#booth pm

[luk4streams]

🌸New item drop🌸 Outfit inspired by Maya from Ace Attorney! Why don't you try a new cosplay on your VRoid model? Available at Booth and Ko-fi

[seowoobins]

240428 : 🫧 pm

[ufogoo]

raphael at the opera. that's all

[sacredsorceress]

Mocha / Bob Reynolds

PAIRING: bob reynolds x cafe owner!reader SUMMARY: yelena decides to make it her mission to set up bob with her close friend. WORD COUNT: 2.6k A/N: not beta read, and named mocha after my favorite coffee! I am also realising I struggle with meet cutes so next fic is probably an established relationship whew. hope you enjoy!! WARNINGS: just insecurities, a beef mention of bob's drug-fueled past and fluff

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・bob masterlist・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

“Get dressed, Bob.”

Yelena tossed a pair of jeans and a sweater into Bob’s lap before placing her hands on her hip.

Confusion twisted his face.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” Bob asked.

Truly there wouldn’t be anything wrong with what Bob was wearing if he hadn’t already been wearing it for three days straight.

In the months since… the incident… as they all now referred to it, Bob had made significant progress. He had stayed sober, gained a healthy amount of weight back, and worked on his mental health to a degree that even John had to admit that he was impressed by it. However, all this progress had been made inside the Avengers Tower.

Not that Yelena didn’t enjoying being around Bob, but she’d like to wonder where he was for once instead of being able to turn her head and see him curled up in his book nook every single time, without fail. At times she wondered if his skin had merged with the fabric of the seat.

“You are not going out like that.” She said matter-of-factly. “And you are starting to smell.”

Bob placed his book to the side and pulled himself up to look at Yelena.

“Going… out?” He asked.

“Yes, we are going out.” She said with a huff. “I cannot watch you sit on this floor all day again. So get dressed… and do not forget the deodorant.”

Yelena left without another word, leaving Bob to his own devices. Lifting up his arm and taking a sniff, he cringed and shuffled towards the bathroom toting the clothes Yelena had given him in hand.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

"Where are we going?"

Bob stumbled after Yelena as she effortlessly weaved her way through the busy Manhattan street. It was 5:30 pm and it seemed that all of New York were leaving their offices, on a mission to get home which, to Bob's understanding, seemed to all be in the opposite direction from where he was heading. With rushed apologies and too many elbows in his ribs for his liking, Bob had begun to miss the comfort of the tower.

"For coffee." Yelena replied without looking at him.

"Coffee?" He asked, glancing at sun setting between high rises. "Isn't it.. isn't it a little late?"

"Never too late for coffee, Bob." She said, rounding a corner. "Besides, it is quieter at night."

Bob bumped into Yelena's back as she slowed her pace.

"Here!"

Yelena opened her arms towards the café in front of her. A warm glow poured out through its windows and onto the sidewalk as if it wanted to sneak up their ankles and pull them through the doors. Through the glass, Bob could catch a few people doing work on their laptops or catching up with friends, lounging on the couches or curled up in the booths alike. What truly caught his eye, though, were the filled bookcases that covered every square inch of the walls.

Yelena, observing his fascination, smiled.

"I knew you'd like it." She said, grabbing his arm. "Now come."

In an almost cartoonish fashion, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee beans reached Bob's nose the second he stepped inside and carried him to the counter.

The barista's face lit up at the sight of them and Bob felt himself grow warm under her gaze. Her smile, warm and inviting- not like the polite ones Bob often got thrown by underpaid workers to evade the scrutiny of their boss- made him brush his tussled hair from his face.

"Lena!" You laughed, leaning against the counter. "Fancy seeing you here. Want your usual?"

Lena? Bob thought. Did she know you?

Bob glanced from Yelena to you.

"D-do you guys know each other?" He laughed awkwardly.

The blonde raised her eyebrow.

"Are you surprised that I have friends, Bob?" Yelena asked pointedly.

"N- no!" Bob said, shaking his head and crossing his arms. "I was just wondering-"

Then you piped in: "Oh are you Bob?" You asked, your gaze falling on him. "I've heard so much about you. It's so nice to meet you!"

God, he thought, it's hot in here.

You were pretty and kind- the first confirmed by his eyesight and accompanying heart rate and the second, by your friendship with Yelena.

If there was one thing that Bob was not used to, it was receiving warm attention from strangers. With a past riddled with crime and self-seclusion, he couldn't remember the last time someone had actually been happy to meet him. Even his current team had been mildly annoyed by his presence the first time they met.

But you had heard about him. That couldn't be good, right?

Bob pulled at the neck of his sweater and smiled.

"That's me." He answered timidly. "I'm sorry, Yelena's never mentioned you-"

Waving her hand in his face to cut him off, Yelena turned towards you.

"I'll have my usual." She said before turning to Bob. "What do you want?"

Suddenly it occurred to Bob that they were at a coffee shop. Hyper-aware of your gaze, Bob shoved his hands in his pockets to stop himself from nervously fiddling with them.

"Oh I- I've never had coffee." He said.

He said it in the most innocent way in the world, so much so that you couldn't even find it in yourself to make fun of him for it. If anything, you wished you had super speed to be able to fly out the doors, get ingredients for whatever Bob did like to drink, and whip it up in seconds so you'd never have to see him disappointed.

Yelena however, did not share the same sentiment.

"You are embarrassing me." She whispered.

Seeing the shame in his eyes, you cut in.

"I can surprise you if you want?" You offered. "I'll just come bring it to your table when it's done."

Pretty and kind.

"Y-yeah," He smiled. "That sounds nice."

With their orders sorted, Yelena wrapped her hand around Bob's arm and pulled him to a nearby table. Nestled in an alcove between bookshelves, Bob settled into his chair and glanced around him.

"This place is nice." He observed, peeking over the side of the bookshelf to catch a glimpse of you at the counter.

Yelena, following his eye-line, smiled.

"Good." She said, crossing her legs. "Because we will be staying here until you ask her out."

And there it is: why Yelena actually asked him to come out.

He should've known by her attitude- how she demanded he get dressed, how she weaved through passerbys without a second glance, how she stopped him from fumbling over himself in front of you... she was on a mission.

Bob would have been lying if he said he wasn't attracted to you. In the past, he had barely experienced attraction- his attention consumed more by illicit substances and how to get them rather than the affection of a woman. But he knew by the warmth that creeped up his neck and onto his cheeks and the way his heart seemingly flipped in his chest when you spoke to him that you had him.

However, that didn't mean that he could have you.

"Yeah- Wait." Bob said, tearing his eyes from you to look at Yelena. "W-what. I'm not- I can't... I don't know her."

"No," she said, folding her hands. "But I do. You two will make cute couple."

She said it as if it were simple. As if she could flip a switch and make him the perfect boyfriend.

"But-"

As if on cue, you strode over to the table with a tray in hand.

"One flat white for Lena," You said gifting the mug into her waiting hands. "And for Bob, a mocha: decaffeinated. I figured you might want to be able to sleep tonight."

You said the last part with a wink as you gently placed the mug down in front of him.

The warm drink sat in an orange mug with a foam heart on top and although he was sure you did them for everybody, Bob's insides felt like mush all the same. He couldn't remember the last time he had something that didn't come from a drive-thru window.

"And I know you didn't ask," you said, placing down another plate. "but I also brought over a chocolate donut to go with the coffee. I thought you might like it."

If Bob didn't know any better, he would have thought you were nervous because once the tray was free of any beverage, you tucked it behind your back and shifted on your feet as if you were finding any excuse to stay.

"Oh this looks really good," Bob groaned.

Careful to not burn himself, Bob gingerly brought the mug to his lips. The drink, filled with notes of chocolate that overpowered any bitterness of coffee while maintaining the taste, warmed him to his core. Feeling the temperature of the drink spread throughout his body, Bob sank into his seat and moaned.

A real, actual moan in front of the prettiest girl he'd ever seen.

It was only once he opened his eyes that he realized they had ever been closed in the first place.

"I think he likes it." Yelena chuckled.

Feeling the heat rise to his cheeks, he cleared his throat.

"S-sorry." He apologized, "it's really good."

The weight of your gaze bared heavily on him as he avoided your eyes, too afraid to feel the judgement they no doubt held at his reaction.

Instead you smiled.

"Nothing to be sorry about, Bob." You assured him. "That's the best compliment I've ever received."

A silence hung in the air then as the three of you stood at an impasse. The radio flicked between songs as it did, leaving the rhythmic clicking of a keyboard across the room the only escape from becoming intimately familiar with each other's breathing.

Yelena glanced between the two of you. She rolled her eyes and kicked Bob underneath the table.

"Ow!" Bob yelped. "What was that-"

"Didn't you have a question you wanted to ask her, Bob?"

Fuck, now you were really looking at him.

You were like the sun. As tempted as he was to stare at you, his eyes darted anywhere but your face as if it would hurt him just to look.

"Uh, um yeah..." Bob said nervously, "I wanted to... I was going to ask..."

You eagerly leaned forward.

"Yeah, Bob?"

Bob could listen to you say his name forever. A once held insecurity, dissipated like cotton candy in water.

He cleared his throat.

"Uh- what kind of milk did you use?" Bob said, drumming his fingers on the table. "Because I'm uh... lactose intolerant."

The end of the sentence dragged on awkwardly and although he was internally beating himself up for embarrassing himself in front of you, he was clouded by how much more humiliating it would have been to ask you out in front of Yelena.

Any hope you had in you that he would ask you something more personal faded as you physically deflated.

"Oh uh, oat."

Yelena thought she could kill him. She really could.

"Well uh," You said. "Enjoy."

And with that, you were gone.

The second you were out of earshot, Yelena leaned over the table.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I- I don't know!" Bob whisper-shouted back. "It just came out-"

"That you are lactose intolerant?" She argued. "You are suppose to ask her out and instead, you tell her you have tummy problems!"

Bob slammed his face into the table and groaned.

