on his knuckles can’t give him. If he goes back and Mor sees him high, she’ll look at him with such disappointment. Cass might smack him. And Rhys will either get worried—Az was always the one to turn down a smoke before—or ask him if he smoked everything he bought.

He almost turns away. Almost. But he looks at her again, this lone female by the river, and he watches the way her hair moves in the gentle breeze, trails the dip of her spine that he can see where her top leaves the smooth skin of her back exposed. She’s leaning back slightly, resting on one hand while the other pulls the tab from her mouth. On her neck, there’s a scar, cut from the bottom of her ear and disappearing at her shoulder.

And just doing that… well, his head goes quiet. His ears stop ringing. His shadows too have stopped chattering. In fact, they’re curling beneath his shirt and in the black of his hair as though they wanted to hide, or at least be unseen. His heart though, that throbs.

It stutters against his ribs, clenching, lurching painfully and he fights the panic starting to flood to his brain. He’d thought it was just anxiety, just the club, the people, the noise, but that’s wrong.

And he realises.

It’s her, isn’t it?

Gods, it’s her.

Azriel knows this feeling. He’s read about it, seen it in his brothers and in Feyre, in Nesta, even in Elain, even when she doesn’t want it. He’s longed for it. He’s wanted it for so many years that now it’s actually happening he thinks maybe he isn’t ready for it after all.

That thread in his chest, something shaky but alive, unfurls in his chest. It wraps around his ribs, tugs and pulls like it can’t help it, and the pain sputters to a stop, replaced with… calm.

Go, his shadows insist, skittering back as soon as they can.

Of course. They knew. Of course, of course, of course.

He should talk to her—or, at least ask her for a tab—but he can’t find the words. Actually, he’s not sure he even knows any words. Is it enough, he thinks, just to know it’s her? Does he have to speak? Or can he just be content in the knowledge she exists and she’s his and that’s all?

His shadows creep up to his ears slowly. Like they used to when he was a kid, they whisper to him, telling him words for him to fit together, and then they vanish again.

And Az looks at her again.

And his feet move.

And suddenly he’s standing too close for her not to notice but not close enough to be strange, even though he is strange, isn’t he? For the love of the Mother, he’s a single, drunk Illyrian in a foreign city, approaching a single female in the dead of night with no one else around. If she doesn’t run at the sight of him, she might be a fool.

Gentle and quiet, she says, “You can have one.”

What?

She glances up at him, a brow quirked, and a soft smile turns her lips when he says nothing. Then it disappears. Wordlessly, she pushes the case of mirthroot tabs towards him, sets down her lighter, and goes back to watching the other side of the river.

Right. He sits, his wings splayed out enough to be comfortable but not large enough to intimidate, with the case between them, untouched.

The words spill out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“You’re my mate,” he says. He can’t bring himself to regret it when he does. It feels better this way, the weight in his chest lifting a little. It’s hardly romantic, but he’s never been the type for that anyway.

She flicks ash off the end of the tab and looks at him again. “I know.” Fuck. Okay. “I saw you in the club earlier.”

And he hadn’t even noticed. Azriel didn’t see his mate when she was right in front of him.

“You—you didn’t say anything,” he replies, because there isn’t much else he can do but wonder why.

Her brow furrows. Her eyes turn sad. She looks away.

“You’re part of Rhysand’s entourage, aren’t you?”

It’s not an accusation. Her voice doesn’t shake or fill with emotion. No anger. No hatred. Nor any love or even pity. It’s just a statement, a question asked when she already knows the answer and dislikes it.

He says nothing. What is there to say? She has every right to take issue with it and—Rhysand, the word, it strikes him. Not Rhys, but not High Lord either, and not any nickname or insult that’s been thrown at him.

They’re familiar.

She knows him, but Azriel doesn’t know her. A horrible sinking ache spreads through his bones as he casts his gaze out across the water.

“Aren’t you?” she repeats, this time with enough weight behind her voice that he has to speak.

He swallows thickly. “He’s my brother.”

A bitter-sounding huff escapes her, half a laugh, half incredulous.

“Then I’m sorry,” she says, “but I don’t have anything to say to you.”

It probably makes him look insane, but his lips twitch into a dark smirk and he doesn’t have the decency to hide it.

What a cruel, clever joke of the Mother to give him a mate who all but rejects him before he can even get to know her. She’s good at that, the Mother. He supposes his brothers got lucky so She has to balance it out with giving him some misery. As though I haven’t had enough, he thinks fleetingly, but the self-pity is pathetic, so he purges the notion.

It’s fine. His mate has her reasons, Az is sure, and that’s okay. Who is he to question it? If he were her, he’d probably have been meaner about it. So, it’s fine, because it has to be. He just wishes it didn’t feel like getting stabbed right in the heart. Honestly, he might prefer the real thing.

But, it’s actually a little bit funny, isn’t it? That he’s just destined to be alone?

Or is he just delusional?

Or is he starting to overthink the fact that he has nothing to do with it and that the only male name that’s come out of her mouth is Rhysand?

Its end burnt down to her fingertips, she stubs out the tab of mirthroot on the stone beside her. Looking at him, she waits in the silence between them.

He looks back.

“I’m sorry too,” he says. For whatever it is, I’m sorry.

That doesn’t seem to satisfy her, but nor does it displease her either. She just nods, a muscle ticking in her jaw, and, with a murmured sigh, she stands, right on the edge of the bank.

This is it. She’s leaving. Az’s heart squeezes like it might stop beating if she never looks at him again.

“Your name,” he blurts, entirely not ready to see her go. “Will you at least tell me your name?”

She stops. Hesitates. Opens her mouth. Shuts it again. Then, blissfully, she says softly, “Sereyna.”

Sereyna. His mate is called Sereyna. It sounds like a song.

“Azriel,” he offers back, even though she doesn’t ask and probably either already knows or doesn’t want to.

It doesn’t seem like it matters, because she smiles at him again, a weak, tiny thing, but it’s there. “You can keep the case, Azriel,” she says.

And then she turns, and she walks away without looking back, and Azriel watches until she rounds a corner and he can’t anymore.

His shadows start to wrap lightly around his wrists and wind through his fingers but he bats them away, wanting the quiet.

He picks up the gold case of mirthroot, a little piece of her in his hands. On the back, engraved, recently, sharply, are her initials: S.C. Sereyna… something.

Az plucks a tab out of it and flicks on her lighter. It’s a clever contraption right out of the Dawn Court—powered by a conduit of elemental magic that has to be replaced every so often—the flame a perfect teardrop shape. Against the scars of his hands, the fire flickers, and though Azriel hasn’t been afraid of fire for centuries, having it so controlled right in front of him makes something uncomfortable settle in his chest, right next to the glowing, gaping absence of his sweet, quiet, soft mate by his side.

He lights the tab, smokes it until his lungs can’t take any more, and savours the taste on his tongue while he looks across the bay.

It’s early morning when he makes it back to Helion’s palace, his head hazy and Sereyna’s case empty, tucked into his pocket with her lighter.

You see, over these past few hours, Azriel has formed a plan. One that his shadows don’t know because he hasn’t told them. One that makes absolute, total sense to him just about now, five tabs of the strongest mirthroot he’s ever smoked down.

One that involves dragging Rhys from his bed and pummelling him until he tells him what the fuck he did to his mate.

He passes through the palace like a whisper, careful to keep out of sight of the guards and servants, feeling anxious that they might somehow know his plan and try to stop him. The door to their guest wing clicks shut behind him. Az listens for any signs of movement—but there are none. Unsurprisingly. After last night and without interference, it’ll be a miracle if any of them wake naturally before noon.

Rhys and Feyre have the biggest chambers, but not ones with wards that can keep him out. In here, it smells like sex and power, sweet, stale arousal mixed with the metallic tang of High Fae magic. His High Lord and Lady are asleep, tucked into one another, Rhys’ wing cocooning them from the outside world.

He doesn’t give himself time to feel guilty.

In fact, he feels a pleasant amount of abject rage. It’s better than nothing at all.

He approaches silently.

In one jutting movement, he grips Rhys by the back of the neck, firmly, enough to hurt, enough to wake him, and closes a fist around the top of his wing. By the time he can do anything to respond, Azriel has already yanked him upwards, and the darkness that explodes through the room is left behind as Az winnows him into the main living area of their quarters and smashes his face against the wall, keeping him there, paying no mind to his state of undress.

He’s taller than Rhys. Stronger because he hasn’t let himself go soft. It’d be even easier if he had his siphons. Against his bucking, Azriel holds well. The domination clears his head a little.

It’s true that Rhys could kill him with a thought, rip through his mental shields like he’s trying to do now, but he won’t.

They’re still brothers, after all.

“Explain,” Azriel snaps, unbothered by Rhys’ order to let go, now, despite all the roiling in his stomach that tells him to obey, thinking that a refusal probably amounts to treason and that he doesn’t much care.

Rhys splays out his wings in an attempt to break Azriel’s grip and knocks at a painting on the wall, causing it to crash down and smack against the floor. The others will hear and come in, expecting a fight. He’s a little shocked Feyre isn’t in here already. He wrestles Rhys to stop him moving, all too aware that his patience will run thin and he’ll use everything he has to get him off him.

“Cauldron, Azriel, what the fuck is wrong with you?” he fires back, trying to get a grip on his belt buckle to yank him away.

A mirthless laugh escapes him. “Answer me.”

“It might help if you tell me what I’m supposed to explain to you!”

“Sereyna,” he hisses, the word heavy on his tongue while the bond lashes in his chest at the sound, “explain whatever it is you did to her to me and I’ll decide if it’s worth letting you keep Feyre’s favourite part of you.”

Rhys lets out an exasperated sigh and Azriel’s irritation joins his anger.

“Let go of me, Azriel.”

“Give me a reason to.”

And that’s the exact moment Cassian and Mor decide to open the door.

Wanting to avoid getting pulled across the room by Cass, Azriel lets go of his brother, and Rhys uses the split second where he’s looking between them to throw his fist directly into his gut. Cassian swears when he doubles over, bracing a hand against the wall to stop himself from bringing up bile and whatever alcohol might be left in his stomach, while Rhys flicks a wrist and dresses himself.

“Will someone please explain what’s going on?” Mor asks, glaring daggers at her cousin, who sets himself down on one of the sofas like nothing happened.

“Azriel,” he says, his nostrils flaring, “is acting like a child.”

He whirls, ignoring how his stomach protests. “Fuck you, you—”

“Gods, Az,” Mor says, drawing closer to him, her brows furrowing as she looks over him, “are you high?”

Ugh, here it comes. That look. Pure disappointment. Mor counted how many days clean he’d been more than he had. And now it’s back to zero.

He sags back against the wall, his head pressed against it. “A little,” he says, refusing to look anywhere but at Rhys, who’s staring at him with something in his eyes he infuriatingly can’t place.

Cassian shuts the door. “Azriel…”

“Don’t,” he snaps, cutting him a look, but, as ever, he persists.

“You swore—” he starts, but Az interrupts.

“I lied,” he says, pushing himself up and locking eyes with Rhys, dismissing Cassian entirely. “Sereyna, Rhys.”

He doesn’t miss it when Mor stiffens, her mouth set. So she knows too—and the one thing Mor knows about Rhys more than either him or Cassian is Under the Mountain. That horrible sinking ache returns.

“You’ve met her then,” Rhys drawls. “Is that who you disappeared with last night?”

The insinuation makes a feral rumble bubble in the back of his throat. “She’s my mate,” he snarls, pushing closer. “Explain to me why my mate won’t even talk to me because of you.”

Silence cleaves through the four of them, but the utter shock on all of their faces almost makes it worth it. Rhys’ quickly deteriorates to complete devastation, before it’s gone in a blink. He rubs a hand over his face, either in frustration, or for some impending headache.

Cassian dares break the quiet. “Cauldron, you pick your moments, Az,” he says, sighing, sitting across from Rhys, and pouring a glass from the decanter of whiskey that someone has presumably left out from the night before. Mor, her face tight and looking between them, joins him, taking a sip from his glass when he puts it down.

“Where’s Feyre?” she asks, ignoring it when Az scoffs.

“Asleep,” says Rhys, “I told her everything was fine.”

“You always were good at bullshitting,” Azriel says. “Did you use that much Under the Mountain?”

He feels a kind of coldness washing over him, thick with terrific fury, not caring that Cass and Mor are in the room. Let them see, he thinks, let them see.

“So you know,” Rhys says, “and you ask me to explain for what? Punishment?”

“I don’t know shit,” he shoots back, his voice so, so hard, “but I can figure it out. Don’t make me think the worst of you.”

“Because you’ve always struggled with that, haven’t you? I did what I did for us—”

“I’m aware. And I’m grateful. Aren’t we all?” Az asks drily. “I’m certain my mate knows exactly what you did—!”

“She was a child!” Rhys roars, before his tone softens and goes quiet. “She was a child and I tried to protect her from the worst of it. You weren’t there, Azriel.”

“Then start at the beginning.”

“This is totally unnecessary,” Cassian mumbles into his drink.

“If it were Nesta,” Azriel says, “you’d want to know too. If it were Feyre, Rhys…”

And he waits, knowing how low he’s going, knowing how much it’s going to hurt, but needing an answer, needing to know because if he doesn’t he might go mad with guilt.

Rhys squeezes his eyes shut, sighs, and talks.