"You put me on the spot-"

"Because she was looking at you with the heart eyes!"

That picked Bob's head up.

"N-no. You're just saying that." He argued. "She doesn't like me"

Yelena rolled her eyes and jammed her pointer finger into the table.

"Listen to me, Bob." She said. "I know my friend. She likes you, okay? So we will sit here until you ask her out."

"But-"

"No buts!" She shouted, flicking her hand. "You will ask her. Now, I will enjoy my coffee before it gets cold."

And that's how Bob and Yelena ended up sitting in the coffee shop until close.

It wasn't that he didn't try, because he did. After a hype up session with Yelena he would stroll up to the counter with the intention of asking you on a date, but the second you smiled at him, he psyched himself out and just ordered another coffee instead.

As minutes turned to hours and the patrons began to file out of the cafe, you, Bob and Yelena were the only ones left- unless you counted the elephant in the room.

"Hey so," You said saddling up to the table. "I'm gonna start closing up. Don't worry about the bill or anything, I put it on Yelena's tab. Just head out when you're ready."

You hesitated.

"Oh, and it was nice to meet you, Bob."

Yet, as you turned to leave, you felt a clammy hand wrap around your wrist, holding you back.

Your eyes trailed from the hand up to Bob's face where his cheeks had been painted red. As if his lips had been sewn shut, he said nothing, but instead longingly gazed up at you, taken aback by your features so close.

"Oh for God's sake." Yelena said slamming her hand on the table.

Bob yanked his hand from your touch as you your attentions ricocheted towards Yelena.

"Lena-"

"I cannot keep watching this." She said, gesturing towards Bob. Her eyebrows had knitted together and a sigh escaped her lips. "Y/n, will you go on a date with Bob? Please? I cannot do the puppy dog eyes any longer."

If there was ever a moment Bob wanted to crawl into his own skin and let the Void consume him, it was right then.

Yelena meant well, he knows she does, but no matter how much she thought she knew her friend, what Yelena was not aware of was the clinical aversion that women seemed to have to him. The most Bob would be lucky enough to receive was a platonic fondness, never the affections of a woman so pretty and kind and warm and-

"I'd love to."

Pulling himself out of his own self-pity, Bob's mouth flew open.

"Y-yeah?"

You smiled at him.

"Yeah," You said with a laugh. "I thought you'd never ask."

Were you sure you didn't put caffeine in his coffee? Because Bob felt the sudden urge to throw himself out of his seat and run around the coffee shop.

Instead, he settled on handing you his phone to let you type your number in and allowing Yelena to usher him out of the coffee shop- him longingly looking over his shoulder at you until he physically couldn't anymore.

With a renewed pep in his step, Bob pulled out his phone and smiled.

Bob: Hi, this is Bob :)

Bob: From the coffee shop.

Bob: Yelena's friend.

Bob: I'm not really lactose intolerant, you're just really pretty. :)

And although Yelena couldn't see what he was typing on his phone, seeing the content smile that painted his face was more than enough for one to reach across her own- rolling her eyes fondly at the idea of her two friends in love and a mission, accomplished.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・inbox・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

[bbokicidal]

Matchmaking | [SKZ]

Where one of the boys sets up his friend with someone he's sure will be a perfect match with him. Except, he isn't basing that off your personality or looks...

Genre: Suggestive (18+) Pairing: OT8 x Afab!Reader Kinks Explored; Breeding (Chan), Thigh fucking (Minho), Muscle (Changbin), Hands (Hyunjin), Sub!Men (Jisung), Degradation (Felix), Pet Play (Seungmin), Spit (Jeongin)

General Premise: One of ___'s friends sets him up with someone he's sure he'll get along with well - purely based off the knowledge that they share similar kinks. He tells them to meet at a night club around 10 PM, and so ___ sits and waits for his blind date to show up.

Chan:

He's a little nervous just to be sitting in a nightclub by himself, but the moment you show up he feels as though his entire body relaxes.

You're polite, pretty, kind - You already have a drink which makes him feel a little better about having one of his own; Even if he's got that Asian Flush going on.

After a little discussion and conversation about why the two of you were set up - Chan ends up finding out that his friend set the two of you up because you also had a breeding kink.

Which is.. how he finds himself pushing up against you in the club bathroom, his hips grinding into yours from behind as he bends you down over the counter and flips up your dress.

He's groaning and sucking on his lip when he fucks into you, his pace not quite quick but harder than anything you've had before, his cock prodding at your walls and kissing your cervix every time he sinks all the way in.

"Mmn - 'm gonna fill that pretty pussy up, yeah? Gonna fill it up 'til you're all swollen and leaking.."

Minho:

He's not nervous but he's also not too highly interested in meeting up with some stranger because 'their kinks match up.'

Until he sees you, that is.

His eyes are instantly dropping to the hem of your little black dress, mouth falling open at the sight of your soft curves and the conversation short lived.

He's going to be honest with you about what he likes, what he wants.

That's how you two end up just kind of... doing shit in the middle of the club. You end up finding a room that's meant for private dances and making out on the leather couch together.

He lets you grind on his thigh first, encouraging you with soft words and resting his hands on your hips to guide you when you get tired of doing it on your own,

And then in return you let him fuck his cock up between your thighs; Your back to his chest, his arms laced tight around your waist to keep you flush to him while he fucked up against you.

"Oh my God," He whines, head dropping back against the couch as his jaw drops wide. "Oh fuck, you feel so good --"

Changbin:

He's.. a little shy. He's rubbing his hands together and smiling when he first meets you, a little hesitant with answering any questions because he's just - shy! He's also a little confused.

Turns out it's a kink you have and something he owns.

He figures it out when you crawl into his lap in the booth you sit at, your mouth attaching to his before falling down towards his throat and then finally - to his arms. He can feel you sucking hickies against his skin and that's when it clicks that you have a thing for muscle.

Changbin sits for a while and allows you to dote on him - kiss him, mark him, grind on him; And when the time comes that he grows impatient, he leads you out to the car and brings you into the backseat so the two of you can have some proper fun.

He ends up locking his arm around your neck, your cheeks squishing against his forearm and bicep as he pounds into you from behind and tucks his head down so he's breathing and moaning right into your ear. Your hands grab for stability on the door just in front of you but you know he won't let you topple in a hold like this.

"You're the perfect size for something like this. Might have to - mmn - come back for more sometime."

Hyunjin:

Hyunjin wastes no time in getting to the point when he meets you. He thinks you're attractive, knows you have something in common, and so he gets you into one of the private rooms as quick as he possibly can because he's tryna hit.

He knows you like his hands just from the way you've been ogling them since you showed up. When he tapped on the table, when he drank from his wine glass, when he pushed back his hair.

So he's quick to tease you with that. Gently guiding you closer by cupping your jaw, trailing his free hand over your waist, cradling the back of your head while you kiss.

He honestly loves having his hands on you because he loves seeing how much you react to his every touch.

Especially when he's dragging two fingers between your folds, pushing them in and curling them carefully to rub against that warm, gummy spot that makes you see stars. He has to bite his lip to keep himself grounding at the way you squirm and grind your hips down against his hand - He's going to come in his pants if he doesn't focus.

"Yeah? You like that, sweetheart?"

Jisung:

Jisung is so giggly because he's so nervous when he meets you. You are - drop dead gorgeous and he's so shy that he's tucking his hands down between his thighs, doing his best to hide the fact that he's already almost fully hard just at the way you talk to him.

Your tone is so smooth and demanding without being loud; Confident yet graceful and - you know you're hot shit. That's what turns him on the most.

He thinks you'll take him somewhere; Maybe make him strip for you, make him eat you out, make him get on his knees and beg for you to let him fuck you somehow. But you don't even leave the table before you're tormenting him.

He feels the toe of your heel press against his cock through his pants and he nearly jumps out of his skin, his mouth dropping right open when you roll your foot forward and your head tips to watch his reactions.

You're a little more bold than he expected you to be, but honestly... he isn't complaining; Especially not when you gesture for him to get under the table. Then, he's on a mission. And you best bet he's scrambling to get under the table and between your thighs.

Felix:

He's not nervous at all. In fact, he's pretty cocky considering he knows exactly what kink you share the second he sees you and the outfit you picked out. (He's scary good at reading people, apparently.)

He scoots close to sit next to you in the booth when you sit down, buys you a drink and gets one for himself, talks soooo smooth to you the entire time he's with you and even throws his arm over the back of the booth behind you.

"So you like being treated like a slut, I assume?" He quips, watching your eyes widen and a red dust over your cheeks. He leans closer, "Or.. are you actually just a slut who likes to be used?"

He doesn't do anything too sexual but he's still getting a feel for what you want from him right away, but he does tease you relentlessly the rest of the night.

Lays his hand on your thigh while you sit together, kneads the softness between ringed fingers, watches the way you get shy when he talks down to you and loves every second of it. And he's absolutely going to be getting your number so he can make you his personal whore the next time you two meet up. <3

Seungmin:

He doesn't want to assume anything too fast, but...

The way you wore a dog collar styled to match your outfit gives it all away.

What he doesn't expect is for you to take it off and put it on him when you two end up in a private room together at the back of the club. He sits on the bed as you fasten it around his neck before he looks up, eyes a little wide and puppy-like. You tug on his shirt to get him off the bed, telling him "Puppies don't belong on furniture, baby." as you make him kneel in front of you while you sit all content.

He's pretty much gone from there on out. He does everything you want him to; He doesn't hold back when he eats you out, his hands tucked down under his thighs because "puppies don't have hands, silly" and practically drooling all over your pussy because he just can't keep himself clean for the life of him.

Though when you do finally allow him to fuck you, he's just what you thought he'd be; Rutting into you quick and hard, barely even pulling out before he's pushing his cock back into your warm, wet walls and whimpering into your shoulder. He might also accidentally push your face down into the mattress, but.. it's an accident, he swears!

He's a good pup. <3

Jeongin:

He hasn't a clue what it is you're also into so after a bit of conversation he just asks you straight up for a list of your top kinks. He's a little surprised by some of what you say, though it does intrigue him -

And then you mention spit. You like people spitting on you, at you, in your mouth, on your pussy, on your ass and your face and all over your tits.

And Jeongin....

Oh, he can roll with that.

He's more than happy to get you into a corner deep into the club, his body all but shielding yours as his head tips down so he can kiss you and mark your neck as much as he possibly can before he dips lower. He keeps you shielded, broad shoulders hiding your form away from any wandering eyes as he tugs your top down and lets your tits spill out so he can spit on them and mark those up, too.

He pulls back up, demands you open your mouth, before he spits onto your tongue and tells you to swallow. He watches the way your face flushes heavy with blush at his demands, your eyes darting over his expression in a shy manner as he smirks.

"That's my good little whore."

Oops. Little bit of possession slipped in there, too.

Permanent Taglist :

@dwaekkicidal @possum-playground

@thatonedarkskinnedsiren @oc3anfloor @theyadorevalerie

@jeonginsleftcheek @pixie-felix @hwangjoanna @skzophreniic

@silly250

[nerdycheol]

Love, On Air || Choi Seungcheol (valentine's special)

♡ Pairing: choi seungcheol x f!reader

♡ Genre: best friends to lovers, romance, fluff, slice of life

♡ Word Count: 7.8k

note: Happy Valentine’s Day! 💖 This is a special Valentine’s edition based on the poll results(so if you voted—congrats, you manifested this 👀). A massive shoutout to @facethesunflower for proofreading and making sure this didn’t turn into a total disaster. 😆 Hope you enjoy this fluffy, slightly dramatic, finally-they-confess moment.

Remember: if your best friend is acting suspiciously like Cherry… maybe it’s time to connect the dots. 👀💕

The clock hits 9 PM. You take a deep breath, adjusting the headphones on your ears as the familiar hum of the radio booth wraps around you. The room is small, dimly lit by the soft glow of the equipment and the neon sign flashing LIVE on the wall. 

"Alright, we’re live in 3... 2... 1..."

Your hand hovers over the soundboard as you smile into the mic. 

"Good evening, lovely listeners, and welcome back to The Heartbeat Hour, your go-to late-night show where we talk all things love, relationships, and everything in between," you say, your voice smooth and warm, like a cozy blanket on a cold night. "I’m your host, __ , and tonight is extra special because we’re in the heart of Valentine’s week. So, buckle up, folks—this week’s all about confessions, crushes, and, of course, giving you some advice to help you sort through your feelings."

You press the button for the first song request, the soft strains of a romantic ballad filling the room. As the music plays in the background, your eyes scan the requests that have been flooding in. The chat box is constantly ticking with messages—listeners asking for advice, sharing their love stories, or seeking songs that speak to their hearts. You feel that rush, the adrenaline of knowing you’re connected to so many people in real time.

"Now, I’ve got a message here from a listener who needs a little help," you say, pulling up the request. "This one’s from 'Cherry,' who writes in: ‘I’ve been crushing on someone for a while, but I’m not sure how to confess. Any advice?’"

You let out a small breath, your fingers tapping rhythmically on the desk as you think. This one’s a classic. You've seen it all before, but every confession still feels fresh. You smile softly into the mic.

"Ah, 'Cherry,' I get it. Confessing your feelings can be scary, but it’s also one of the most real things you can do. Here’s my advice: Keep it simple. No need for grand gestures, no elaborate speeches. Sometimes, the best way to let someone know how you feel is through a small, sincere gesture. Maybe write a note or give them a little gift that shows you’ve been thinking about them. And when you tell them how you feel, just be honest—there’s no such thing as a perfect confession. Just be you."

You pause, feeling the warmth of the words settle into your heart. The music swells in the background, adding to the ambiance of the moment.

"Remember, 'Cherry,' it’s not about getting it perfect—it’s about being brave enough to say it. And hey, the worst that can happen is they don’t feel the same way. But you know what? You’ve still won because you were true to yourself. So take a deep breath and go for it. You got this.”

You let the silence linger for a moment, Cherry’s words still hanging in the air. Then, with a small smile, you reached for the controls.

"Alright, Cherry, and everyone out there holding onto feelings they haven’t found the words for—this one’s for you. Maybe it’ll give you the courage to say what’s in your heart, or at the very least, remind you that you’re not alone."

With a soft click, the studio filled with the delicate, wistful melody of "From the start" by Laufey—a song that is the ultimate friends to lovers song for all delusional daydreams.

Leaning back in your chair, you glanced out at the city lights reflecting against the glass. Somewhere, maybe Cherry was listening, hesitating over a letter they weren’t sure they’d ever send. Or maybe, just maybe, they had already begun writing.

After an hour of song requests, confessions, and quiet laughter shared through the airwaves, the LIVE sign dims. You take off your headphones, stretching your neck as the studio falls into silence. Another night, another show wrapped up.

Gathering your notes, you stack them neatly before grabbing your now-lukewarm latte from the desk. The faint chatter of coworkers drifts through the halls—other RJs wrapping up, producers discussing schedules.

"Great show tonight, ___," someone calls out in passing.

"Thanks! See you tomorrow!" you reply with a small smile, pulling on your coat.

Near the exit, your producer glances up. "Don’t forget—tomorrow’s segment is longer for the Valentine’s special. Get some rest!"

"Got it. Night, everyone!"

Pushing open the station doors, you step into the cool night air. The city hums in the distance, but here, it’s quiet—still. You take a slow sip of your latte, savoring the warmth against the crisp breeze.

And then, just a few steps away, you see him.

Leaning against his car, hands tucked into his coat pockets, Seungcheol watches you. The street lamp casts a soft glow over him, catching the faint curve of his lips.

You stop in front of Seungcheol, raising an eyebrow. "What are you doing here?"

He tilts his head, acting like it’s the most casual thing in the world. "I was just passing through."

You narrow your eyes. "Passing through? Your workplace is nowhere near here."

"Okay, fine," he chuckles, pushing himself off the car. "I thought I’d pick you up. It’s been a while since we had dinner together."

"Ah, I see. You missed me." You smirk, taking another sip of your latte.

"Don’t flatter yourself, " he scoffs, but the amusement in his eyes gives him away.

You let out a laugh, shaking your head before walking around the car. "Alright, alright. Let’s go before you start crying about how I never have time for you."

He pulls open the passenger door for you with a teasing bow. "Your chariot awaits, my lady."

Rolling your eyes at his theatrics, you slip inside, and he shuts the door before making his way to the driver’s seat.

As he starts the engine, Seungcheol glances at you. "Nice show today."

You blink. "Oh? What’s up, Choiseung? You’re complimenting me?" You raise an eyebrow, grinning.

He scoffs, shaking his head. "Forget it. Should’ve just let you believe no one listens to your rambling at night."

"Too late. I’m taking this to heart forever," you joke, leaning back in your seat.

A few minutes into the drive, Seungcheol reaches into his coat pocket and hands you a neatly folded envelope.

"Here."

You glance at it, then at him. "What’s this?"

"Just open it."

Curious, you unfold the letter inside. His familiar handwriting stretches across the page, carefully written, filled with warmth. It’s a simple note—thanking you for being in his life, for always listening, for just being you.

Your heart softens as you read.

"Ohh, Cheol... this is so sweet. Thank you so much, friend." You smile, touched by the gesture.

The moment the word leaves your lips, he freezes—just for a second.

Then, with a short nod, he looks away, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter.

"Yeah… friend." His voice is light, but something about it feels off.

You don’t notice. Or maybe, you just don’t understand.

"Hm? Did you say something?"

"Nothing," he clears his throat, turning into a street. "We should hurry before the restaurant gets packed."

You let it go, tucking the letter safely into your bag as the city lights blur past.

Dinner is simple—warm bowls of stew and easy conversation. You catch up on each other’s lives, laugh over childhood memories, and argue over who should pay the bill (which Seungcheol wins, as always). It’s comfortable, familiar—just like it’s always been.

But every now and then, Seungcheol watches you with something unreadable in his gaze. Something just beneath the surface.

Later, he pulls up in front of your place.

"Thanks for dinner, Choiseung." You grin, unbuckling your seatbelt.

"Yeah, yeah. You can pay next time."

"I’ll believe that when it happens." You laugh, stepping out of the car. "Goodnight!"

He waits until you disappear inside, only driving off once your lights flicker on.

And then he waits.

Seated in his car, he watches as your silhouette moves around the room. It’s only when your lights finally turn off that he exhales, rubbing the back of his neck before driving away into the quiet night.

The next day passes in a blur of work, coffee, and the usual routine. You go through meetings, reply to emails, and try not to fall asleep at your desk. It’s just another regular day—until night falls, and you’re back in the studio, headphones on, mic live, slipping into the comfort of your show.

"And that was 'Moonlight' to set the mood for tonight," you say, adjusting the volume on the console. "Now, let’s see what’s on your mind, listeners. Late-night confessions, random thoughts, love letters—I'm here for it all."

A familiar name pops up in the chat, and you smile.

"Ah, a message from ‘Cherry’ again," you muse, skimming through it.

"So, Cherry says: ‘I wrote them my feelings, but I feel like they didn't get the hint. Any advice?’”

You lean back, thoughtful.

"Confessions are tricky, aren’t they? But if words feel too heavy, why not try something else?"

You pause, then smile.

"Here’s an idea—make a playlist. Fill it with songs that subtly express your feelings, and share it with them. You can name it something meaningful, like ‘For You’ or ‘Songs That Remind Me of You.’ Maybe they’ll get the hint, maybe they won’t, but either way… music has a way of saying what we can’t."

A soft melody plays as you set up the next song, your voice lowering.

"Speaking of confessions… Cherry, this one’s for you."

___

After the show, you gather your things, stretching as the familiar hum of the studio fades into the quiet of the night. Stepping outside, the cool air brushes against your skin—and there he is, leaning against his car, arms crossed, waiting.