“Amarantha,” he starts, the name coming out of his mouth ruefully, like a curse, “ordered the destruction of the libraries in the city, and the extermination of the scholars here who were publishing condemnations of her Court. Just because she was petty and she could… Sereyna’s parents were two of those scholars, and they lived in the riverside commune, so they were on the list, as well as any of their family. Old, young, ill, it didn’t matter to her.

“I found Sereyna hiding from me in a closet in their bedroom, and I was going to leave her there.” His eyes had gone blank, like he was lost in the memory of it. “I told her to be quiet and to wait, but she was scared and she begged me not to hurt her, that she was the one that had encouraged her parents and that it was her that Amarantha wanted, not them. She’d heard me, in the other room, with her parents, you see. She was lying, of course, but if anyone had heard, they’d have dragged her out to Amarantha in public. She—I don’t know—she couldn’t have been more than nine or ten, too clever for her own good, and she just kept pleading with me and by the time I’d slipped into her mind to get her to stop, Amarantha had come into the room and seen. So I bargained with her. I knew that she’d have me kill her if I didn’t, and she agreed to have her come Under the Mountain if she ‘earnt her keep.’

“She used to do little tricks for her. She was known for it. The rest of the fae from the Day Court called her a prodigy, a future genius. She could remember things exactly, like they were printed in her brain. She did spellwork far beyond what a child should be able to. And Amarantha made her use all that extraordinary power to turn wine into blood and make people dance until their ankles gave when she got bored of using me to do it. She’d make her sing for hours on end until her throat bled and at first she wouldn’t let me heal her, but she gave in when she realised there was no chance of her doing it on her own.

“She grew up in that fucking place. Had her childhood wasted and there was nothing any of us could do about it. You think you can picture the worst, Azriel? Well, you can’t. The things that bitch made her do when she came of age would make even you sick.

“I tried to help her. I promise you, I did. And when we all got out I asked Helion for permission to see her, to talk or apologise or something. And she declined, rightfully so. Apparently she just said she wanted nothing to do with any of it. She didn’t need anyone to say sorry or to get involved.

“So,” he says, his voice harsh, “when I tell you to say the fuck away from her, I mean it. Don’t look at me like that. You aren’t entitled to her and she owes you nothing. She told you she didn’t want to talk to you, so you don’t. That’s an order.”

It should stun him like it’s knocked Mor and Cassian out of their thoughts.

The audacity of it. Of pulling rank like that.

But it doesn’t. In fact, it’s exactly what he’d been expecting. They’ve been here before, but it worked then, and it won’t now.

Az holds onto his rage, keeps it tucked away, rage for the sake of his mate and at his brother, but mostly at a dead female he wishes he could resurrect so he could kill her again.

He laughs wryly.

“Is that everything?” he asks. “Not gonna tell me to go to a pleasure hall this time?”

Rhys sits back, any sign of anguish vanished from his face, replaced by a High Lord who doesn’t like being tested. “You still resent me for that? When it turns out I was right all along?”

“Go fuck yourself, Rhys.”

Az straightens, sets his jaw, and goes to leave.

“Stay,” Rhys orders, and he ignores him, even though it takes everything he has to keep walking.

When Az turns the door handle and opens the door, Rhys tries to get Cassian to stop him.

Just as he shuts it behind him, for the first time maybe in centuries, Az hears Cass tell Rhys, “No.”

Sereyna wakes up with the dawn, but then, she hadn’t really slept.

She strips out of the clothes she had on the night before, still smelling faintly of mirthroot and sweat, and takes a damn long time in the bath, running over her skin in places where she can still feel someone else’s hands. It doesn’t really help.

Out on her balcony, she takes dandelion tea from a pot made for two and sips it slowly while she watches the city breathe. People pass by on the street below, carrying produce to sell, sometimes with children on their shoulders, chattering innocuously.

The world keeps spinning, Sereyna, no matter what happens to us.

Rhysand had said that to her, so long ago that it feels like yesterday. He’d been healing bruises on her thighs, but had to leave the ones on her neck; Amarantha enjoyed seeing marks.

The thought makes her stomach swoop like she might throw up, but a faint warmth spreads throughout her chest, almost like an accident, and for the briefest moment, she lets herself enjoy the comfort.

Then she shuts it out.

Drinks her tea.

It had to be, didn’t it? The Mother isn’t fond of letting her catch a break.

Just when she was getting better, when she could stand to be in crowds, to wear clothes that didn’t make her skin crawl when it was exposed, to drink and kiss and fuck because she wanted and was wanted by another. Just then, when she was considering talking to her High Lord about taking up her mother’s old post, or at least working up to it, to actually use her magic for something worthwhile after years of letting it fester, then a mating bond snaps. The idea of being involved in anything that might remind her of being there and her and him looking down at her cowering from him at nine-years-old sent her spiralling.

She’d broken her streak of being nine months clean and found the stash of mirthroot she hid in her apartment and even that just made it worse.

Her parents were mated, you know, but they loved each other. They had been married for a century before it snapped, and all it was was confirmation of what they already knew.

But they’re dead, and her mate’s brother is the one who killed them.

The world keeps spinning, Sereyna.

The world keeps spinning.

The Spymaster, Azriel, she reminds herself, a pretty, old name. An angel—she remembers reading the stories as a child. He ferries the dead to the land of milk and honey. Some call him benevolent, others say he kills his victims himself just to give himself something to do.

But her mate doesn’t seem like either, or maybe he’s somewhere in between. She’s heard the stories of him too.

When she saw him in the club, in a huddle with her friends across the room, she had thought he was the most exquisite, most unfairly beautiful male she had ever seen. He had real, true, classical handsomeness. The kind the fae of old would start wars over. The kind that would make the gods jealous. He had these living shades peeking over his shoulders and sliding around his wrists like sworn protectors, and brutal scars, ancient, faded, but burnt into the skin like someone had doused them in oil and set them alight, and before she could stop it, her heart had ached for him. But most of all, his wings. Glorious, glorious things with sharpened talons and intricate membranes she knew took centuries of study to understand.

He had glared at his brother, another Illyrian, and she’d heard a laugh. Rhysand’s laugh. One she knew better than the back of her hand, one that had once been tipped in cruelty so often that it was hard to separate then from reality.

The bond snapped right there, at the apex of that laugh, stretching out her heart and cracking against her ribs.

She left before her friends could stop her. Before her mate could even see her.

She knows it could never work. He’s Rhysand’s Spymaster, for the sake of the Mother. He is a warrior, a war hero, a figure of nightmares and of dreams and she, well, she can barely get out of bed some mornings.

He would want her to know him, know his family, but she can’t. It would be an insult to their memory, a betrayal of everything she promised herself when she was scared and alone and Under the Mountain.

But when she saw him, when he stood next to her by the river, still so, so beautiful, but so sad, so angry, so tired, she saw something of herself in him, some reason for the Mother to join them like this.

She couldn’t reject him. Not officially. Not when everything had been screaming at her to touch him, to talk to him, to just lean against him and stay there for a little while.

It’s better this way, she thinks, finishing her tea, about to pour another. We’ll both be happier this way. She can’t give him what any male would want in a partner, let alone a mate, and he shouldn’t have to wait around for her to get her shit together. This way, she thinks, we can both move on, but something in her chest twinges, and it feels oh so very wrong.

Sereyna decides to make a plan for her day to stop herself crawling back into bed and doing nothing: finish the tea; put the pot away; stretch*; find all the mirthroot stashes and flush them; buy bread; eat lunch; see Carmella and apologise for ditching last night—no, scratch eat lunch, have lunch with Carmella; pay; then apologise; come back; write a letter to Melphalia and get a talking session tomorrow; finish book chapter; make dinner; start new chapter; bathe; bathe again; make sure all the stashes are gone; no drinking, none at all. Bed. Sleep—at a reasonable time.

She drains her mug. Her deck chair scrapes across the balcony tiles when she stands, but there’s no avoiding it. The basil plant by her door is sagging a little. *Add water plants to the plan.

Teapot set down, draining beside the sink, she takes a moment just to breathe.

The world keeps spinning, Sereyna, no matter what happens.

A knock comes at her door. Two hits, quiet, almost hesitant, and somehow, she thinks she knows who it is.

The thread in her chest goes taut, strung tight with anticipation.

She doesn’t want to talk to him. For his own good, she shouldn’t. She should leave him out there so there can be no confusion—they are mates only in name.

Yet the bond lashes out, tugging, pulling, and she wonders if it’s him doing that, or if it’s the Mother willing it so.

He knocks again, something final in it, and Sereyna realises this is the last chance she’ll have.

Her body won’t let her stay put.

She crosses her apartment in an instant, pulling open the door just to confirm—yes, it’s him, and the bond sings.

He’s standing there like he hadn’t expected to see her, and his pretty shadows skitter behind his wings when they notice her. A day has made him no less stunning, and he’s perhaps more so now, his eyes wide and his hands clenched nervously by his sides.

His lips, which look so soft, part. He scans her face, then the rest of her, and she can’t tell if he’s admiring or assessing, and she’s not sure it matters.

“How did you find me?” she asks gently, her voice just so because anything louder might startle him.

“Shadows,” he replies simply, his tone equally quiet.

Sereyna swallows thickly, frowning, looking him over again. The purple bruises under his eyes make it look like he hasn’t slept, maybe not for a few days. His wings are tight against his back as though he were trying to make them, and himself, look smaller.

“I know you said you have nothing to say to me—” I have a lot to say, I just can’t, “—and if you want me to go and to never see me again, I’ll make sure of it. Just say the word and I’ll leave. But… I have some things to say to you, if that’s okay?”

It’s not. It’s not okay because she wants to forget about everything else and hear him out. It’s not okay because she wants to touch him, wants to feel his hands on her and take away the memory of everyone else. It’s not okay because she wants to let him in.

Because she wants him.

“Okay,” she says, widening the door.

“Okay?” he repeats like he can’t really believe it.

She just nods. “You—you should probably come in.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” she cuts him off. “Just come in before I change my mind.”

So he does. He follows her inside, ducks his head to fit under the doorframe, and she fights the urge to pace by her sofa. Instead, she sits, her knee bouncing while he looks around her apartment, probably thinking it’s too small, too cluttered, and noticing that the floor is uneven and that her books aren’t kept in any order on her bookshelves. He stands awkwardly in the foyer, waiting. Despite herself, she thinks it’s endearing, if unnecessary.

“You’re allowed to sit, Azriel.”

The sound of his name seems to garner his attention, and they lock eyes for a moment. Hazel, she thinks, with flecks of gold.

He does as she says and sits in the armchair across from her, rearranging his wings as best he can in a chair not built for them, still not saying a word.

Right, she supposes she’ll have to coax it out of him.

“What is it that you wanted to tell me?” she asks, clasping her hands in her lap because she suddenly doesn’t really know what to do with them.

Sereyna sees as he runs his tongue over his teeth, chewing on the inside of his cheek, searching for the words.

“Rhys,” he says, the name almost making her flinch, “told me what happened—here, and Under the Mountain.” Some restrained kind of anger simmers the gaps between his words.

Her lips twitch. “That wasn’t his story to tell.”

“I know, and I’m sorry, but I asked him. I had to understand and I practically forced him to tell me.”

She sits back a little, her discomfort soothed by just his proximity, by the thought of him being in her apartment, surrounded by the scent of her. “So he knows,” she says, less a statement, more a question.

Azriel nods uneasily. “He does. He asked me—ordered me—not to come here. Not to talk to you.”

He ignored a direct order from his High Lord just to see her?

Fuck.

“Yeah,” she lets herself laugh, because she’s not certain of the alternative, “that sounds like him.”

That makes Azriel frown, before he schools his face. “You don’t hate him.”

“No,” Sereyna says, before she adds, “well, sometimes I do. He—I owe him my life, and I don’t blame him for what he did—I think it would make me a hypocrite if I did.” She forces herself to look at her mate when she continues; he deserves to know the kind of person she is. “We all did things we aren’t proud of down there. I did things I’m not proud of. But I’m alive because of them, and I can’t regret them or I think I’d go crazy with guilt.”

For a second, she thinks he might call her out, or leave, or tell her she’s a bad person. But he doesn’t. In fact, he gives her a look, one that no one else would catch, that says one thing to her, I understand. Then he gives her a small smile, the first one of his she’s seen, and says, “That wouldn’t be ideal.”

Oh, and a chuckle escapes her, and his eyes light up at the sound, and the bond jumps like it can’t contain itself.

And she has to tell him before it’s too late.

“Azriel,” she says seriously, “I—I don’t think I can be who you want me to be.”

He tilts his head at her. A curl of dark hair falls over his face, and her instincts yell at her to brush it off his forehead, maybe card her hands through his hair until he keens. “You don’t know what I want.”

“You want a mate,” she says. “Someone you can spend the rest of your life with. I can’t give that to you. I can’t go to the Night Court, I can’t live there or visit or even think about it without wanting to—to cry, honestly. I don’t have my life together, I drink too much, I have about seven different stashes of mirthroot hidden around this place so my friends don’t take them off me, sometimes I don’t get out of bed until three in the afternoon and—”

“Sereyna,” he says, stopping her spiral before she can tell him something stupid like how she still gets scared of the dark sometimes, “just breathe.”

Right. Air. Yes. That’s good. He’s good at that, at comfort, even if he doesn’t know he’s doing it.

She inhales, exhales, inhales, exhales, catches how his fingers move like he wants to touch her, thinks that she might quite like that, but he doesn’t, inhale, exhale, until her breathing evens out.

The world keeps spinning.

“Can I tell you what I think now?” he asks, not smugly, not arrogantly. It’s just a question, given without judgement. Sereyna thinks that if she says no, he would leave her be, even now.

She nods, so he talks. “I think that you’re my mate, so none of that really matters.”

“That sounds like you’re settling.”

He laughs, such a lovely thing. “If you think anyone is settling for you, you might like to reevaluate.”

A flush creeps up her neck and blooms high on her cheekbones.

He’s a flirt.

“I—was that everything you wanted to say?”

At the question, he turns coy, almost boyish. “I suppose so. I just—I just thought you should know,” he says.

Silence settles over them, but it’s comfortable, the kind of peace that comes when a weight has been lifted. In it, his shadows start to simmer around his shoulders, shyly peering at her as though they want to look but not to be noticed. She pretends not to, just to see if they’ll stick around.

Azriel, though, starts to brace his hands on his knees like he’s going to get up and leave, but Sereyna doesn’t want him to.

Absolutely, unequivocally, she wants him to stay.

If this is how it’s going to be with him, if he doesn’t mind her and everything that comes with that, if he can offer such understanding, if he can be alright with managing his expectations—though it seems he doesn’t expect much at all—maybe she can do the same. Isn't that fair? Doesn’t he deserve to be treated well, in the same way that he treats her? To be complimented and flirted with?

To be understood?

She can do that.

No, it’s worse. She’d like to do that for him. She wants to make him smile, laugh even. She could listen to his voice all day, even if he was spouting nonsense and nothing else. She wants to know every petty, little detail of his life and hoard the knowledge all for herself.

Most importantly of all, if she doesn’t prevent him leaving now, she might never see him again, and that fills her with such grief that she decides she has to stop him.

Fuck the plan.

“Tea,” she blurts, already wincing as the word comes out of her mouth, realising how stupid it sounds. But he stops moving, waiting for her to continue, so her strategy worked, she supposes. “I mean, do you want any—do you want to stay for tea, a cup of tea, is what I’m trying to ask. And breakfast, maybe? Not made by me, of course, for obvious reasons, but there’s a bakery down the street which has these pistachio pastries and those are really nice and—please, just say yes or no so I don’t have to keep talking.”

He smiles again, so making a fool of herself was worth it. “I’d like that,” he says, still grinning.

She narrows her eyes at him. “Were you enjoying me rambling like an idiot?”

“Maybe a bit.”

“You fucker,” she says, but she’s smiling too.

“If you want me to be.”

“Gods,” she groans, burying her face in her hands to hide the blazing heat on her cheeks, “let’s just go get breakfast before you get completely shameless.”

Sereyna stands before the world can come crashing down, before he can turn around and say that actually it’s all a lie and he doesn’t want anything to do with her, crosses over to him, and holds out her hand.

“Come on,” she says, wiggling her fingers.

His gaze drops to her hand, and tentatively, like she might spook if they touch, slides his hand into hers, standing too. The skin is rough, marred by the scars she’ll one day ask about, probably right after he asks her about the one on her neck, and a little cold. That’s okay, though. She’s always had warm hands. Gently, she interlocks their fingers and squeezes, only once.

He squeezes back.

As she leads him back to the door, he says, “I still have your case. And your lighter.”

She shrugs. “I told you, keep them. I’m getting rid of all my tabs anyway.”

He goes quiet for a bit, thinking, and she lets him. If he wants to say something, he will. And he does.

“The C on the engraving…” he starts, “your family name?”

Letting out a little hum of confirmation, she replies, “Yeah. Caerwyn. It’s one of the old names from before the Courts.”

As they leave her apartment and he shuts the door behind them, he says, “It suits you.”

“Thanks,” she laughs, “just don’t call me Lady Caerwyn. My poor mother would roll in her grave. Titles made her passionately aggravated.”

“Right,” he says, “so glare at anyone who calls you Lady until they get the idea?”

“You catch on quick. She’d have liked you. My father too.”

Ah, success. He blushes so sweetly.

“I’m glad,” he says quietly.

“Me too.”

And they go down the stairwell, hand-in-hand, content in the moment with no need to worry about what comes next. That’s all for after. He can sort out the fallout of whatever happened with his brother, and she’ll be there, supporting him how she can. And she can start actually getting her act together, and he can support her.

Sereyna thinks, gratefully, that this might actually work.

But for now, pastries and tea.

a/n: saw a typo? let me know! this behemoth of a fic is 8k words and they're easily missed :)

#azriel fic #azriel #azriel acotar #azriel fanfic #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x oc #azriel x reader #azriel x you #acotar fanfiction #azriel one shot #azriel angst #azriel fluff #azriel fic request #poor illyrian baby gets dunked on by the mother at every opportunity

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yushi-ni · 3 days ago

Note

can you do a riku nsfw alphabet like you did with yushi? please and ty^^

ෆ MAEDA RIKU ෆ 𝗇𝗌𝖿𝗐 𝖺𝖻𝖼

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ masterlist

summary; nsfw abc with (bf) riku

genre; obviously suggestive, nsfw

warnings; mentions of lots of suggestive things. breeding kink, unprotected sexual activities, pda, kisses.

notes; IT’ S HERE!!! the (much) requested riku version!!!! thanks for liking my yusion versions so much, i hope this ones to your liking as well hihihi ly, sorry i was so busy with work the last few days so it took a little longer than i wanted but i hope you like this one!!!!

──୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──

A = aftercare (what he’s like after sex)

riku is a big aftercare person. super cuddly, lovey and affectionate, always making sure that you’re ok and feeling good. it depends on the impact (hihi) of your previous gymnastics routine what kind of aftercare is needed. if it was a simple, good game, he’ll clean you up, give you a warm towel, new underwear, maybe some comfy shorts if you feel like it and then he’ll jump back in bed and cuddle you the rest of the night. if it was a little more intense, it requires a little more care (in his opinion) double checking if you’re not sore or bruised or if you need something else to maybe ease your muscles. loves loves loves after sex showers together. the warm water is perfect and the both of you can clean yourself up properly before a cuddle session. both after care routines are obviously full of sweet talk and lots of ‘i love you’s’

B = body part (his fav body part of himself and yours)

on you? what’s not to love? he loves every single inch of your body but if you put a gun to his head and make him choose, he would go for your legs. his hands will be on your thighs at any given moment. sitting next to each other on the couch, dining table, car, bed, you call it: his hands will have a fixed spot on your legs like it’s magnetic. he thinks your legs are super sex-c. short, skirts, leggings; he loves it all. oh and also likes your boobs. no further explanation needed. on him, he likes his upper body. he always wears tank tops and such clothes. always showing off his arms and shoulders. he’s not buff but he’s definitely lean and he knows you like it too, a win is a win

C = cum (anything to do with cum)

he doesn’t like the whole hassle of cleaning up a mess. but he’s also not one to hold back when the moment is ripe. so for the convenience of the two, he definitely likes to cum in you. and you can definitely tell when he’s getting closer, he’s a moaner for sure, very vocal when he comes. not really the type of guy to cum on your stomach or back, depending on your position, because like i said he just doesn’t feel like cleaning up a mess. he likes messy sex just not a messy clean up, you get me? so if he can’t come downstairs, he’d go on hand and knees to beg you to come in your mouth

D = dirty secret (yes.)

he’s a horny guy ngl. can flip a coin and go with whatever it lands on. he can be so dominant, no room for sweet talk and mercy but when his subby side takes over, he’s in your control, completely. he doesn’t believe in the idea of a man being in power all the time. he can dominate you like there’s no tomorrow but if you’re the one pulling the strings he is on cloud nine fr. he just enjoys the whole ride, whether that’s you taking the lead or him. he’s just happy to be there haha. (ps. if he can go raw. he’ll be unstoppable. he’s obsessed) (p.ps. only if you’re on birth control and there’s no risks of little riku’s joining the club)

E = experience (how experienced is he?)

probably has quite a bit of experience. he was popular back in high school and he knows he looks good so i’m sure he had his practice here and there. he’s not necessarily the type of guy to go for one nighters since he does like the feeling of a connection with the other person but he’s not one to back off from the idea of being friends with an extra advantage, if you get what i mean

F = fav position (self explanatory hihi)

he’s not picky, whether he’s taking the lead or letting you take care of him he enjoys every position (doggy) would gladly go for the classic missionary and have a more affectionate - gentle round (ahum doggy) but he’d also love having you on top of him, riding him while he sits back and watches you (d o g g y) whatever you enjoy he enjoys too. (he loves taking you from behind. amen)

G = goofy and giggles (is he serious or goofy)

both. depends on your vibe as well. there’s nights (or mornings or afternoons hehe) with gentle - sweet - goofy moments but there’s also the really intense love making. so there’s definitely giggles shared here and there but that depends on the day!!! but he won’t crack a joke like he’s a stand up comedian yk? just light teasing, whatever fits the moment and atmosphere!!!

H = hair (how does it look downstairs?)

very well trimmed and taken care of. he likes to keep it clean, not just for you but also for himself. he thinks it’s a part of proper self care and hygiene so he’ll never walk around wild and free yk

I = intimacy (how intimate is he during the game)

eye contact - intertwined hands - deep kisses - sweet talking; he loves it all. he’s a lover boy, he loves to feel you close to him. he can get completely lost in the moment, completely lost in your eyes and touch. he loves a deep connection when it comes to sex but he also likes a good rough play. there’s lot so in betweens yet there’s none. he can go both ways, all possible ways. he’s a jack of all trades

J = jack off (his 1-1 playtime with his lil friend)

yes and no, definitely prefers having you take care of him rather than doing it himself. i just don’t see him enjoying his own pleasuring that much, especially not since he knows he has you to do it. if he’s really desperate he will definitely satisfy his own needs but if you’re close by, there’s no need to do it himself. he still does it tho, a man gotta do what a man gotta do yk

K = kink (no need for further explanation)

orgasm control (on him. yes) loves to give himself fully over to you every now and then, more than happy to lay back and let you take complete control. get him off, or don’t, he’s so into it. so so so into it. oh and ngl, he goes wild for a little breeding kink. but you didn’t hear that from me!

L = location (his fav places to play card games)

his own home, or yours, are definitely his #1 pick, ofc. doesn’t feel limited to the bedroom, as long as there’s a surface or whatever, he’s good to go. definitely not one to shy away from a little more funky places in your homes. he definitely prefers knowing that there’s no one else to interrupt the two of you BUT if he’s really in need, he might just pull you in the nearest changing room and take you right there and then (after double checking the lock ofc because we don’t want visitors!)

M = motivation (what turns him on?)

pretty clothes; dresses, tight tops, crop tops, skirts (!!!!) he thinks you look pretty in everything but he LOVES when you dress up a little and put some ‘effort’ into your looks (for him hehe). he’s very visually motivated. &&&&& stimulated. he’s a big fan of sexy clothing and he doesn’t hide it at all. his eyes speak more than his words. get a bucket because he might start drooling too. but tbh it doesn’t take a lot to get him going, he loves the idea of pleasuring you and making love with you so he can go at any time

N = no no no (something he wouldn’t do - turn offs)

he will never ever do something that can cause actual harm or pain. no pain kinks or any other thing that could potentially hurt you. he’s open to try hand cuffs and such but if you show up with a whip or anything, he might as well whoop your ass to get some sense back into your brain because why on earth would he want to hurt you when he can make love? no, don’t even bother bringing that up because he’ll genuinely put you in time out

O = oral (is he a receiver or giver)

he’s an enjoyer (hehe) giving - receiving - sharing (oop-) he loves it all and wants it all. he’s a big foreplay person so there will always be some sort of oral happening, sometimes it’s him, other times it’s you, preferably it’s both. man he just loves having his face between your legs, takes his time, knows what he’s doing, knows what you love and will always get you done. sometimes, rarely but it happens, there’s either no time or no possibility to go full base so he’ll be content with just pleasuring you instead of himself. he loves the way you react to his touch and it honestly satisfies him enough in those moments. but your mouth around his member takes him straight to heaven, every time. he’ll never turn down a good offer. he can get a little bit lost in the moment itself tho, will buckle his hips up, lowkey fuck your mouth when he gets too into it. but if that’s what you’re into as well, you’re in for a treat

P = pace (fast? - slow? - rough?)

mmh depends on the day. he can go rough, quick and definitely chase his own pleasure with very little room for cuteness and sweet talking but then there’s his other side that is so soft spoken, gentle, slow and deep. if you were hanging out with your friends and you purposely rilled him up the whole night, he’ll go hard on you and make sure you know he’s not playing. but if he’s been away for a couple days or if he’s just craving your warmth and affection, he’ll be the sweetest ever. hands intertwined, long lingering kisses, soft touches, sweet praises etc etc. he’s a man with many trades

Q = quickie (his view on quickies)

quickies - slowies - in betweenies; hell yeah. give him a time and place and he’s there. his fav are definitely morning quickies before work, it’s the best way to start his day

R = risk (does he take risks??)