"You again?" You arch a brow, teasing.

Seungcheol smirks. "What can I say? Madam needs her personal chauffeur." He pushes off the car, opening the door for you with a playful grin.

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you slide in. "More like my chauffeur needs his daily dose of validation."

He chuckles, shutting the door before rounding the car. "Can you blame me? Gotta make sure my most important passenger gets home safe."

You shake your head, biting back a smile as he starts the engine. The familiar warmth of routine settles between you, comfortable and unspoken.

As you drive, soft music fills the space—a melody unfamiliar yet strangely intimate. You pause, listening. It’s not his usual sound. Gone are the heavy beats and sharp rhythms he prefers. Instead, the speakers hum with gentle tunes, lyrics drenched in longing.

You glance at him, amusement flickering in your gaze. "Since when did your taste in music change this much?"

His fingers flex over the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road. "Dunno. Just felt like switching things up."

You hum along absentmindedly, letting the melody wrap around you, comforting in ways you don’t fully understand.

Seungcheol exhales quietly, gripping the wheel a little tighter, sneaking a glance your way. Because this playlist isn’t just a mix of songs—it’s a confession. One he can only hope you’ll hear.

As Seungcheol pulls up in front of your place, he shifts the car into park but doesn’t make a move to unlock the doors just yet. Instead, he drums his fingers against the steering wheel, stealing a glance your way.

"__, since tomorrow’s the weekend... you wanna hang out?" His voice is casual, but there’s something just a little hesitant in the way he says it.

You turn to him, brows raised. "Sure. Where?"

Seungcheol clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks away. "Nothing much… just the amusement park. Maybe a café after, y’know."

You blink before breaking into a small smile. "Huh, it’s been a while since we’ve gone there."

He nods, still avoiding your eyes. "Yeah. Thought it might be fun."

You tilt your head, watching him for a second before nudging his arm. "Well, if you’re paying, I’m definitely in."

He scoffs, rolling his eyes but grinning nonetheless. "Yeah, yeah. Just don’t go overboard with the snacks."

You laugh, reaching for the door handle. "No promises. See you tomorrow, Choiseung."

As you step out, he waits, watching until your lights flicker on inside. Only then does he drive off, the soft hum of the playlist still playing in the background.

The next day, the weekend air carries a hint of excitement as you step outside, spotting Seungcheol waiting by his car. Dressed casually in a hoodie and jeans, he looks effortlessly relaxed—except for the way he keeps checking his phone, as if trying to act nonchalant.

"Wow, you’re actually on time today," you tease, walking up to him.

He scoffs, sliding his phone into his pocket. "Please, I was born punctual."

You snort. "Sure, if 'punctual' means making me wait at least ten minutes every time."

Seungcheol rolls his eyes but opens the car door for you anyway, his usual playful smirk tugging at his lips. "Just get in, before I make you walk to the amusement park."

You laugh, sliding in as he rounds the car. Soon, you're both on the road, the soft hum of music playing in the background.

"So, what’s the plan, tour guide?" you ask, glancing at him.

He shrugs, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "Nothing fancy. Just rides, food, and you trying not to chicken out on the roller coasters."

You gasp dramatically. "Excuse you, I do not chicken out—"

"You literally backed out last time," he deadpans, making you groan in protest.

The banter continues, filling the car with laughter as the amusement park comes into view, the vibrant lights and distant screams of thrill-seekers setting the perfect scene for the day ahead.

As Seungcheol parks the car, you glance at the towering rides ahead, the excited chatter of parkgoers filling the air.

"Alright, where to first?" he asks, stretching as he steps out of the car.

You scan the park, lips pursed in thought before pointing towards the roller coasters with a challenging grin. "Since you’re so confident, let’s start with that."

His eyes widen for a split second before he huffs. "I wasn’t the one who backed out last time, remember?"

You laugh, linking your arm with his and pulling him along. "Exactly. Time to redeem myself."

The line moves faster than expected, and soon, you're seated, the bar locking in place. You grip the handles tightly, sneaking a glance at Seungcheol. He looks relaxed, but the way he exhales deeply before the ride starts doesn’t go unnoticed.

The moment the coaster shoots forward, your screams mix with laughter, adrenaline rushing through your veins as you grip the bar for dear life. When it finally slows, you glance at Seungcheol, only to see him looking at you instead of the ride’s descent.

"What?" you ask, breathless.

He shakes his head, a small, fond smile on his lips. "Nothing. Just glad you didn’t chicken out this time."

You roll your eyes, nudging him playfully as you both step off the ride, your legs slightly wobbly from the rush.

The day continues with more rides, playful bets on who can win the most arcade games (he cheats, you swear), and an unnecessary but hilarious attempt at a claw machine.

"Face it, I'm just naturally gifted," he boasts, tossing you a small stuffed bear.

"Naturally full of it, maybe," you grumble, but take the bear anyway, hugging it to your chest.

Finally, as the night settles, you both find yourselves on the Ferris wheel, the gentle hum of the ride filling the comfortable silence. The city sprawls below, glowing under the streetlights, and in the distance, fireworks begin to bloom in the sky.

"Didn’t think today would be this fun," you admit, leaning back against the seat, the cool glass behind you a contrast to the warmth in your chest.

Seungcheol glances at you, something unreadable in his expression. He exhales softly, his fingers tapping against his knee.

"Yeah... I, uh—" He hesitates, licking his lips, his voice quieter now. "There's actually something I—"

But before he can finish, a particularly loud firework crackles in the sky, painting the cabin in flickering colors. You turn quickly, eyes lighting up as you take in the view.

"Oh, look at that one! It’s so pretty" you say, completely missing the way Seungcheol sighs, his half-spoken words swallowed by the moment.

He leans back, running a hand through his hair, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

"Yeah," he murmurs, gaze lingering on you instead of the fireworks. "It is pretty."

Eventually, you both find yourselves at a cozy café just outside the park, the scent of coffee and pastries filling the air.

After placing your order, Seungcheol suddenly pushes back his chair. “Be right back,” he says, flashing a quick smile before heading toward the counter.

You don’t think much of it, scrolling through your phone until the waiter returns with your drinks. As they set your cup down, you notice the delicate heart design floating atop the foam.

You tilt your head, stirring it slightly with your spoon. “Oh? Is this some kind of Valentine’s special?” you ask, amused. “Did you get one too?”

Seungcheol, who’s just returned to his seat, glances at his own plain coffee and shrugs. “Yeah… no.”

You raise a brow. “Huh. Guess they just like me more.”

He chuckles, taking a sip of his drink, but you don’t notice the way he hides his small, satisfied smile. Because the truth is, he had asked for that heart—just for you.

//

The next evening, the soft glow of the studio lights casts a warm hue as you settle into your seat, adjusting your headphones. Outside, the city hums with life, but a sudden downpour has turned the streets into shimmering reflections of neon signs.

"Looks like we’re in for an unexpected downpour tonight," you say, adjusting your headphones with a small chuckle. "So if you're heading home, grab an umbrella—or better yet, find someone who’ll share theirs with you—if not, maybe this is your chance for a classic movie moment. You know, the whole ‘one umbrella, two people’ thing."

With a quick tap, you queue up a slow, dreamy melody.

"Wherever you are tonight—rushing through the rain or just watching it fall—I hope this keeps you warm. Stay safe out there." As the song plays, you sit back, stretching your arms with a sigh. 

As the show wraps up, you take off your headphones, letting out a small sigh as the last song fades into silence. The studio, once filled with the hum of voices and music, now feels still. Gathering your things, you push open the door, stepping into the quiet hallway.

Outside, the rain still falls in soft sheets, blurring the glow of streetlights. You pause near the entrance, rummaging through your bag. No umbrella. Right. You meant to bring one this morning, but in the rush, it completely slipped your mind.

 You pause at the entrance, contemplating making a run for it, when a familiar voice calls out.

"Figured you’d forget yours."

You blink as Seungcheol steps forward, holding out an umbrella, his usual smirk in place. His hair is slightly damp, his coat dusted with droplets, like he had hurried here without much thought.

A small flutter, barely noticeable, stirs in your chest. You shake it off with a teasing smile. "What, no chauffeur duty today?"

He chuckles, tucking a hand into his pocket. "Uhh, not tonight. I have to stay late for that project."

You tilt your head, a little surprised. "So you came all the way here just to give me this?" You motion toward the umbrella in your hand.

"Yeah," he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Before you can say anything else, his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, sighs, then looks back at you. "I gotta go. Text me when you get home, okay?"

You nod, watching as he jogs toward his car, the red taillights fading into the rain.

For a moment, you just stand there, gripping the umbrella a little tighter. You don’t know why, but the weight of it in your hands feels different.

Then, shaking off the thought, you open it and step into the rain, heading home.

//

As morning arrives, the first thing that comes to mind is Seungcheol. You blink at your phone, thumb hovering over his contact.

Texting him isn’t anything new—you’ve done it countless times before. But for some reason, tonight, it feels… different. Maybe it’s your coworker’s words still echoing in your head, or maybe it’s the way he’s been occupying your thoughts more than usual.

Before you can overthink it, you start typing.

You: Did you get home okay?

A second passes. Then another. You bite your lip, debating whether to add something else.

You: And did you even sleep well? Don’t tell me you stayed up all night working.

You press send before hesitation can creep in. Almost instantly, the dots appear.

Seungcheol: Wow, checking up on me? I must be special.

You roll your eyes, already imagining the smug grin on his face.

You: Forget I asked.

Seungcheol: Wait, wait— I did sleep. Kinda. Had a long day, but I’m home now.

You: Good. Don’t overwork yourself.

Your fingers hover over the screen for a beat before you add one last message.

This time, he takes a little longer to respond.

Seungcheol: You too.

You lock your phone, exhaling softly as you sink into your pillow.

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re just overthinking. But the warmth unfurling in your chest suggests otherwise.