risks go as far as pushing him outside of his comfort zone, place wise and experimenting with different things in general. he’s willing to try things with you as long as it’s ‘safe’, like i said he’s not into pain and extreme stuff but other than that he’s down as long as you yourself are a 100% sure you’re comfortable and ok with it. as far as places, he will definitely push both of your limits and get you both off in a changing room or toilet. anything that has a door and preferably a lock is fine for him when he needs it

S = stamina (how many rounds etc how long)

he has stamina but if he goes all out in the first round he won’t be hopping around like a bunny to pin you down for a second one. if it’s a long play and you got him all over the edge, he will be out for a while ngl. but if it’s a vanilla - sweet - gentle night, he could definitely saddle back up and go for another run!!! tbh, if you’re still wanting more and give him a little more attention and teasing, let’s say you’re washing up in the shower together, it’s only a matter of catching his breath and he’s down to play again. his stamina is kinda matched up with whatever you’re giving him. you want a round two? you’ll get a round two sooner or later

T = toys (is he team yes or no)

has toys, not always in the mood to use them tho. but if you are then he won’t turn down the offer. prefers using toys on you but he’s definitely curious to male receiving ones. he will just need some time to figure out what he likes and what he’s comfortable with but the fact that you’re encouraging him to explore his own ideas and needs definitely helps him expanding his range of options haha

U = unfair (is he into teasing?)

he can be a tease, for sure!!! but he can also be teased, easily. he loves working you up, testing your limits and pushing every possible button and then pull back, leaving you on edge for hours. stretching the moment of you guys actually getting down to business. lowkey a sucker for a little teasing in public, he loves the push and pull game that’s going on between the two of you. gets wild over the idea of having you long for him but having to wait till you two are alone, so definitely expect some sort of teasing when you’re out and about

V = volume (is he vocal or quiet)

he can be all over the place; whimpers - moans - groans etc etc. he’s not afraid to be vocal, he knows it gets you off too so he’ll definitely won’t hold back when it comes to moaning and such. he’s not a crier but once you get him going his sighs will be so deep and low it’s literally impossible to keep them in. even if he tried, it rolls off his lips before he even realises

W = wild card (random thought)

ok hear me out but he’s so into sex-y pics. in his own words he just needs something to get him going whenever he’s away from you. has a private album, only for his eyes ofc, with pics of you. he loves lingerie, in all colors and shapes, so those are definitely his all time favs. will look at the pics when he misses you or when he’s longing for your touch and also occasionally asks for new ones because he’s seen the rest of it so much he literally memorised all the details haha

X = x-ray (what does his lil friend look like?)

not big.. not small. average? on the thicker side? yk? but he knows what to do with it so even if he had a small little peewy, he would still get the job done. he’s skilled with what he has

Y = yearning (how high is his sex drive)

if he got a dollar for every time he’s feeling funky and bunky. mans was a billionaire. literally, get him on a horse because he really does need to blow off some steam at this point. he’s a horny boy, but he can easily hide it for others around you. not for you tho, yk him and yk his tactics. and even if he’s not necessarily feeling it in the moment, he’ll do it for you and along the way his ‘laid back chill vibe’ is long forgotten

Z = zzz (does he fall asleep afterwards)

mhhh he’s not falling asleep immediately afterwards, he’s dedicated to the aftercare part so there’s no time to close his eyes (yet) a sucker for some cuddles and sweet treats after such intense work out. cuddled up, legs tangled together, just being close to each other, holding you, feeling you, warmth etc etc. and then it’s only a matter of time before his eyes get drowsy and he falls asleep. peacefully and happily, in your arms.

93 notes · View notes

leonalovesalot · 2 days ago

Text

Freaky on camera V

Brother’sBestFriend!ArtDonaldson x Camgirl!Reader

18+ MinorsDNI

wc: 4.8k

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After you spat those words at him, you stormed out of his dorm and Art was left to pick his jaw up off the floor.

You strutted off campus and drove home feeling a lot better. You were in control now— somewhat. But it was better than when he made you feel like you were trapped. Now you both were.

The long drive home gave you time to plan out how you wanted to go about this. Inviting Art over to film at your house was off the table because it would make your parents suspicious. And the thought of fucking in that fun-size dorm room was out of the question. A motel it is.

After getting back to your bedroom, you changed out of your clothes and sat at the edge of your bed. Letting out a deep exhale, the adrenaline wore off and the weight of the situation settled in. Were you going to fuck Art? Is that really where this was going?

It’s not that you’d never thought about it. One time, a year or two ago, Art was over at your house. He and Patrick were glued to the TV, busy playing a video game. It was late and you were up, struggling to sleep. The house was quiet aside from the two of them downstairs grunting and shouting at each other playfully. When you closed your eyes, you drowned Patrick out and only focused on Art, liking the soft groans he’d let out when he’d lose. You smiled and your hand made its way down to your panties like it had a mind of its own.

Safe to say, you slept just fine after that.

It didn’t feel wrong either, so you didn’t feel weird about it the next morning when he waved to you on his way upstairs. It just felt… new.

But this Art was not the one you remember. And you had to keep that in mind.

A buzz brings you out of your thoughts and you drag your feet over to the phone.

Art Donaldson sent you a message.

You sigh and swipe up to view it.

5:14 pm

This isn’t a good idea.

You roll your eyes. What a pussy.

5:15 pm

You can dish it, but you can’t take it? Riverside inn. Tomorrow. 8pm.

With that, you shut your phone and walk into the bathroom to shower.

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Art was pacing around his dorm room, tripping over his tennis bag. He couldn't believe what he'd gotten himself into. Did he fantasize about you? About having you to himself? Your body on his, your eyes on him. Just the thought of it made his cock hard. But now that it was really happening, he was scared. Scared of the consequences.

Thinking about you and jerking off to you was one thing, but actually fucking you? He could never face Patrick again. He might as well get used to life as a loner now because this is definitely crossing a line. But to be completely honest, the two of them had never discussed the existence of a line. Their lives weren't a movie. This wasn't the kissing booth— there were no explicit rules that stated Art must stay away from Y/N. So, Art wasn't sure where he stood. Hypothetically, he thought to himself, if he had a sister, would he care if Patrick slept with her? As an only child, it was difficult to understand the complexities that were sibling relationships. But Art didn't think it was too big of a deal. They're both adults. So why does it matter?

Still, he couldn't ignore the part of him that was shouting how wrong this was. It felt immoral. Because of how things transpired. If this was innocent— like he always had a crush on you, or vice versa— and then it slowly progressed into something more, it would be easier to process. But the beginning was so fucked. So now it all seemed fucked.

It was the next day and Art slept through his alarms, barely managing to wake up by noon. It had been a long night of twisting and turning as his mind swarmed with regret, fear, anxiety, and fucking arousal.

The hours passed painfully slowly and he noticed he was biting his nails again. It was a habit he had from when he was a kid, and it came right back all of a sudden.

Oh god, I can't go through with this.

And so that's what he decides. When the clock strikes 7:30, he grabs his keys and walks out of his room. It's settled. He was not going through with his. He decided he'd show up to the motel and talk things out with you. He'd apologize for his gratuitous remarks and promise that he won't tell a soul about your secret life.

Yeah, that'll work.

Art white-knuckled his way to the motel you told him about. Pulling into the parking lot, he turned his car off and took a deep breath.

It's fine. You're good. Just go in there and tell her everything's off.

Nodding at no one, he finally gets out of his car. Just then he receives a text from you.

Girl Zweig sent you a message.

8:02 pm

In room 4. I let the concierge know you're coming.

8:02 pm

On my way!

He cringes at the autocorrect from 'omw'. Ugh, you must think he's a child.

Art slowly walks across the lot and stands in front of the room. This was it. You were on the other side of the door probably wearing that scowl on your face he'd gotten used to. It wasn't pretty. He very much preferred you when you smiled sweetly at him. Like you used to. Back where there were clear lines and simpler feelings.

The opening of the door pulls him out of his thoughts and he gasps as you come into view. Wearing a black, lacy, teddy. His eyes moved quickly over your unreal voluptuous figure and they stopped at the crotchless portion of the lingerie.

Oh my God.

He swore he was drooling. His immovable attitude from earlier was suddenly shattered and all he wanted to do was put his hands on every inch of your body. Oh, and his tongue too. Licking, biting, squeezing. Anything to elicit some expression, other than anger, directed at him. He wanted you to want him as much as he wanted you. And that was a whole lot.

"Are you just gonna stand out there the whole night?" How could someone so hot be so cold?

He gulps and walks inside. Looking around at how the equipment was already set up. You were quick. And experienced. The camera was on a tripod and a wire connected it to your laptop. It was opened on the website and ready to go live at any minute.

Maybe he wouldn't be able to talk you out of this.

You closed and locked the door when he stepped in. With a sigh, you walk over to the camera and begin adjusting the lens to get a better angle.

Art stands awkwardly feeling all sorts of uncomfortable.

"You wanna start getting undressed now? Or do you want to do that on film?" You were asking him so casually, not even sparing him a glance as you were still focused on fixing the camera. It bothered him a little.

"I- uhm- I don't know." Art shrugs. He walks over and sits on the edge of the bed with his hands fidgeting in his lap. "Can we talk?"

You pause and finally look at him.

So fucking pretty.

"Talk."

Art clears his throat, "I don't know if this is a good idea."

You snort, "yeah, you said that yesterday over text."

"I mean it though. How could this possibly end well?" He sounded so weak. It was a little surprising to you. But you tried your best to not feel bad.

"It won't," you shrug.

His brows shoot up, "what? And you're just okay with that?"

"It's not my fault you started this, Art. Don't try to act blameless. I was doing just fine making my own money and living my own life. You are the one who screwed everything up. And now we're just— I don't know— doing what's necessary." You shoot him a sarcastic smile. Cruelty was like a second skin. It reminded Art that you were brought up in the same filthy rich household as Patrick. Of course, you had no issue being callous when needed.

It was tricky. He didn't have a rebuttal. Because you were right. You were smart, and you were right.

"I was just thinking that maybe we could call it off." His sentence started off confident and got quieter as it went on. Ending like a question. "I promise I won't tell Patrick anything."

Your smile faded and you seemed to think for a moment. Then you just nonchalantly shook your head and turned the zoom ring, so the whole bed was in frame.

A chill ran up Art's spine.

"I don't trust you." You say casually. "Now, I think we should start off with some making out, and then you can feel up my breasts and then we can move down to my—"

"Y/N, seriously?" Art interrupted you. Although, he could sit and listen to you describe the ways you wanted to be touched forever.

You nod. No hesitation. You weren't going to give in. He could clearly see your mind was made and this was going to happen.

Art was going to fuck you.

Or, well, you were going to fuck Art.

Art swallows thickly, "I can't, Y/N. This is like serious digital footprint stuff— I have to go on to play tennis! I can't have people digging up my past and—"

You step forward and stop when you're directly in front of him. He hesitantly looks up from his seated position and locks eyes with you. You tilt your head and pull your bottom lip between your teeth.

Oh, God.

"You'll wear a blindfold." You had an answer for everything, didn't you? "I was initially thinking of a ski-mask but... I know I'll wanna pull your hair."

Art chokes and you chuckle. Walking towards your bag on the table, you pull out a silk blindfold. Black. To match your lingerie.

Art was getting more and more aroused by the second. He didn't want to walk away anymore. He wanted to feel you around him. He wanted to look you in the eye when you came around his cock. He wanted to make that Dan96 guy burn with jealousy.

You hold out the blindfold and when Art goes to take it, you change your mind. Deciding to tie it on him, yourself. You walk over to bed and kneel on it behind him.

"Let me know if it's too tight."

Placing it on his eyes, you look to make sure there's no light peaking through. Then you take the ends and tie them into a knot behind his head. Art doesn't complain so you pat his shoulders once you're done.

"How do I please you if I can't see you?" He asks, feeling insecure. That question actually made you blush a little. Thinking it to be very innocent.

"I'm sure you'll do just fine. You reach out and grab his hands from his lap. His body jolts in surprise and then relaxes. "Plus, I have no problem guiding you." Art's brows furrow but then he feels something. Only when his hands squeeze does he realize that you placed his palms on your ass.

How was he going to make it through the night?

His hands remain in the air as you start pulling his jacket off. He complies and helps you by shrugging it off. You lazily fold it and place it out of frame. Moving onto the hem of his t-shirt, Art raises his arms and you pull it up and off of him. For a few seconds, you stood there and ogled at his body. You forgot that tennis players were really fucking built. And Art was no exception. Toned and muscular in all the right places.

Then your hands go to his pants and Art inhales sharply. You liked that he reacted to you like this. It made you feel cocky. To ease his nerves, you place soft kisses on his cheek and jaw. He flinches again but then melts into them. You noticed him turning his head in your direction trying to catch your lips with his. But you didn't want to give in just yet. So you moved down to his neck and began lightly sucking. It seemed to work because Art didn't notice when his pants were on the floor and he was wearing nothing but his boxers.

You stepped back, satisfied, as you eyed him up and down. It made you feel powerful having him all pliable. You two had butt heads before and you weren't completely sure where you stood on the guy, but right now you were on the same page. Or, well, your raging hormones were. Because having him before you like this was making you wet and since your pussy wasn't covered, you could feel your arousal slowly drip to your inner thigh. Teasing. Slow. Hot.

"I'm going to begin recording now." You walked over to the camera and checked quickly, "is that okay?"