At work, the usual hum of chatter fills the office. You’re halfway through your emails when a coworker slides into the seat beside you, a teasing grin already in place.

"I saw you yesterday," they start, leaning in slightly. "With a guy. Was he your boyfriend?"

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard.

"What? No!" The denial is immediate, instinctive. Too quick. You clear your throat, forcing a casual shrug. "Just a friend."

Your coworker chuckles, clearly amused. "Mmm, sure. You should’ve seen your face just now."

You scoff, shaking your head. "Oh, please. It’s not like that."

They raise an eyebrow, smirking as they lean against your desk. "Right. Just a friend, huh?"

You roll your eyes, waving them off, but as they walk away, their words linger.

Just a friend. 

You’ve said it a hundred times before. So why does it feel different now?

The soft glow of the studio lights wraps around you like a familiar embrace as you settle in for another night on air. The playlist hums in the background, filling the quiet spaces between your thoughts as you scroll through messages from listeners.

One catches your eye.

“I think I’ve fallen for my best friend. It wasn’t sudden—more like a slow, creeping realization. One day, I caught myself smiling at my phone just because they texted me. I don’t know if they feel the same, and I’m scared to lose what we have. What do I do?"

You hesitate for a moment, the words settling heavier than they should. There’s a flicker of something familiar in them, something that makes you sit up a little straighter.

You take a breath and lean toward the mic. “That’s… complicated,” you begin, your voice even, steady. “Falling for a best friend is tricky. It sneaks up on you when you least expect it. One day, they’re just… them. The same person they’ve always been. And then suddenly, everything feels different.”

Your breath catches slightly. A part of you wants to laugh at the timing, but instead, you clear your throat and lean into the mic.

You exhale softly, fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of your notes. "I think the scariest part isn’t even confessing—it’s the thought of what happens after. What if they don’t feel the same? What if things change? But… at the same time, isn’t it worth knowing? Isn’t it better than wondering ‘what if’ forever?"

The words come naturally, maybe a little too naturally, and you catch yourself mid-sentence, blinking at the realization. Your fingers tighten slightly around the papers in front of you.

You shake it off with a light laugh. "Anyway, I’m not a love expert. But if you’re listening… maybe ask yourself this—would you rather take the risk or live with the regret?"

As the segment transitions, you queue up the next song, the soft melody of Can't Help Falling in Love by Kina Grannis filling the airwaves. A bittersweet smile tugs at your lips as you lean back in your chair, staring at the ceiling.

//

The idea of a team dinner had been floating around the office for weeks, but it wasn’t until today that your producer finally put his foot down.

“We’re going,” he declared, arms crossed as he leaned against your desk. “No more excuses, no more ‘let’s do it next week.’ Tonight, we eat.”

Your coworker snickered, spinning lazily in their chair. “You just don’t want to go home and cook.”

“Exactly,” he admitted shamelessly. “Besides, it’s been a while since we all hung out outside of work. You in?”

You hesitated for a beat, glancing at your screen before sighing. It wasn’t like you had anything better to do. “Yeah, I’m in.”

And that was that. A few hours later, you found yourself walking toward the restaurant with the rest of your team, the air buzzing with conversation. Your producer was still arguing about food, insisting that this place was “decent at best” while another team member defended it with an almost personal level of passion.

You laughed at their banter, falling into step behind them—until something made you slow down.

A familiar figure stood just outside the restaurant, hands tucked into his coat pockets. Even before he turned, you knew who it was.

Seungcheol.

Your brows lifted slightly in amusement. “Are you a stalker?” you teased as you approached. “You’re literally everywhere I go.”

He turned toward you, chuckling under his breath. “No, I’m here with someone. My cli—”

“Shall we go?”

The voice belonged to a woman who stepped up beside him, her posture poised, her tone polite. She looked… elegant. The kind of effortless elegance that didn’t even need to try.

Your gaze flickered between them, something unreadable tightening in your chest before you smoothed your expression. “Who…”

The woman met your eyes and smiled. “Oh, I’m Lee Hana. I’m working with Seungcheol on a project.”

You nodded, lips curving into something light, something easy, even as something else tugged inside you. “Right. Nice to meet you.”

Seungcheol’s gaze lingered on you for a second longer than it should. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh,” you blinked, shifting slightly. “Our team is having dinner.” You motioned toward the restaurant behind you. “You know, bonding and all that.”

He nodded, but before he could say anything else, Hana touched his arm lightly. “Shall we?”

There was a pause—brief, barely there—before he cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah.” Then he glanced at you again. “Bye, then. Have fun.”

And then he was gone, walking away with her at his side.

You watched them leave, something unspoken pressing against your ribs. It’s not jealousy, you told yourself. Not really. But the feeling stayed anyway.

A voice broke through your thoughts. “Oh, isn’t he the umbrella guy?”

You turned to see your coworker standing beside you, glancing after Seungcheol with mild curiosity before their gaze shifted back to you. “Did he come here with a woman?”

You said nothing, but that seemed to be enough of an answer.

They hummed knowingly. “You really must be just friends.” And with that, they walked inside.

You stayed there a second longer, staring at the spot where Seungcheol had just been, before shaking yourself out of it and following them in.

The night air is crisp as you walk back home, the sounds of the city buzzing softly in the background. Your team dinner had ended a while ago, but instead of feeling full and satisfied, there’s a strange heaviness in your chest—a weight you don’t quite understand.  

As you turn the corner to your apartment complex, you slow down, your steps faltering.  

There, leaning against his car with his arms crossed, is Seungcheol.  

Your brows knit together. “What are you doing here?”  

At your voice, he straightens, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You didn’t look well back at the restaurant,” he says, his tone light but laced with something else—concern, maybe. “So, I thought I’d check on you.”  

You blink at him. “You drove all the way here for that?”  

He shrugs. “It’s not far.”  

Liar. His office is nowhere near your place.  

There’s a brief pause. The usual banter is on the tip of your tongue, but for some reason, the words don’t come out as easily tonight. Maybe it’s because he actually showed up. Maybe it’s because you don’t know what to do with the way your heart stutters at the sight of him standing there, waiting for you.  

You shift your weight. “Do you… want to come in for coffee?”  

At that, he chuckles, shaking his head. “Coffee? At this time?” He tilts his head at you, amused. “You must really hate me if you don’t want me to sleep tonight.”  

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Then I’ll give you plain water. Just come in.”  

His lips twitch into a smirk before he pushes himself off the car. “If you insist.”  

And just like that, he follows you inside.  

The door clicks shut behind you as you step inside, flipping on the lights. The familiar warmth of your home settles around you, but with Seungcheol standing in your living room, it suddenly feels… different.

“You can sit,” you say, gesturing vaguely to the couch as you move toward the kitchen.

He hums in response, wandering over but not immediately sitting down. Instead, he looks around, eyes flickering to the small details of your space—the stack of books on the coffee table, the blanket draped lazily over the couch, the half-full cup on the counter from this morning.

“By the way,” you start, keeping your voice casual as you pour warm milk, “who was that woman earlier?”

Seungcheol hums in acknowledgment, but when he answers, it’s after a slight pause. “Just a client. I’m handling a project for her company.”

“Ah.” You nod, stirring the coffee a little too forcefully. “Looked like you guys were close.”

He lets out a small laugh. “Are you interrogating me right now?”

You scoff, bringing the mugs over to the table and handing him one. “No. Just making conversation.”

You drop onto the couch beside him, curling your legs under you. He’s been here so many times before, and yet tonight, the usual comfort feels a little different—like you’re hyper-aware of the way he leans back, his long legs stretched out in front of him, the way he watches you over the rim of his mug.

“You seemed off earlier,” he says after a beat. “Something wrong?”

“No,” you lie, but even you don’t sound convinced.

Seungcheol doesn’t press, just tilts his head slightly, studying you like he’s figuring out a puzzle. “If you say so.”

After a while, he stretches, glancing at the time. “I should go.”

You nod, following him to the door. He lingers for a second, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Text me when you wake up, yeah?”

You frown. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Just ‘cause.”

You roll your eyes, but something about the way he’s looking at you makes your chest tighten. “Fine.”

He smirks. “Good.”

And then, with a small wave, he’s gone.

You stand there for a second, staring at the closed door, fingers curling tightly around your cup.

The theater is dim, the soft glow from the screen casting flickering lights across Seungcheol’s face. The film has barely begun, but the hum of quiet conversations and the rustling of popcorn bags fill the space around you.

You’re not sure who suggested this movie. Maybe he did. Maybe you did. Maybe it was just one of those things—where he casually texted, "Movie?" and you didn’t even think before replying, "Sure."

The movie plays, but your focus wavers. You’re aware of him. Of the way his shoulder is just barely brushing yours. The way his fingers drum lazily against his knee. The way he shifts slightly every now and then, getting comfortable.

And then, his hand moves to the popcorn bag between you.

Your fingers accidentally graze his. Just for a second.

You don’t think much of it—until it happens again.

The second time, neither of you pull away immediately. It’s not intentional, not deliberate. Just… a pause. A moment that lingers for a beat too long before he finally retracts his hand.

Your pulse stutters, but you keep your expression neutral.

A few more scenes pass. You’re getting lost in the film when suddenly—

A jump scare.

It’s sudden enough that your breath catches, and before you can stop yourself, your hand darts out, grasping the closest thing—his arm.

Seungcheol doesn’t move. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t say a word. Just glances down at your fingers curled around his sleeve.

You realize what you’ve done a second too late. Heat creeps up your neck as you start to pull away.

But then—

His arm shifts just slightly, just enough that your hand slides from his sleeve to his wrist, fingertips brushing against his skin.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

The moment stretches, unspoken, unacknowledged. Not quite intentional. But not exactly not intentional, either.

And suddenly, the movie is the least interesting thing in the room.

The movie ends, and the crowd slowly shuffles toward the exits. You stretch your arms as you step out of the dimly lit theater, the cool night air greeting you.

"That wasn’t as scary as I thought," you say, glancing at Seungcheol.