Art swallows and nods. He couldn't see anything. And although it was slightly nerve-wracking, knowing you'd be the only one to touch had him impatient for the events to come.

You press the record button and walk over to the front of the camera, so only your face and shoulders are in frame.

"Today, I'll be doing something a little different." You turned on the usual charm and charisma needed for the job. "I thought that because of my unprecedented hiatus, I should give you guys a real treat upon my return. As an apology... and as a thank you." You slowly backed away and Art came into view. "I wanted you all to see me doing what I loved most. Being used for pleasure. Your pleasure."

Art was growing hornier by every syllable. He let out a gasp in frustration as he felt the tent forming in his boxers. Fully hard. And you hadn't even done half the things you planned.

He imagined being on the viewer's side of all this. You encouraged them to picture themselves in Art's place and he felt so lucky. Those men on the other end were dying to be him, weren't they?

You get on the bed and he feels a dip to his left. You sit on your knees next to him and he moves his head towards the sound to figure out what was going on. Then a hand came up to his right cheek as you turned him to face you.

Face-to-face now, you leaned in and finally put your lips on his. A soft touch, at first, which then progressed into pulling him closer and biting his bottom lip.

This is what ecstasy feels like, Art thought.

You liked rough kissing, teeth clashing, tongue sucking. But you didn't want to drop that all on Art right away. You'd ease him into it. But you can't restrain your desires fully, so french-kissing would have to do.

You had a clear script in mind. One that followed the formula of all the pornos you studied for this moment. Making out, then hands, then oral, then the finale of the penetration. Easy.

Making out with Art was not difficult at all. You thought the pure fury you felt for him would make this situation impossible. But it was going surprisingly well. He was a great kisser. And not to mention, he was hot. You could see that clearly now.

You pull away and Art follows your lips to continue the kiss, catching you off guard. You gasp and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth again. His hands come up from his lap and find your wrists.

Eventually, you pull away again and face the camera. This wasn't entirely about Art anyway. You had an audience to please.

You stare right down the lens as you spit into your hand. Then, without warning, you stuff it in Art's boxers and wrap it around his impressively large cock. He jolts when you touch him and throws his head back at the sensation. You smile wide, loving his reaction. He lets out a moan and immediately bites his lip to suppress future ones.

You gasp, yourself, when you start stroking his cock agonizingly slowly. His pre-cum mixed with your spit until you couldn't differentiate which was which. Art tried his hardest to not let out any noise, not wanting to seem like he was weak or too sensitive. Which was too bad, since you loved to hear a man's desperation.

Seeing as he'd had enough of your hand—and the fact that your mouth was watering— you get off the bed and settle on the floor in front of him. On your knees. Art hears shuffling but can't figure out what you're doing.

You turn back to the camera and bite your lip, and you feel a little drool gather at the side of your lips. Bringing your free hand to the hem of his boxers, you slip them off and he hisses as his cock feels the cool air of the room.

There it was. In all its glory. Messy and pink. Throbbing and girthy.

Without any warning you wrapped your lips around it and began bobbing your head up and down the length.

Art almost screams, "Y/N, oh f-fuck."

Loud groans escape his, now, bloody lips and his hand flies forward and lands on the back of your head. He'd dreamt about this moment and came to it so many times. Now that it was the real thing, he thought he'd climax in just a few seconds.

His hand formed a fist in your hair as he pushed you to your limits making you gag. You loved it. So did he.

His other hand gripped the sheets so tight that he was worried he'd tear through them.

You continued sucking him off like your life depended on it. Feeling every dip, every vein. Your hand began playing with his balls and Art almost lost control. His legs were getting restless and you knew he was close. When he finally came, he held you in place and pushed himself as far as he could into you. You felt his release fill your mouth and make its way down your throat. Relishing the taste, you released his cock and wiped your lips.

Art felt light-headed. He caught his breath and flopped back so he was laying down. You wore him out. Sucked the life out of him. Literally.

You couldn't help but giggle softly at his reaction. It made you feel confident, and capable. But also sexy. Art was putty in your hands. No matter how threatening and intimidating he tried to seem, he would succumb to your every need at the snap of a finger.

You decided to give him a little time to recollect. Slowly making your way up to the bed, you crawl on top of him so you're straddling him. He whines and his hands come to hold your hips, so you don't make any sudden movements. He was feeling sensitive down there. You lean down and kiss him again. He kisses back right away and his hands begin kneading your ass.

You'd open your eyes every once in a while and take in his appearance. Swollen lips, rosy cheeks, sweaty forehead, messy curls. And, oh, that blindfold. It was so fucking hot. He was completely at your mercy. Trusting you with his whole body. You were going to take such good care of him.

As you kissed him, your hips began grinding slowly on his crotch. The friction made him mewl into your kiss which had you getting wetter. You could feel his cock hardening and it was driving you insane feeling his length in between your pussy lips.

Art was gasping and trying to hold you still. But you brought your hand to pry his off your ass and, instead, place it on your tit. He gladly let you and brought his other hand too. Both hands groping and squeezing your tits had you biting back moans.

"Just like that, Art." You say breathlessly. "Such a good boy for me."

He eagerly nods in response and pinches your nipples through the lace, coaxing a yelp out of you. It made him smile for a moment and you mirrored his expression, even though he couldn't see.

You were getting a little impatient so, for the last time, you slid forward on his cock slightly, and on the way back you had him slipping right into you. The two of you moan in unison at the euphoric sensation. You slowly slide your hips back taking his large length in and adjusting to the size. He was stretching you out so good, you couldn't remember the last time you'd felt an ounce of the pleasure you were feeling right now.

Art continued squeezing your tits and you leaned down to kiss him sloppily.

Pulling away, a string of spit connects your wet lips. “This is what you wanted isn’t it?” The words come out between shallow breaths as you adjust to his length. Eyes closed as you reeled in all the heavenly sensations.

Art didn’t know if you were playing along for the video, or if you were actually asking him the question.

He leans up as you ride him and plants kisses on your neck. “Yes,” he whispers.

“Yeah? Is this what you pictured when you watched me?” You moan when his cock finds that specific spot which makes your toes curl.

Art almost cums from your reaction but he tries his best to keep it together. Jaw clenched. Hands roaming your body. “Yes.”

“Mhm? Behind that screen,” your head falls next to his and you whisper in his ear, “getting off to me? Hm? GoldenSon?”

Art momentarily snaps out of his daze. His hands pause on your waist and he gulps.

But your pace only sped up. Had you planned to confront him in a moment when he was so helpless? He couldn’t respond and it didn’t seem like you needed him to. Now everything was out in the open, and he felt like he could get lost in your body again.

As you two reached your climax, you brought his hand to your neck.

Art couldn’t tell for a moment what he was touching, but when you pressed down on his thumb and fingers to wrap around it, he immediately gathered that it was your neck. Oh, and that somehow made this a thousand times hotter. He couldn’t believe he ever saw you as Patrick’s innocent sister just down the hall. Too shy to leave the room when Art came over. No, you were mature, and open-minded. And… kinky.

You knew what you liked and were always open to exploring the things you didn’t like— just to see if you’d change your mind.

Art, on the other hand, needed someone to hold his hand through it all. He always felt guilty if his thoughts got a bit out of hand and went to places that he’d see sometimes while scrolling through pornos at night.

But here with you, he felt like there was no judgement. So he gladly choked you just how you wanted. And this whole realization had him whining as he came right into you.

Feeling the hot gush of liquid inside had you closer to your own orgasm. Art was finished and on the verge of passing out. Seeing as how your pace wasn’t slowing down, he ground his teeth and his hands tightened. One on your neck, the other on your waist.

Needing a boost, you put your fingers in Art’s mouth making him choke a little. You giggled and coated them with his spit, then brought them to your clit. Rubbing in quick and harsh circles.

You were on cloud nine.

You took a few seconds to soak in the moment. Art whining and writhing underneath you, and you riding him like you always wanted. In control.

Your orgasm finally hit and you felt like you were screaming. The neighbours must hate you but you didn’t care at all.

Your movement halted and you sat there while he was still inside you. The two of you just catch your breaths. His hand comes off your throat drops down next to him.

The hand on your clit was covered with a mix of his spit and your arousal. You brought it to his mouth again, and without hesitation, he sucked you clean like a good boy.

After your high wears off, you climb off of him and stumble on your way off the bed. Art hears and his hands reach out, but don’t grab anything.

You make your way to the camera and plant a kiss on the lens. It was how you usually ended your streams. A little cheesy, but it got the men all hot and bothered. Then you press the button to stop recording and turn it off.

YourRoxy’s Stream Has Been Concluded. Until Next Time.

You were pleased with yourself as you walked over to the laptop and archived the video. Set in stone in case your secret ever got out. Both of you were fucked, literally and figuratively.

Packing up your equipment and slipping on your clothes and shoes, you’d almost forgotten that Art was still in the room.

“Y/N? Did you leave?” Art’s voice came out a little hoarse.

You snort and walk over to him sliding the blindfold off his head, making his hair messier than it already was. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the bright fluorescents.

You came into view, fully clothed, and he stared at you a little confused. He sat up slowly and brought his legs over the edge of his bed.

Your eyes raked over his body and he blushed when he realized his cock was still exposed. Quickly slipping it back into his boxers, he cleared his throat and looked up at you again.

“You’re dressed.” He pointed out.

You nod and adjust the equipment bag on your shoulder.

He swallows and nervously speaks up, “is that it? Are you just gonna go?”

You tilt your head and take him in for a moment. “That was the plan. Yes.”

He scoffs, helplessly, and reaches forward to hold your hand with both of his. Like he was begging you to stay. Not that you would, but it was amusing to see him this way. All pliant and soft like he hadn’t made your life a waking nightmare for the past few weeks.

“You… you can’t just run away. Not after what we did.” He wasn’t thinking clearly and was going to say anything and everything to make you stay.

His words made you chuckle. “What? You’ve never had a one night stand?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “And that’s not what this has to be.”

Your eyes widen and you let out a condescending laugh. How pathetic! Did he really think you’d want anything to do with him after what he put you through?

“Art, to be honest, I plan to forget about this the moment I walk out that door.” Your voice, unwavering, like he hadn’t just rocked your world. Feeling proud of your words you turned to leave, but Art stood up and kept his hands around your wrist. Sigh.

“Wait,” he was desperate now. “Y/N— come on— I… I was never gonna tell Patrick. This was just a harmless game.” Art came clean and interlocked his fingers with yours. “When I found out about you, I just thought it was all so… intriguing— I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and you.” He couldn’t read your expression, so he just continued talking. “And somewhere along the way… I- I began feeling things for you.”

Oh, this was just laughable.

Tired of hearing him speak, you untangled your hand from his and wiped it on your jeans. It wasn’t sweaty, but you were trying extra hard to be unpleasant. Because that’s what he deserved.

“You men are all the same. This was never a game to me. You made me feel trapped, Art.” Shrugging, you step back. “Oh, and don’t mistake me fucking you for some kind of reciprocation of your feelings. I don’t date greedy little boys.”

With that, you were gone.

Art panicked, ready to chase after you—only to realize his clothes were missing.

You’d taken them, along with your equipment, to make sure he wouldn’t follow.

Y/N: 1

Art: 0

.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._.._

Finally after MONTHS, I think we’ve reached a conclusion!!

Realistically, I don’t think they would’ve ever gotten together lol but it’s about the journey

Thank you for reading !!

ALSO thank you so much for 200 followers!! This is so insane like I appreciate it so so so much!! I really love writing and I’ve loved chit chatting with everyone through asks and comments!!

So thank you x like a million

Tags<33: @won-every-lottery @improbablynotpoppy @challenger-fan-club @theynothem @bigsattirn @jamespotteraliveversion @anehkael @iheartdallaswinston @payupgirl @imperishablereverie @tamprongsobsessor @coolgirlsyndrome @apollothegodo @imperishablereverie

#challengers #art donaldson #art donaldson smut #art donaldson x reader #challengers fic #mike faist #art donaldson fic #Spotify

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shinysobi · 3 days ago

Text

a prescription for romance (l.jh)

☆ established romance: neurosurgeon! lee jihoon x cardiothoracic surgeon! reader ☆ w.c: 8k ☆ genre: non-idol au, established relationship (or is it) slice of life, fluff, comedy masterlist (also the characters from resident playbook make an appearance here because i was having major brainrot)

☆ a/n: TWO fics in two days? who is this, shakespeare? anyway, the first installment of this fic is here, after way too many breakdowns and copious amounts of tears involved, because of course i had to cry ☆ huge thank you to cel @mylovesstuffs for betaing this as (without her i dont think there would be any new fic from user shinysobi), thank you to the people i hosted this collab with, yuki ( @eclipsaria ), tiya ( @gyubakeries ) and rae ( @nerdycheol ), without them, there would be no fic at all <3 ☆ credits to @seungnm for the banner, and again, as part of yuki's 100 followers event, check out the rest of the fics here! also thank you to everyone who helped brainstorm this, alta( @haologram ), and emita ( @hannieoftheyear ) <3 and well, tell me how you like it!

It all begins, as usual, in March.

“The interns are arriving today,” Jaeil announces, stepping into the fourth-year resident’s lounge, “who wants to bet on how they’re going to turn out?”

“Not me,” Sabi replies from her corner of the room, focused on taking notes for the surgery she’s supposed to be assisting in the next day, “they’re always frazzled on the first day, so make sure they’re not going around jumping in on surgeries they’re not qualified for, Chief Resident.”

“As if you stuck to that rule,” he makes a face, “hey, it’s good that I got to be the chief resident, right? I’ve been preparing for this for so long, but it still feels like a dream that they chose me.”

“They didn’t choose you,” Sabi finally looks at him, from the book she’s been poring over, “out of the four of us, you’re the best fit for managing the new residents. If they came to me they’d run away crying.”

“You’re not wrong in that,” he mutters, “anyway, we got two new ones this year!”

“Two?” Sabi’s interest is piqued. The previous two years had been devoid of any new residents joining OB-GYN, and they had been overworked and understaffed, “we never had new residents since Tak Gi-on joined OB-GYN two years ago.”

“And now we have two more!” Jaeil grins, “what surgery do you have tomorrow?”

“C-section and cardiopulmonary bypass,” she mutters, leaning back, “this is the first time I’m going to be assisting in a surgery like this. The mother has been taking blood thinners for the clot, but this might put her into postpartum haemorrhage if not managed properly. Professor Kim wants me to do well on this one, so I can become more familiar with leading such surgeries later on.”

“Ugh,” he shakes his head, “Cruella is still going strong, huh? She’s doing most of the work of the head of her department, no one expects her to work on so many cases at once. She’s also doing VIP surgeries that no one else wants to do.”

“Where are Namkyung and Yiyoung?” Sabi grumbles, “and don’t tell the first-years that her nickname is Cruella,” She narrows her eyes, and Jaeil is, inexplicably, filled with a strong sense of fear. “What nickname did you give me?”

This one is easy, “We all called you AI for the whole first year,” he grins, “you didn’t lighten up until the final month of second year.”

“When I ignored my huge fibroids, overworked myself, and collapsed in the middle of the ward?” she groans, “really, you bring it up all the time, and I was only exhausted, there was nothing wrong with me.”

“Still, that made you a lot easier to deal with.” He bumps her shoulder slightly, “there’s still half an hour before the residents come.”

She narrows her eyes again, “no.” Sabi checks her watch and says, “Namkyung and Yiyoung are in surgery, right?”

“Yes, they went in half an hour ago. Please,” he bats his eyelashes at her, and Sabi giggles, hand clasped over her mouth. “One time, please?”

“You’re annoying,” she mutters, but gives him a small peck on the lips all the same. Jaeil smiles to himself, because of course he’s going to, because who the hell can resist anything when Sabi is like this?

“One more,” he wheedles, “please.”

She narrows her eyes at him, and he braces himself for the inevitable scolding that’s going to follow. She’s always been a stickler for rules.

—

“Welcome to the OBGYN department. I am your senior, Kim Sabi, and he’s the Chief resident, Um Jaeil,” Sabi says, a smile on her face. The two of them look fairly terrified.

“This is nothing to be scared of,” Jaeil assures, looking at the list of people who joined their department, “oh, you both were top students in your departments, Kyu-young, and Jae-min, right?”

They both nod, and he has to suppress a smile. Cute. Sabi just nods, looking at their profiles, “since today is your first day, you’re not going to get a lot of tasks. Instead, all you have to do is join the professors on their rounds, make notes, and do whatever they tell you to do. It’s important that they don’t notice you at all.”

“What happens if they notice you?” Kyu-young asks, “they don’t seem all that bad, right?”

“Listen up,” Jaeil sighs, with all the seriousness of a university professor delivering a lecture, “there are a few kinds of people in this hospital, and the worst of them come to surgery. Our OB-GYN department also has some weird ones, which means that they’ll notice you either to yell at you, or to assign you more tasks than is humanly possible.”

They both nod, and the girl, Kyu-young, pipes up, “how are the professors? I’m sorry, I didn’t do my internship from here, so I don’t really know.”

“They’re all normal,” Sabi counters before he can reply, “Professor Jo can be a lot, but it’s fine. He usually does not care about the first-year residents enough to yell at them too much.”

“Professor Jae-hui is a total sweetheart, though,” Jaeil hurries to inform them, “she’s usually the one who takes care of all the newbies in the department, making sure they’re settling in well. Even when on rounds, she’s making sure they’re rested well and all that.”

“She can be tough, but she’s fair,” Sabi concedes, nodding, “if you’re on rounds with her, it’ll be fine.”

“I heard the newbies are here.” The door opens to let the sole remaining fellow of the department, Eunmi, enter. “Already yapping about the professors, are you?”

“No!” He protests, but she is already lounging in one of the chairs, “I’m the only fellow in the department, Dr Ki Eunmi. Whatever these people have told you, it’s all false.”

“All false?” Jaeil gasps, “of course not! We told them only the truth!” He wants to grumble, but Ki Eunmi has become a lot more relaxed since she became a fellow, even though she’s retained the whole angel aura, as he’d once said. Still kind to a fault, just a bit more spirited.

“And you’ve been telling them about all the nicknames for the professors, have you?”

Both Jaeil and Sabi freeze in place. Gossiping about a professor, especially one of the youngest in the hospital, was not something they strictly should be doing, but let’s face the facts, the object of their interest was one of those people who struck fear into the hearts of everyone, including fellow professors.

“Nicknames?” the two newbies echo. “What nicknames?”

Eunmi sighs, “no, you sillies. This hospital has given nicknames to every attending professor, especially the ones who directly deal with the residents.”

“We haven’t told them about Cruella, though,” Jaeil pipes up, and both Sabi and Eunmi look at him as though they want to beat the shit out of him. He claps a hand over his mouth. Too late.

“Cruella?” one of the residents says, “is that their real name?”

“No, it’s a nickname,” Eunmi sighs, “because in the first week of being in this hospital, she managed to make Professor Jo Joon-mo cry. This may or may not be true, but I’m betting all my money on it being the real deal.”

“Don’t scare the residents, Um Jaeil,” Sabi gripes. “Professor Kim Sowon is really tough, but she’s fair. She also makes sure that the residents get to learn as much as they can, while they’re working here for four years. She’s one of the only experts we have here on Cardio-obstetrics.”

“Work them to death, you mean,” Jaeil begins to say something else, but one look from his girlfriend, and he’s silent. Better keep my mouth shut over making Sabi angry. I don’t like it when she gets pissed off with me.

“She’s tough all right,” Eunmi nods her head, “if you’re on rounds with her, you’re going to learn a fair amount. She does so many surgeries in a day it’s almost a wonder how she’s still on her feet after a week.”

“The name was supposed to be Ghost, but another fellow coined the term Cruella, just because he didn't like the way she grilled him after he screwed up in surgery one time,” Sabi smiles, “she’s so good, it’s wonderful watching her work.”

“She does pediatric cardiac surgery, cardio-obstetrics,” Jaeil lists them off on his hand, “she’s pretty much a regular at the OBGYN department. She’s scary, but she’s great.”

His phone rings, and he stands up, “just make sure no professors take note of you today.”

“I’m going to go on pre-rounds before scrubbing in,” Sabi stands up, “let’s go do some charts.”

—

“What do you mean you’ve not put in an order for the medication yet?” Professor Jo barks, and Sabi, walking over to the nurse’s station, cringes, because of course he’s yelling at Kyu-young, who doesn’t know how to read a chart properly, if at all.

“The first day, and they’re going at it already,” the head nurse mutters, “imagine the poor residents. They’re all going to resign within a year.”

“Someone needs to shut him up, and it’s not going to be me,” another nurse mutters, “he can be really scary when he wants to be.”

“Professor,” a voice pipes up from the corner of the station, “scolding the first-years on their first day is a bit much, don’t you think?”

Both Sabi and Kyu-young look up, and Sabi can feel Kyu-young’s jaw drop, because standing casually, leaned against the side of a wall, is Professor Kim Sowon—wearing her trademark black scrubs, an anomaly from the hospital-issued blue ones, “I was coming here to consult with Dr Kim Sabi about the cardiopulmonary bypass scheduled for tomorrow, but it seems as though you’re busy scolding the first-year resident on their first day.”

“Excuse me?” Professor Jo, still not used to her presence, barks, “why are you interfering in the matters of the OBGYN department when you’re from Cardiac Surgery?”

“Because it would be a shame if both the residents who I’ve asked to scrub in for my surgery tomorrow, are incapacitated,” Professor Kim says evenly. Even Prof. Jo looks shaken by that. Yeah, they normally don’t allow first-years into a co-op surgery, especially if it’s a high-profile one.

“You want the first-year to scrub in for the co-op surgery?” Prof. Jo sounds incredulous, as if he can’t really believe his ears, “isn’t that a bit too tall an ask for a first-year?”

“They’re only going to observe,” Prof. Kim shrugs, pointing to Sabi, “let’s go, Dr Kim, and bring the first-year with you too.”

Sabi nods, and Kyu-young scampers off behind her as well, grateful to be escaping from the scolding she was receiving, “Professor, we weren't supposed to have a first-year observe on this surgery.”

“It’s fine,” she shrugs, “the case got enough attention from the press for all of us to be on edge, so I was thinking of adding a first-year to help during the surgery. It’s nothing, really.”

Beside her, Kyu-young stiffens, likely understanding the gravitas of the situation, and asks Sabi, “what are they saying?”

Professor Kim sighs as they make their way to Professor Seo’s office, clearly amused by the cluelessness of the resident, “Dr Kim Sabi, go on.”

“Kim Se-kyung, age 30, developed serious complications while pregnant with her first child,” Sabi says, looking at the chart, “she developed pulmonary embolism during her thirty-eighth week of pregnancy. In normal cases, this would require emergency major surgery, but since it’s close to the delivery due date, we’ve decided to operate on her after observing her, as she can’t be on blood thinners anymore.”

“And what happens when there are too many blood thinners in a patient’s bloodstream and they undergo major surgery?” Professor Kim asks, knocking on the door.

“Uh,” Kyu-young looks confused, “they need more blood during the surgery?”

The door opens, and Professor Seo steps out, a frown on her face. “No, they run the risk of PPH, especially in a C-section,” She turns to Prof. Kim, “really? Harassing the first-years with questions? They haven’t even been here for more than an hour.”

“It’s fun, though,” the other professor smiles, “shall we start the meeting?”

Sabi as usual, takes copious notes during the meeting in case any of the professors ask her for some, and Kyu-young barely holds on while the two professors go on and on about possible complications during surgery and post-op care, even have a small argument about whether they should work on the blood clot before or after they’ve extracted the baby.

“The mother’s health comes first, oh my god,” Professor Kim argues, “Professor Seo, I understand why you’d want to save the baby first, but the mother’s health is more important to me than the baby.”

“The mother wants us to save her baby first,” Professor Seo argues, “and in the OB GYN department, what the mother wants, the mother gets.”

“Ugh, fine,” Professor Kim holds her head in her hands, “fine. We’ll put catheters in her thigh before you start the C-section, and divert blood flow to the oxygenator. You’ll have to work hard, though.”

“Forty minutes.”

“Thirty, that’s all I can give you.”

“Fine, thirty,” Professor Seo concedes, “wait, you didn’t get any new residents this year?”

“Zero.” Professor Kim sighs, “why they don’t want to come to the Cardiology department, I wonder. You can study and make a lot of money.”

“It’s the study part they hate.”

“Fair enough,” Professor Kim shrugs, “lunch?”

“I need to scrub in for an OR in an hour,” Professor Seo waves, “see you tomorrow, Professor Kim.”

The three of them leave the office, and briefly, Sabi recalls what she’s supposed to do that day, and how much she’s already done. She’s finished half the charting she was supposed to do, and the surgery she was scheduled for, wasn’t until three in the afternoon. Both Yiyoung and Namkyung were supposed to be out of surgery in an hour, so she could just wait until then to have her lunch.

“Lunch, Dr Sabi?” Professor Kim’s voice shakes her out of her thought process, “they’re serving western-style food in the cafeteria right now.”

“Lunch?” Sabi looks at her, confused. “Are you offering to buy us lunch right now?”

“I get paid more,” she shrugs, “might as well put it to some use.”

—

The cafeteria is half-empty by the time they get there, but even before they can make their way to order, Jaeil comes running, a big smile on his face, “Kim Sabi! Do you want to have lunch together—oh.”

“Come on, Dr Um Jaeil,” Professor Kim laughs, “you can join the three of us for lunch.”

She goes off to order for everyone, and Jaeil turns to her and Kyu-young, “she’s buying us lunch?”

“She is,” Sabi nods, “she said she gets paid more than all of us, so she should make the best of it.”

“She really does,” Jaeil sighs, “imagine being one of the few specialists in cardio-obstetrics in Korea. The consultations alone would bring you a ton of money.”

“Really?” Kyu-young, intrigued by this piece of information, pipes up, “she makes that much?”

“Both of them do.” Jaeil sighs, “ugh, the legendary cross-departmental rivalry.”

“Are you making up stuff for fun again?” Sabi frowns, “there’s nothing like that, is there?”

“Don’t you know?” Jaeil, who spends half his free time getting information out of others and being the social butterfly that he is, scoffs, “looks like there is something that Dr Kim Sabi does not know.”

Sabi scowls, but before she can scold him, another voice calls out from the other side of the cafeteria, “Dr Kim Sowon!”

“Who’s that?” Kyu-young cranes her head to look, “doesn’t seem like someone from our department.”