He scoffs, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Sure. That explains why you nearly ripped my sleeve off."

You roll your eyes, nudging him lightly with your elbow. "That was one time."

He smirks. "Uh-huh. And what about the other time? And the time after that?"

You narrow your eyes at him, but there’s no real bite behind it. He’s enjoying this way too much.

"Okay, whatever. Where are we eating?" You change the subject swiftly, and Seungcheol hums, pretending to think.

"Ramen?" he suggests.

Your stomach growls at the mention of food, and you nod. "Sounds good."

It’s a short walk to the small ramen shop tucked away on a quieter street. The place is cozy, warm, and familiar—one of those late-night spots you’ve both ended up in more times than you can count. The moment you step inside, the comforting aroma of broth and spices fills the air.

Seungcheol orders for both of you, as he always does, rattling off your usual without even asking. The cashier doesn’t even blink, already used to it by now.

You shake your head with a small smile. "One day, I’m going to switch things up just to mess with you."

He leans against the counter, grinning. "No, you won’t."

He’s right, and you hate that he knows it.

The two of you settle into a booth, the conversation flowing easily between bites of food. Seungcheol steals a piece of your fish cake without asking. You retaliate by swiping a sip of his drink. It's effortless, familiar.

By the time you step back outside, the streets are quieter. The late hour drapes the city in a peaceful hush, the occasional headlights casting long shadows on the pavement.

Neither of you say much as you walk, but it isn’t an awkward silence. Just the kind that lingers when words aren’t needed.

At some point, Seungcheol slows his pace, falling into step beside you instead of slightly ahead.

The street lights flicker above, the air crisp but not too cold. You rub your hands together out of habit.

A beat passes before Seungcheol exhales through his nose and, without a word, reaches out.

His hand brushes yours, just barely.

You think it might be an accident until he does it again.

This time, he doesn’t move away.

And neither do you.

The apartment is quiet when you step inside, the familiar space wrapping around you like a well-worn blanket. You toe off your shoes, set your bag down, and exhale, as if the night still clings to your skin. The soft hum of the refrigerator is the only sound filling the air, but your mind is anything but quiet.

You wander into the kitchen on autopilot, reaching for a glass, but your fingers hesitate over the cabinet handle. The thought slips in, uninvited.

What if he already knows?

The question lingers, settling into the corners of your mind like an echo. You shake your head as if that alone could shove it away, but it doesn’t work.

Maybe it’s the way he laughed tonight—soft, genuine, like the sound itself belonged to you. Or the way he leaned in closer, just enough that his warmth almost touched you. Maybe it’s nothing at all, just the way he exists around you—familiar, steady, yet suddenly… different.

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to chase the feeling away, but it’s stubborn. Because now that you’ve noticed it, you can’t unsee it. Every teasing remark, every lingering glance, every small, meaningless moment—it’s all been leading to this.

And the worst part?

You don’t even know when it started.

You sink onto the couch, pressing the cool glass against your palm, grounding yourself. You try to convince yourself it’s nothing. You’ve always been close. He’s always been there.

But tonight, when his hand brushed yours and he didn’t pull away… when he said goodnight like he meant something else…

Your heart had stuttered.

You bite your lip, staring at the ceiling, willing your heartbeat to settle.

...What if he already knows?

//

The studio is quiet except for the soft hum of the equipment. The city lights flicker through the window, casting faint shadows against the booth. You scroll through the messages, eyes landing on a familiar name.

Cherry.

“I tried everything you said—gave them a letter, took them out, spent so much time together. And honestly? I swear they like me too. But… nothing. What do I do?"

You let out a breath, tapping your fingers lightly against the desk.

"Okay, first of all—don’t give up. I know it’s frustrating when someone doesn’t read between the lines, but sometimes, people need things to be said plainly. No metaphors, no subtlety. Just… real words."

You lean back slightly, eyes flickering toward the dim window of the booth, where the city blurs in the distance.

"Because here’s the thing—what if they do feel the same way? What if they’re just as scared as you are? Wouldn’t you rather know than spend your days wondering?"

The words come easily, almost too easily, and for a split second, you wonder if you’re really just talking to Cherry anymore.

You exhale and push forward.

"So here’s my advice, Cherry. Tell them. No hints, no half-confessions. Just look them in the eyes and say, ‘I like you.’ And if they don’t feel the same? At least you’ll know. At least you won’t have to live with ‘what if.’"

Your hand hovers over the controls for a moment longer than necessary before finally pressing the next song cue.

The melody flows through the studio, soft and steady. And yet, your heart is thudding slightly faster than it should.

The night air is cool against your skin as you step out of the building, the faint hum of the city filling the quiet. Work is done for the day, your coworkers already heading their separate ways after a few lingering goodbyes.

You stretch your arms slightly, exhaling as you adjust the strap of your bag—only to freeze mid-motion.

He’s there.

Standing just outside the entrance, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket—except for one, which lingers behind his back, hiding something.

Your heart stirs, something instinctive. “Seungcheol?”

His lips twitch in a small, almost nervous smile. “Hey.”

“You’re waiting for me?” You shift your bag on your shoulder, stepping toward him.

“Yeah.” A soft exhale. “I had to.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Why?”

Seungcheol hesitates, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Then, with a slow exhale, he pulls his hand from behind his back—revealing a bouquet of flowers, delicate and vibrant under the streetlights.

Your breath catches.

Your fingers brush against his as you take it, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours.

“Seungcheol…” Your voice is softer now, unsure. The gesture feels too deliberate, too thoughtful. It makes your heart ache in a way you don’t fully understand.

He watches you for a second before exhaling, running a hand through his hair. “I should’ve said this sooner. A long time ago, actually.” His voice drops slightly. “I think—no, I know—I’ve liked you for a while now.”

Your breath catches.

He holds it out to you, a faint chuckle escaping his lips. “I know it’s kind of cheesy, but... I saw this and thought of you.”

Your fingers brush against his as you take it, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours.

“Seungcheol…” Your voice is softer now, unsure. The gesture feels too deliberate, too thoughtful. It makes your heart ache in a way you don’t fully understand.

He watches you for a second before exhaling, running a hand through his hair. “I should’ve said this sooner. A long time ago, actually.” His voice drops slightly. “I think—no, I know—I’ve liked you for a while now.”

The world feels like it slows down.

His eyes flicker with something—uncertainty, vulnerability, an honesty so raw it makes your chest tighten.

“I tried not to,” he continues, voice steadier now. “I thought maybe it would pass, that maybe we were just friends and I was misreading things. But then you started showing up in my thoughts at the most random times. I’d hear a song and think of you. I’d pass a café and wonder if you’d like their coffee. And no matter how much I tried to ignore it… it was always you.”

Your fingers tighten around the flower.

“So I’m done pretending.” His voice is quiet but firm. “I like you. I’ve liked you for a long time.”

You swallow, fingers tightening around the flower as your heart stumbles over itself. The weight of his words settles over you—not heavy, not suffocating, but something warm, something undeniable.

For a long moment, you don’t speak. You don’t know if you can.

Seungcheol watches you carefully, his usual confidence laced with something softer, something uncertain. You can tell he’s waiting, bracing himself for whatever comes next.

So you inhale slowly, steadying yourself.

“You—” Your voice falters slightly before you clear your throat. “You’ve liked me for a long time?”

He nods, lips curving into a self-deprecating smile. “Yeah.” A beat. “I thought you knew.”

Your breath catches.

Did you?

You think back—to the lingering glances, the easy laughter, the way he’s always been there, steady and constant. The way he looks at you when he thinks you don’t notice. The way your heart has been shifting, your feelings unraveling into something you weren’t ready to name.

“I…” You pause, lips parting, your heart beating so fast it’s dizzying. And then you laugh, a little breathless, shaking your head. “God, I feel so stupid.”

Seungcheol blinks, caught off guard. “Huh?”

You meet his eyes, and this time, there’s no doubt, no hesitation.

“I like you too, you idiot.”

For a second, everything is still.

Then Seungcheol lets out a sharp breath—a laugh, almost disbelieving—and suddenly, that teasing smile you know so well is back, but there’s something else in his expression now. Something real. Something unshakable.

“Yeah?” His voice is quieter, laced with something warm.

You nod, lips pressing together. “Yeah.”

And then, he pulls you in—his hand resting at the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair.

His lips press against yours, gentle at first, then firmer, like he’s been holding this in for too long. His other hand stays over yours, the bouquet still between you, petals brushing against your skin.

The city buzzes in the background, but all you can hear is the quiet rush of your own heartbeat. And in that moment, with his warmth, his touch, his everything—

It just feels right.

You pull away just enough to look at him, breathless, your forehead still resting against his. His hands remain on your waist, warm and grounding, as if neither of you wants to let go just yet.

And honestly? You don’t think you ever want to.

A soft laugh escapes you, light and airy. “You know… a listener of mine also loves their best friend,” you murmur, tilting your head slightly. “They tried everything—subtle hints, letters, taking them out—but their best friend was too dense to get it.”

Seungcheol chuckles, his thumb brushing over your wrist. “Sounds familiar.”

“Right?” You sigh dramatically. “So, I told them to just confess. No hints, no half-confessions, just… real words.”

He hums, nodding thoughtfully. “Good advice.”

“Yeah,” you grin, looking up at him. “I wonder how it went for them.”

Seungcheol pauses for a second, then leans in just a little, his voice playful yet quiet. “I’d say pretty well.”

You blink. “Huh?”

His lips quirk up, and suddenly, the way he’s looking at you feels a little too knowing.

And then, before you can process it, he says it—just two words, but they hit you like a ton of bricks.

“I know.”

You stare. “What?”

He grins, tapping a finger against your forehead lightly. “Your listener. Cherry.”

Your brows furrow. The pieces are there, but your brain refuses to connect them. “What about them?”

He hesitates, as if savoring the moment, before finally confessing, “It’s me.”

Silence.

You tilt your head, processing his words. “...You’re Cherry?”

Seungcheol nods, clearly holding back a laugh at your expression.

For a second, you just stand there, staring at him.

Then, with a dramatic gasp, you lightly smack him with the bouquet in your hands.

“Ow—hey!” He feigns pain, stumbling back slightly, but the wide grin on his face betrays him.

“You idiot!” You hit him again, though there’s no real force behind it. “You made me give love advice for your own confession?”

He catches your wrist, still laughing. “Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”

You narrow your eyes at him, but before you can retaliate, he tugs you forward, pulling you into another hug.

This time, it feels different.

Familiar, warm, but with something new. Something neither of you have to question anymore.

You sigh against his shoulder, shaking your head. “I can’t believe you.”

He grins. “Believe it, Baby.”

[walkman-cat]

Im allright Been a bit of a busy time but we move was also trying to let you focus for your exam how'd it go? I'm glad you get a bit of a break!

I have stuff to share!

its good to hear that you're alright :)

my exam went well! the (good) actors in my group acted their hearts out (we said we'd make a mafia movei play and boy did we make a mafia movie play) and i got really good feedback from both the teachers and the other groups about my costumes (they said they were very 20s !!!)

oooooo what stuff do you have to share :000

[artemisiasmuse]

rafe being all stressed at work and all he wants is come pick his sweet girl from her girl brunch and go home and cuddle? (Love ur work and than u baby)

this is so cute :< i can see it so clearly

first req yippee thank u my love <3

cw: it’s sickly sweet fluff, maybe a tad suggestive, reader described as shorter than rafe, use of “princess” “angel” “wife”, some manhandling

rafe had a headache, what from? it was unclear, maybe dealing with stakeholders and being in meetings all day or just simply having to come in on a day which would be a day off for anyone else. the joys of being a ceo. he couldn’t even think straight at a certain point, telling his father’s assistant, now his, to push all his meetings to monday. the overseas partners be damned, he needed to see his girl. you were the only one who could make him feel better, the only one allowed to see how much it was getting to him

he called you on his way out, you felt the phone ring in your purse, resting next to your lap on the booth you and your friends were piled into. brunch was starting to become a tradition after rafe kept going into the office on saturday mornings, you hated how empty the house felt so instead you hung out with your friends. you didn’t expect him to be free till 12 pm but now he was calling. your friends groaned as you hopped out of the booth, skipping slightly to answer the phone. “so whipped.” kie resounded behind your back and you wouldn’t even refute it.

your voice was sickeningly sweet when you answered, knowing your rafe was probably stressed or tired and was taking his few minutes between meetings to call you. “hi baby.”

“hey princess, you still out?” his voice sounded strained, you frowned at the tone, you could tell he was tired.

“uh huh, everything okay rafey?” he sighs at your words, you’re so endlessly adoring and doting, he should just wife you up. a big diamond ring would look so nice on your fingers, you’d be mrs. rafe cameron, god he wished you were next to him.

“‘missed you, can i pick you up angel?” you perked up at his words, already moving back to your table so you could pick up your bag.

“you’re off work?” there was a slight waver in your voice, you didn’t want him to go back after what you assumed was a short hour break.

“i’m taking it off, just wanna lie in bed with you.” that was all you needed to hear, telling him you’ll text him your location and hanging up with a sweet, “see you soon rafe.”

your friends groaned as you informed them you’d be leaving early, telling them you’d venmo them the split. the next ten minutes felt like hours as you anxiously awaited your boyfriend’s arrival. when he was finally outside you practically ran out of the restaurant, your friends giggling at you.

rafe was waiting outside his car door, watching you walk over, you looked so pretty in the morning all warm and cuddled up in bed. now you were in a sundress and sandals looking like a dream, you giggled when he looked you up and down with zero subtlety, skipping into his arms. he caught your weight, huffing a laugh at the impact. “pretty.” he murmured into your ear and you pressed a kiss to his collarbone, not quite reaching his face even in your heels. it was strange how his headache had vanished as soon as you were in his arms, was it your scent, your touch, your pretty voice? he didn’t know and he didn’t care, all he needed to know was that you fixed everything. he really needed to hack into your pinterest somehow and look at the wedding board he just knew you had.

you made it home pretty quickly, rafe ditched his dress shirt and pants, you kicked off your sandals, took of your bra, and practically jumped into bed. his arms wrapped around you, hating how distant you were on the other side of the bed, and pulled you against him. you turned in his hold, looking at your beautiful boyfriend, pressing your hand to his face, there was still a furrow to his brow. “you okay rafey?”

“i am now.” he kissed the palm of your hand tugging you closer if it was even possible. you were squished against him and even still it wasn’t enough, unsatisfied, rafe turned onto his back pulling your body to lay flat on his. you gasped at the action, bringing your hands to rest on either side of his head against the mattress. “that’s better.” the weight of you on top of him was comforting, now he could feel all of you without worry that you’d move out of his grasp. rafe didn’t know why he felt so erratic but he felt in control, he had you and you weren’t going anywhere. you watched him relax, propping your chin onto his chest just so you could look up at him. his eyelashes fluttered closed as you stroked his cheek, the soothing motion of your fingers lulling him to sleep, it wasn’t long after that you fell asleep with your head against his bare chest, listening to his heartbeat. when you woke up you felt hot and sweaty, sighing at the clammy feeling of rafe’s arms circling your back. he was holding you against him as if you would go anywhere. you tried wiggling out of his hold but were unsuccessful, waking him in the process

“baby stop moving,” his gravelly voice halted your ministrations and you huffed against his chest, both annoyed and impressed by how firm his pecs were.

“rafe we can’t sleep all day, we’ll be up all night.” you murmured, he hummed at your words, a deep rumble that shook you against him.

“that was my plan anyways.” you groaned at his teasing words, belatedly realizing you shouldn’t have said that in the first place.

“at least let me-” you squirmed in his hold again, this time he let you move and you lay by his side instead, his arms still loosely around you. “hey big boy, i’m not going anywhere, ease up.” you teased, poking his biceps as he kept them around you. the nickname was enough for him to be momentarily stunned, easing his grip and you giggled at his reaction. sea blue eyes widened at your words and you pressed a sweet kiss to his lips. a groaned slipped past his lips, opting to instead stuff his head between your breasts so he could at least be close to you this way. you giggled at his actions, watching how he scooted down the length of the bed so his head could rest against you. you scraped your nails against his scalp, hands naturally finding their way back to him. rafe sighed into you, so grateful he could lie on his favorite pillows, hear your quickening heartbeat, smell your perfume and distinct scent. he’d bottle it up if he could. you let him rest there a while longer, massaging the taunt muscles of his back and shoulders.

rafe would much rather spend every day like this with you, cuddled up and limbs tangled so thoroughly he doesn’t know where he ends and you begin.

since im a demon and evil i was having alternative thoughts like what if rafe came home and just wanted to smoke a blunt and do other things or what if he just needs to take his stress out in other ways okay goodbye this way too long already i just loved the prompt sm!

[luk4streams]

🐺New item drop🐺 A fluffy tail for all kinds of furry VRoid creatures! There's 12 different colors with black and white variations ✨ Available at Booth and Ko-fi

[xaviergalatis]

Gx

[2pndr]

The Final Mix

A/N: Written for a prompt by @woollypoison. Much love for hosting! This is also my first time officially writing smut. Enjoy!

Karina & Hyeri x Male Reader Smut

5.7k words

Now here’s the thing about Lee Hyeri: 

She gets it. 

She’s loud, she’s lazy, and she’s casually filthy, sure. But she doesn’t pretend this is about attachment or romance or whatever else people try to slap onto a good fuck. She moans like a banshee, curses like she’s getting paid by the word, and she’ll laugh in your face if you try to call this passion. 

It's not passion. It's Tuesday. 

You like her for that. That, and the fact that she squirts like a pornstar and doesn’t mind doing it on company time.

Desk, floor, couch, conference table—pick your battlefield. She’ll bring the war. (And open the floodgates.)

Today’s bout happens to be in your vocal booth. 

Or, happened, rather.

“Don’t fall asleep in here,” you remind her, yanking your pants up. “You drool on anything expensive and the label’s gonna think I adopted a stray.”

“Hah,” she laughs dryly. “You owe me lunch, for that one. Or, I dunno, a lozenge. I can’t feel my throat.”

You snort, still half-naked, still sweating—absolutely not in a position to debate sexual reparations.

Meanwhile, Hyeri’s lying across the vocal booth bench like it’s a fucking chaise lounge, panties twirling in her fingers, skirt still hiked up, and blouse open like the concept of modesty just doesn’t apply after three orgasms.

Which, it doesn’t, so you’ll give her that one.

There’s sweat on her chest and something else between her thighs—it yours, obviously—and she’s tracing lazy circles around her navel with one red-tipped nail. “I really think I hit that harmony this time,” she muses. “Like... actually nailed it.” She is, of course, referring to the song you’re supposed to be recording and not the chorus of moans she let out as she came all over you.

You shoot her a sceptical look, shoving a cable out of your way with your foot, hunting for wherever your belt got thrown off to. “You moaned through half of it.”

“Artistic expression,” she shrugs, reaching for a tissue. “Adds texture.”

“It adds me spending an hour editing out your sex noises,” you grimace, pulling your belt out from where she's hidden it under her. “That or we schedule another day to record.”

“Oh no,” she mocks, wiping your cum from between her thighs. “Not post-production work—y’know, the thing you’re paid to do. But,” she’s thinking now, tapping her chin with a finger, “you would like another day with me all to yourself, now wouldn’t you?”

You flick her the bird as you slip back into your button-up. She smiles like she’s won something. She has, technically. Three times, in fact. The first when you ate her out on the bench. The second when she rode you on said bench. And the third against the booth wall, displacing soundproofing with a leg around your waist, your cock in her cunt, and a finger in her ass for good measure.

But unlike your little sexcapade with Hyeri, this was supposed to be quick.