“Professor Lee Jihoon, Neurosurgery.” Jaeil grins, “told you. Legendary cross-departmental rivalry.”

She cranes her neck, too—for all she wants to be known for, she isn’t immune to the allure of high intelligence and competency, but Lee Jihoon of Neurosurgery seems like someone who would fit into an idol group instead of a hospital. He’s all perfect features and long limbs; she’s maybe been slightly enamored with the paper he wrote about fetal brain development, but he’s known to be a grump in his department.

“That’s Sauron.” Jaeil whispers in her ear, making her roll her eyes. Typical. If it were two years ago, she would have jumped. Now she just rolls her eyes.

“Sauron?” Kyu-young asks, moving ahead in the line. “That’s a weird nickname.”

“They love Lord of the Rings over there, actually.”

Sabi, who’s still looking at Lee Jihoon, who is dressed in similar black scrubs as Professor Kim, narrows her eyes. This is interesting. Professor Kim, grumbling, makes her way to the large empty table where Professor Lee is sitting, and they all follow suit, “Looks like your department abandoned you again. Jihoon.”

“Terrorising the residents on their first day?” Professor Lee grins, “don’t let her boss you around, you know.”

“They do what I ask because I’m nice,” Prof. Kim smiles, “not because I'm terrorising them.”

Sabi wants to be anywhere but in the cafeteria. She really does not want to get in the middle of a professor’s argument, but both Jaeil and Kyu-young look amused as hell.

“When’s your next surgery?” Lee Jihoon checks his watch, “or are you still intent on ruining your own health to fix your patients?”

Professor Kim scoffs, “look who’s talking. As if you didn’t end up in the ER twice over our residency period.”

“It was once, and you knew exactly why I ended up there,” he grumbles, “you were the one who put me there.”

Professor Kim sighs, and Sabi finds herself sitting upright, “what do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” Professor Lee leans forward, “your Professor Kim here, she once got into an accident in the ER, and landed the both of us in the hospital actually.”

“That was a mistake.” Professor Kim scowls.

“It wasn’t, and you know it.”

They both end up bickering again, and Jaeil leans to whisper in her ears, “do you think they’re going to notice if we just left?”

Sabi shakes her head. They’re already too preoccupied to even notice our presence at the very table, let alone our absence. They’re probably going to be just fine.

The three of them get up from the table, and they’re just about to leave the cafeteria altogether, when Professor Kim’s yell makes them stand at attention, “what the hell do you mean? I need the OR on that day!”

Sabi and Kyu-young, both spring to attention, scurrying back to the table, Jaeil following in their footsteps. Professor Kim has her head in her hands, “look, it’s an important surgery. Both the OBGYN department and the Cardiology department had notified Anesthesiology a week ago, so don’t take this from right underneath our noses, okay?”

“An emergency patient came in this morning,” Professor Lee shrugs, “look, I don’t want to be the one demanding an OR from another department, but the surgery cannot wait. The patient requires emergency surgery, and we’ve already delayed it as is.”

“Then delay it another day!” Prof. Kim sighs, “Jihoon, you can’t be doing this to me.”

“It’s not a matter of what I want, it’s a matter of what the hospital thinks is best,” Prof. Lee makes a gesture, “there’ll be other ORs tomorrow, so just adjust the time for that one, yeah?”

“I have a conference tomorrow, you dimwit,” Prof Kim seethes. “You’re going to pay for this, I swear to god.”

Sabi looks at Jaeil, who’s staring at her, looks confused as hell. She doesn’t blame him. Even she doesn’t know what the hell to make of this dynamic.

—

“This is Choi Gaeul, the third-year Cardiology resident,” Namkyung, who’s apparently got connections in every floor of the hospital, introduces, “this is Kim Sabi, she’s the one who’s going to be assisting Professor Seo on the surgery tomorrow.”

Sabi gives a tired wave, looking at the equally haggard resident in front of her. Yiyoung, who’s looking suspiciously refreshed, sits up properly, “Oh Yiyoung, fourth-year, Obstetrics. Sabi’s in Gynaecology, but she’s better at this than I am. Plus I have three labour deliveries assigned for tomorrow, so Sabi got this one.”

Choi Gaeul sighs, sitting down heavily on one of the chairs, “Professor Kim’s going to chew me out if I don’t get an OR by tomorrow morning.”

“The original slot was for eleven in the morning, right?” Jaeil, who’s apparently got no work, pipes up, “I heard Professor Kim arguing with Professor Lee of Neurosurgery this afternoon. Did they have to push the surgery?”

“Both of them are emergency cases,” Dr Choi says, “Professor Lee’s patient came in this morning, with a tumor pressing down on the optic nerve. They were aware of the tumor, but didn’t think it would progress this fast, this soon. The surgery has to be done by tomorrow at the latest.”

“And Professor Kim has a conference to attend tomorrow at three in the afternoon,” Dr Choi sighs, “I really don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to schedule the OR without getting yelled at by Anesthesiology. They already hate me after all the time I’ve asked them to arrange ORs at zero notice.”

All four of them nod, because who the hell has not been chewed out by the grumpy Anesthesiology fellows after asking them to arrange for an OR? Yiyoung and Namkyung, from Obstetrics, have been on the receiving end the most—Gynaecology did not have too many surprise surgeries.

“Anyway, I don’t know how I’m supposed to pull this one off,” Choi Gaeul sighs, “all the fellows I know are not answering my phone, because they already hate me, or something like that. And I doubt even Professor Seo could get us an OR at eleven in the morning.”

She smacks her head on the table. “Hey, do you guys think if I change my name, they’d be able to find me? I could change my name and move to a different country. They won’t be able to find me then, right?”

“Professor Kim could,” Sabi mutters, “she’s got contacts in every continent.”

“She does,” Dr Choi groans, “why the hell did I opt for Cardiology? This whole rivalry between Prof. Lee and Prof Kim, this is going to kill me.”

“Rivalry?” Namkyung pipes up, clearly interested, “wait, I never heard of this rivalry before.”

“Professor Lee joined this January, of course you would not know,” Jaeil replies, “They were both classmates in university.”

“That’s when it started?” Yiyoung pipes up, “that’s a long time to be holding a grudge.”

“They’re both so annoying, god, it feels like I’m talking to toddlers, not Assistant Professors,” Dr Choi sighs, “they’re so intelligent, but they just don’t know how the hell to behave.”

Namkyung has a glint in her eye, and Sabi knows what that glint is. It’s the same look she got when she arranged a ‘group dinner’ for all the residents in their second year, and ‘accidentally’ gave Jaeil and her the wrong address, so they spent a whole evening in an upscale steak restaurant, wondering whether or not this was a setup. Spoiler alert: it was. Namkyung had even roped in the fellows on her bullshit, the little snake. She would never forget the teasing smiles of Dr Gu and Dr Ki the next morning, commenting on whether they had a fun ‘group dinner’. “Don’t even think about it,” she warns, “whatever you’re thinking, it’s not going to end up well.”

Right at that moment, the door opens, and another resident walks in, looking equally haggard. “Dr Baek Jung-Hwa, Neurosurgery, third-year.” Dr Choi introduces, and the man just drops into a chair without any proper greeting.

“He works under Prof. Lee.” Dr Choi offers, “he’s one of the only third-years who’s taken him on.”

“Do something about him and Prof Kim of Cardiology, I beg you,” Dr Baek groans. “Today it was the OR, last week, they argued for so long about what kind of approach to take on an AAD, even the patient asked them to shut up in the end.”

“AAD?” Yiyoung asks.

“Acute Aortic Dissection.” Dr Choi replies, “they were arguing in the middle of the ward, you guys. The patients were worried they were going to die. The nurses thought they were going to start an all-out fight in the middle of the day.”

“As if there’s an appropriate time to be fighting.”

“You get it. They’ve been here for a year, at the most, and the whole hospital knows about their arguments. It’s not even restricted to surgeries—they fight over what to get for lunch, too.”

“Lunch?” Jaeil asks, “who would fight about lunch?”

“Not everyone is like you,” Yiyoung snipes. “You only order what Sabi wants.”

“That’s a given! She’s my girlfriend!”

“Everyone, shut up,” Namkyung waves, “what I’m getting is that we have two professors, who cannot seem to stop arguing, and three departments, who are fed up with their antics.”

“Four, if you count Pediatrics.” Yiyoung offers, “they had another argument outside the NICU about post-op care of a co-op surgery.”

“Yes, so,” Namkyung claps her hands, “we need a solution.”

“Make them transfer?” Dr Choi offers, “if one of them were in another hospital, they’d not be arguing for an hour daily.”

“Where’s the fun in that, though?” Namkyung grins. “Hey, let’s set them up.”

“Huh?” even Yiyoung is confused, “they clearly hate each other, why on earth would you set them up?”

“Because it’s fun.” Namkyung shrugs, “and besides, if they manage to get together, they’d be a lot more forgiving of their residents, and the whole hospital, actually.”

“Or, they’d start adding their relationship arguments into the mix,” Jaeil shakes his head, “this is a bad idea.”

“Then you give me another one!” Namkyung makes a face, “you’re an idiot when it comes to dating.”

“Yes, you can’t be a judge, Um Jaeil,” Yiyoung agrees, “you’ve only dated Kim Sabi here.”

“Statistically, they have more experience,” Dr Baek nods. “Are you sure this is going to work?”

“About thirty percent,” Namkyung sighs, “but hey, this is better than nothing, right?”

—

Ploy one: mechanical intervention. (day seven)

“This is not going to work,” Sabi mutters, watching furtively over her shoulder, “are you sure about this?”

“Positive,” Dr Choi mutters, also on the lookout, “she doesn’t come out of her office for about three hours after a surgery. She’s reviewing notes right now. And Dr Baek told me Professor Lee was about to head out at one as well. Hey, is your friend done yet?”

The last sentence is addressed to Jaeil, who’s holding a torch over his head, throwing a light directly into the hood of Professor Kim’s car, and his friend, who has been working on it furiously for the past ten minutes. Sabi takes another look over her shoulder, confirming that there is no one spying on their little ring, and Jaei’s friend emerges from his work, slightly worse for wear.

“Why did you need a favour like this?” the man asks, “never thought I’d have Um Jay of Hi-Boyz asking me to destroy someone’s fan belt on a Wednesday morning. Wherever it was, they must have pissed you off royally.”

“It’s for a professor, actually,” Sabi blurts out, unable to keep a secret for very long, “this is a professor’s car.”

“Well then, good luck to the professor. Getting their fan belt destroyed in the middle of the night,” the man whistles, picking up his bag, “well then, I gotta be off. See you around, man.”

And he leaves, not before giving Jaeil an awkward side-hug and waving goodbye to her and Gaeul, but Sabi isn’t exactly convinced with the whole thing. She still cannot see the appeal of forcing people in strange situations together and forcing them into a semblance of a relationship, but this is not her idea, and it’s been vetted by three separate departments, so she’s going along with it, for the time being.

“She’s here,” Dr Gaeul says, half-panicked, “I’m going to hide, see you!”

With that, she’s off, leaving behind Um Jaeil and her in the parking lot. Sabi is not feeling awkward, she really is not. She just doesn’t want people to see and think they were slacking off, when they clearly were not. Jaeil, on the other hand, has no qualms sidling up to her, grinning widely.

“Do you think this is going to work?” he whispers, holding her hand, “I mean, they’re all going through a lot.”

“I don’t understand why we’re doing all this for another department,” Sabi shakes her head, “it’s not as if either of them have a direct impact on our lives or our patient care.”

“Remember last year, when they arrived here, and had to work on that one complicated case of a pregnant woman with a heart condition that was affecting blood flow to her child’s brain?”

Sabi nods. She was not supposed to be assisting on the case, but they had enough overlap between the departments; making it a four-way collaboration between Pediatrics, Ob-GYN, Cardiothoracic surgery, and Neuro. The two of them—Professors Kim and Lee, had fought bitterly even then, resulting in Professor Seo telling them to either get it together, or to leave the meeting room and come back another time. They had fallen silent after that, but Sabi still remembers the look on everyone’s faces when the two of them were arguing; waiting for something horrible to happen. Calm before the storm, or whatever they call it. Professor Seo had muttered underneath her breath about ‘stupid idiots’ and Sabi, who had volunteered to scrub in in place of Namkyung (busy with her three deliveries that week) had watched the two distinguished professors, each armed with a considerable number of degrees and papers under their belt, fight on their way to the cafeteria.

“They didn’t fight at all in the operation theatre,” she mutters, allowing herself to squeeze Jaeil’s hand the way that he likes, “I saw them operating in tandem. She worked on the mother’s heart while he examined the baby seconds after birth, making sure the restricted placental blood flow did not impact any neurological activities. They didn’t speak either, but the way they worked, I'm sure they’ve worked together before.”

“Impossible,” Jaeil shrugs, “those two and working together? I think you’re mistaken, Sabi.”

But before she can even retort, they’re face to face with Professor Kim, who smiles widely on seeing them, “getting off work?”

“Ah, no, not yet,” Jaeil laughs, “we just had a bit of free time.”

Professor Kim looks at their joined hands, and nods, “I understand. These days it’s all about dating publicly, right? We couldn’t even look at the person we were seeing.”

Sabi wants to ask who it was that you were looking at, but Jaeil beats her to the punch, staring innocently at the professor, “did you date in medical school, professor?”

Professor Kim suddenly grows a little bashful, shrugging, “no one important,” and then reaches into her pocket to extract her card, “get yourself a coffee with this, yeah?”

Jaeil accepts it, and the two of them stare at her as she walks over to her parked car, none the wiser about her destroyed fan belt. One, two, three. Sabi wants to kill herself, but if she does that, she’s not going to become the youngest Gynecology professor at the hospital. She watches, horrified, as Professor Kim attempts to get her car to start, and fails three separate times. She then comes out of the car, sighs, before turning to look at her and Jaeil. Beside her, Jaeil is the picture of innocence, looking wide-eyed at her, “is there anything wrong, professor?”

“Yeah, my car is refusing to start,” she grins, “I’ll just get a taxi.”

“No!” Jaeil yelps, loud enough for even Sabi to raise an eyebrow, “I mean, it’s already one in the morning, Professor, getting a taxi will be next to impossible right now.”

“Yeah, and they usually have a surcharge,” Sabi nods, finding herself going along with Jaei’s stupid plan, “you could ask for a lift from someone?”

“A lift?” Professor Kim muses, “but I don’t think there are people in here who can give me a lift—”

She pauses, and Sabi follows her line of sight to see Professor Lee, dressed in casual clothes, walking out of the lift. He walks over to where the three of them were standing, taking a look at Professor Kim’s car, “totaled it, have you?”

“I don’t think you really understand what that means,” Professor Kim snipes, “and no, I did not total my car, it does not start anymore. Just makes a sort of sputtering noise when I hit the ignition.”

“Serves you right for getting a diesel car,” Professor Lee shrugs, “how long have you been driving this monstrosity? People graduate medical school in the time that you’ve held on to this stupid car.”

“Who the hell are you calling stupid, you jerk?”

They were possibly going to argue for longer, but Jaeil jumps in right at this moment, smiling, “Professor Lee, I was just telling Professor Kim here how it would be difficult to get a taxi in the middle of the night.”

“In the middle of the night!” Professor Lee shrieks. “Hey, you were thinking of going out in the middle of the night like that? What if you got hurt?”

“Why the hell would I get hurt?”

“The world is a scary place!”

“It’s scary because of men!”

That makes him pause, and he shrugs, something like a ‘fair’, but then starts arguing again, when Sabi interrupts, “could you give her a ride, please? If you are going in the same way.”

She feels horrible for doing this, but out of the corner of her eye, she can see Dr Choi whooping for joy, and Sabi thinks that this is okay.

“A ride?” Professor Lee stares at Prof Kim, “don’t drool on my seats.”

“Your faux-leather seats,” She snipes, “why the hell do you even care? It was one time!”

“One time too many,” he replies, “why the hell should I even let you into my car?”

“Because the world is a scary place,” she smiles, taking out the key fob from his hand and walking away. Sabi swears she can hear Professor Lee mutters, “damn woman,” under his breath before running behind her to catch up.

“They’ve got history,” Sabi says, offhandedly, as Dr Choi runs up to them, “did you know they had history?”

“They do not have history,” Jaeil snorts, “even if they did, it clearly never ended well.”

“They say married couples were enemies in a past life,” Dr Choi shrugs, “anyway, this means we might get them to at least warm up to each other instead of fighting all the time.”

“Might be a good change around these parts,” Jaeil smiles, tucking his arm underneath Sabi’s before walking back into the hospital. They’ve got history, Sabi can’t help but think, no one fights that pointlessly with anyone, that much. It’s either that, or they hate each other so much that even looking at the other person is unbearable.

—

Ploy two: team dinners are an excellent way to foster interdepartmental relationships. (day 20)

Dr Choi Gaeul was actually looking forward to becoming a doctor her whole life, thank you very much. Her parents were poor, which meant that she only had one way of getting out of the mess of her life; studying. She studied like a crazy woman all throughout her life, finally landing into medical school, the first one from her seaside town. It also meant that she had the burden of striking it big, and as her parents told her over and over again, failing was not an option when it came to her. Everyone else could go to hell, but she had to survive.

And she had. She’d finished medical school, landed in one of the most competitive disciplines, Cardiothoracic surgery. She’d even gotten into a Seoul hospital, cementing her success in the minds of her whole town. And the best part? She got to work directly under one of the few female Cardiothoracic professors of the entire country, Professor Kim Sowon. Her life was going swimmingly.

Until of course, the first day of Professor Kim, when she realised one little thing—surviving college and university was far less complicated than surviving the workplace.

“This is pretty much guaranteed to make me spend hours sitting around on my ass,” Prof. Kim seethes, looking at the consult for the co-op surgery. “What the fuck is Lee Jihoon up to? Does he think that being the neurosurgery professor means he can order us around? We have our lives too, damn it.”

It was over important things, at first. Arguing over long-running surgeries that would force Professor Kim and her residents to wait around for ungodly periods of time while the Neuro team finished up their part of the work, or co-op surgeries where their presence was not required beyond staying on standby, and the Neurosurgery department asking the professors to stay in the operating room until they finished working on the patient, for any kind of emergency. That was fine. She could understand that.

But what do you mean there was an argument about what dinner menu they should stop serving in the cafeteria? Was that even something professors got interested in?

“I’m telling you, tonkatsu has no place in a hospital cafeteria. It’s unhealthy, raises the risk of heart disease, and frankly speaking, they don’t do it that well here.”

“And I think they should stop serving oyakodon. Why the hell should we spend upward of an hour waiting around for a Japanese dish where I burn the roof of my mouth?” Professor Lee snipes back, “just because you like it, you can’t terrorise the lunch ladies into keeping this here.”

Dr Gaeul was shocked. Why the hell were they here in the first place?

Which brought them all to—today. Where Professor Kim was arguing with Professor Lee about Neurosurgery getting less residents than usual. They’re seated in the cafeteria, where the neurosurgery department is coexisting peacefully with the cardiothoracic surgery department, chewing on their bland meal, too exhausted to say a word.

“I don’t think your stellar personality did the hospital any favours, Jihoon,” she says, idly turning the page of a research paper (how the hell did she even get that in here?) “scaring off all your residents with the speech about how Neuro is more important than one’s family has got to have ruffled some feathers.”

“I don’t think I should be taking advice from the woman who regularly quizzed interns in the elevator,” Professor Lee snaps, “are you laughing at the extra workload? Are you?”

“I’m just saying that all this could have been avoided if you were a little bit kinder to the interns. You’re not supposed to scare them off at the beginning of their stint. You’re supposed to make sure they want to enter your department at the end of the period.”

“You used to grill them at every point!” Professor Lee snaps, “you even got a nickname because of it. How the hell did your department still get more applicants for residency?”

“Maybe I wasn’t an unmitigated asshole, like you,” Professor Kim sighs, “god help the residents who are shackled to you for four years.”

“Hey, don’t you say shit about my residents!”

Dr Choi wants a hole in the earth to open up and swallow her. Why am I saddled with two of the brightest doctors, and why do they behave like children? It’s incredible, how two of the most-decorated surgeons in the country, and one with multiple certifications from the USA, could behave like kids when dealing with each other. Then again, it’s probably the high stress of the job, she reasons, they don’t get any time to be themselves, so they make do wherever they can.

Her phone rings, and her sigh of relief is audible, “Professor,” she leans in to whisper to Professor Kim, who’s suddenly debating the benefits of daily consumption of red ginseng with Professor Lee, “we’re getting a call from Emergency.”

Professor Kim nods, standing up, “we’ll talk about this later, Lee Jihoon,” and sets off, Dr Choi right in tow. She wasn’t lying, of course, the call is from the Emergency Room, and they need to be there at the earliest, but she’s also not going to lie and say that she was not relieved she didn’t have to stay any longer than she had to, in the cafeteria.

“What’s the situation?” Professor Kim asks, walking into the Emergency ward, “you would not call my resident and me if this was not something important, right?”

The fellow who actually put the call through to her cringes, and Gaeul sighs. She’s angry because they used to call us for random things before, and it wasted a lot of time. Well, the intent is good, but she could have said it a bit differently, right?”

“Three-car pileup, ten minutes out,” Dr Bae, the ER attending, comes forward, “hold on, I’ve paged Neuro for this as well.”

“Stroke?” Professor Kim asks, “how bad is it?”

“Preliminary CT shows the presence of two blood clots, one in the brain, one in the aorta. The heart one is dangerously close to blocking heart function, so I doubt we have a lot of time before we can do emergency surgery.”

“Heart rate?”

“Sixty-five and falling,” Dr Bae holds out the chart, “it’s not looking very good.”

“I’m here,” Professor Lee walks in, followed by Dr Baek, “dual clots? Result of the accident?”

“Yes, we’re assuming that, but she’s already pretty bad,” Dr Bae holds out a clipboard to him, “I think we should prepare for emergency surgery.”

“Let’s scrub in right now,” Professor Lee nods, turning to Dr Baek, “I’ll be late for the departmental conference.”

“Ask Anesthesiology for an Operating Theatre,” Professor Kim tells her, “tell them it’s an emergency case, and both Neuro and Cardio are co-operating on it.”

Dr Choi nods, before hurrying off to make the call. As expected, Anesthesiology makes a fuss initially, given the influx of emergency patients, but once they hear the words “both Neuro and Cardio requested it,” they’re hurriedly assigning her the first available operating theatre they have.

“Operating theatre is prepped, so we just need the rest of the labs to come back before we can begin preparing for the surgery,” Professor Kim says, nudging Professor Lee with her shoulder, “hey, scrub in with me.”

“Right now?” Professor Lee sighs, “you know what? Let’s do it. We need to scrub in for surgery in about ten minutes anyway, best get it done.”

And they’re off, which leaves behind her, Dr Baek and the Emergency surgery fellow, who seems nervous and not at all happy to be here. Dr Choi sighs, before taking off at top speed towards Pathology.

—

That was the first time she had seen the two professors collaborate on a surgery, instead of working one after the other. They were a revelation, if she was being honest. None of the bitter arguments that seemed to be the norm every time they met, or the vitriol that they seemed to reserve specifically for each other. They worked in total silence, only asking for surgical tools, and Dr Choi could swear she even saw Professor Kim sigh in relief once it was over, but it could have been a trick of her mind too. Professor Lee, on the other hand, seemed equally steady, navigating around the blood clot with a practised ease that made the resident visibly nervous. The both of them seemed to be in their comfort zone, with the practised ease that only comes from hours put in the job. She can only watch in wonder, as Professor Kim finishes up the open heart surgery in a couple of hours, a thrombectomy that would take three hours for even the most senior of surgical fellows.

The whole process is over in four hours, and after the patient is carted off to the ICU, Professor Kim reaches over to pat Professor Lee’s shoulders, “you did good, Jihoon.”

Professor Lee sighs, agreeing with her for once instead of arguing, “good work on the thrombectomy. I thought the patient was going to die there for a moment.”

“Not on me, they are not,” Professor Kim grins, “I don’t know about you, but I would rather no patient dies on me.”

“Why are you insistent on pissing me off?” Professor Lee had sniped, and that was that; the tender moment had gone, replaced by the same annoying arguments that made Dr Choi rethink her choice of specialty at least once a week. She could have gone to general surgery at the main branch. They had such good professors there too. She could have gone intotaken nuclear medicine too; there was always more research to be done in the new and upcoming areas of medicine. They even had better funding. In short, she could have gone anywhere, instead of coming here to Jongno.

Which brought them all to this morning, when Dr Choi was sitting in the lounge, eyes vacant as she regrouped after a night shift. She was cursed, because two patients had coded in the middle of her shift, and three of them had complained to her about post-op complications,and she knew for a fact that no one had problems the previous night, when Dr Bae had been in charge. Everything horrible happens to me, she moaned, I’m the only one being mentored directly by Professor Kim, and on top of that, she’s the one with the most random beef with Professor Lee of Neurosurgery. There’s nothing going correctly in my life, and for once I want to go back to my home without being scared shitless of what fresh new hell the future has for me. Is it too late to write a letter of resignation and move to a different city to practise medicine on my own? If I managed my finances well, I could move to a mountain town and practise in peace. I’d much rather deal with old men than two bickering professors who did not know when to stop.

This reminds her of a sentence she had seen in a movie a long time ago: Everything that can go wrong, will go wrong. Which explained the string of post-op complications that she had to deal with this morning, not to mention the timing. The convenient timing of all of them to be suffering from bleeding, when she only had about ten minutes left to the end of her shift. There was no doubt about it, the universe hated her. The universe had a grudge on her. If she had been more religious, she would have named a specific god, but the universe was good enough for the job.

“Dr Choi,” the intern rushes in, and she braces herself for a disaster, “Professor Kim asked you to scrub in for emergency surgery.”

Choi Gaeul groans at no one in particular. The universe was kicking her ass in the most spectacular way lately. And she’s going to go outside and run into Professor Kim, who’s probably arguing with Professor Lee all over again. Maybe this time it’s about the vending machine drinks.

Someone has to force those two to get together as soon as possible.

—

#ro: writings #svthub #keopihausnet #thediamondlifenetwork #lee jihoon #svt fic #woozi x reader #seventeen fluff #seventeen comecy #woozi fic #woozi imagines #woozi seventeen #resident playbook #all the characters make an appearance because im freaky like that

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