Track the bridge, tweak her verse, maybe do a dry run of the group chorus. Nothing that warranted sweat-slick skin and a room that smells more potent than a fish market. But with Hyeri, quick is theoretical. She’s chaos and lust wrapped in short skirts and high heels—all while masquerading as the Nation's Little Goody-two-shoes.

And then, like the universe itself is showing its disapproval for your pseudo-professionalism, your phone buzzes.

12:15 PM – Karina | Vocal Tracking

“Shit.”

You have exactly thirteen minutes to unfuck the studio.

Hyeri doesn’t look up, popping a mint and digging in her bag for lipstick. “What now?”

“Karina’s coming.”

She looks up. There’s a beat. Then she laughs—not shy, not sorry.

Delighted.

“Did you schedule us back-to-back, again?” she asks, sitting up, buttoning her blouse like it’s a suggestion and not an obligation. “Jesus, you’re bold.”

“I forgot,” you admit, which is true. Sort of.

You remembered the moment Hyeri finished singing the bridge. But when the Nation’s Little Sister is in your vocal booth moaning into the mic and flashing her tits, your list of priorities gets jumbled just a teensy bit.

She cackles, sliding off the bench and onto the floor like this is all the setup to a really good punchline. “Wow. Can’t wait for her to sing backup on the chorus while standing in a puddle of my cu—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

Hyeri holds her hands up. “What? It’s a collab.”

Right. The collab. Two idols, one producer, and a track about heartbreak or temptation or something equally ironic. Not to toot your own horn or anything but the beat’s  good. An obvious hit.

What makes no sense is the lineup.

 Hyeri—basically retired idol turned variety darling turned actress. 90% charm. 100% chaos.

 Karina—hot as all fuck, a pillar of fourth-gen K-pop, and somehow still the weirdest girl in the room. ‘A loser in a goddess’s body’ as the internet puts it.

There’s absolutely no correlation between the two other than industry and that they’re both drop-dead gorgeous. It’s like some wacky higherup wanted the most oddball idol pairings possible. And for some reason, you’re the glue holding it all together.

The calendar notification flashes up at you again, sending you hurtling into action. “Fuck, I really thought it was just you today,” you scramble, grabbing the tissue box and frantically wiping off the bench drenched in her sweat and fluids. “Are you gonna help?”

Hyeri just shrugs. “I had bridge duty,” she begins, ignoring your pleas entirely. “And Karina’s laying down the second verse, right?”

“Yeah,” you reply, dejected and slightly annoyed. She’s not doing shit. “Just…” you begin, like this makes up for anything,”— don’t leave your bra again.”

She pauses, looking down at her chest like she only just remembered she owns one. “Shit—did I?”

You both spot it at the same time in the far corner of the room. Lace, red, costs three figures. Definitely hers. You snatch it like it’s a grenade and shove it into her tote without ceremony.

Hyeri simply grins. “Oops.”

“Can’t believe you left it in the booth last week,” you hiss. “Karina walked in and asked if you were doing your laundry in here.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That you got hot.”

“That’s not even a good lie,” she replies, quite obviously amused by the whole fiasco. “You should’ve said I was doing vocals in lingerie—very French. Very sexy.” 

“Very suspension-of-contract,” you mutter.

“Barely noticed it was gone, to be honest. Was it the black one?”

“...Yes.”

“Mm,” she nods. “Thought so. I’ve been wondering.”

“For a week?”

“I’m not particularly sentimental about bras,” she says, like it’s a flex.

You shake your head. “Do you want it back?”

“Nope. Keep it,” Hyeri zips her tote with a smile, “as a memento.”

You shrug. Can’t argue with that.

With one last wipe you finish scrubbing down the vocal booth like it’s a crime scene clean-up, which, given your contractual obligations such as: Don’t Fuck The Talent, might actually be. 

Three sprays of some bergamot mist tries to mask the smell of sex, sweat, and the lastest in your long line of poor decisions. It doesn’t. At best, now it smells like bergamot and sex. 

But it’ll have to do. 

Hyeri simply watches from her place on the floor. She’s mostly dressed now—blouse crumpled but closed, lipstick redrawn, auburn hair finger-combed into something that says either sexually satisfied or hungover. Almost normal is how you’d describe her—the faint marks just visible above her collar put an emphasis on the almost.

With a couple more sprays of  the citrus you and Hyeri are out of the booth, but you’re desk is a mess too: A tangle of wires, half drunk coffee and—

The recording light is still on.

The waveform’s still rolling.

The track: armed. The booth: live.

You lunge for the keyboard.

Stop recording.

Three peaks. Clear as day.

You don’t need audio engineering school to know what they are. You’re staring at the literal shape of her orgasms.

“Wow,” she says, squinting beside you. “It’s like… orgasmic morse code.”

You glance at her. “The fuck does that even mean?”

“Dunno,” she shrugs. “Sounded smarter in my head.”

You look back at the waveform, playing one of the peaks. 

No vocals. No takes. Just moans. Whines. Wet, slick sounds. You. Her. You in her. And then:

“Oh my fucking Gggggggod,” she moans through the monitors.

Hyeri watches your face. Smiles.

“I should delete it,” you say looking back.

“But you won’t.”

“But I should.”

“But you won’t.”

She’s right. You won’t.

Instead:

Export > Documents > Private > ALT_Hyeri_Vocals.wav

“Ooooh,” she sings, nudging you with her shoulder, a little too pleased. “Wait, alt vocals? Not even a cute name? Not even ‘HyeriMOANS_FinalVII_REALFINAL_usethisone.wav’?”

“It’s for the back-up vocals,” you lie as naturally as you breathe.

“It’s for your spank bank,” she retorts.

You don’t answer. Partly because she’s right and mostly because you’re red from realizing how much you moaned, too. Not your finest hour, you’ll admit.

“Shouldn't you be going?” You finally ask her.

“Fine, fine.”

With one last devious smile, Hyeri pulls on her tote, checks her reflection in the black of the studio glass, and re-combs her hair. “Well,” she says, turning to leave, “have fun explaining our completely professional relationship to Karina.”

“What? Why would I ever—”

“Oh come on,” she cuts in, laughing. “These fourth-gen girls? You think they’ve never walked into a studio that smells like cum and perfume? Please. I’d seriously be surprised if she hasn’t picked up on it by now.”

“Hyeri.”

“I’m serious. She’d have to be Mother Teresa to not know what’s going on in here.” 

You’re mortified. Full-body cringe—It’s delicious to her. “So, unless she’s got a cross under her clothes, you’re not fooling anyone.”

You go pale. She beams.

“You couldn’t have told me this earlier?”

She pretends to think for a second before landing on a simple:

“Nope.”

At the door, she turns, planting a kiss on your cheek—sweet, sinful, smug. “Good luck,” she sings. “See you next week.”

And just like that she's gone.

You’re completely frozen. Save for the moment you spray the bergamot again. 

Five times this time.

Spoiler alert: 

It doesn’t help.

*

Karina arrives at 12:16.

Which is a little late. But when your producer’s secretly been balls-deep in your sexy co-worker, and your body has curves that put cue balls to shame, a little late is just fine.

She pokes her head in, hair in a low ponytail, gray hoodie and sweatpants on, face bare save for chapstick and what you hope is not suspicions of contract violations.

“Hey,” she chirps, offering a small smile. One of those slow, polite things that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Traffic was a nightmare. Did I miss anything?”

Only a live porno starring your dick and Hyeri’s everything.

“Nope,” you lie, voice almost cracking. “Perfect timing.”

She steps inside like she owns the place, which is fair, considering her vocals are probably worth half your paycheck this quarter. Then, she gives you a quick once-over—nothing obvious, but her eyes pause on your sloppy collar, then your flushed ears. You sit up straighter. Try not to look like you’ve just been reverse-exorcised by a woman with zero gag reflex.

Then Karina sniffs.

“New room spray?” she asks, nose wrinkling.

“Uh, yeah. Some limited edition one, I think. Intern picked it up for shits and giggles.”

“Huh.”

You try to make yourself look busy, turning away and absentmindedly double-clicking shit on your desktop, minimising and maximising random windows just to make your screen flash.  You wish you could minimize yourself while you’re at it.

“You, uh… just finished with Hyeri?” she asks, looking over.

There it is.

You nod. Neutral. Casual. “Yeah. She was recording the bridge.”

“Mm.”

Just a sound, not even a word. And yet you can practically hear the subtext screaming: Bridge, huh? Is that what we’re calling it now?

You shouldn’t be scared of her. Of all people, Karina is the probably least intimidating idol you’ve ever worked with—soft-spoken, professionally polite and always just a little behind the tempo of group conversations. 

So then why the fuck does she manage to hit the nail on the head with every word out of that gorgeous mouth?

 “I could tell,” she shrugs. “Smells like her.”

You cough so hard you hit a new vocal register.

But Karina doesn’t say anything. Just makes her way to the booth.

You’re about to ask if she wants water—anything to offset the tension and your crippling anxiety—when she peels off her hoodie.

And fuck you.

It’s not even that it’s scandalous. It’s a black sports bra. Basic. Functional. Nothing that should bring a grown man to his metaphorical and literal knees. It’s gym attire. But it’s her gym attire, and that makes a world of difference. 

The bra doesn’t so much as hide her tits but politely suggest they quiet the fuck down, doing a noble yet futile job of containing what you really wish wasn’t. Because God damn if her breasts aren’t full, shapely—obscene in their perfection, indecent in their splendour. And if that weren't enough for you, right below her stomach tapers in, all sharp lines and lean muscle, just begging for you to run your hands and tongue along.

Karina tosses her hoodie onto the vocal booth bench—the same one you railed Hyeri on half an hour ago. She stretches, arms up, spine arched, that long line of torso on blatant, mouth-watering display. You pretend you’re checking the input levels, but your gaze keeps slingshotting back to her like it’s tied on elastic.

She catches you.

Which, yeah, you’re about as subtle as a cymbal crash.

“It’s really…  stuffy in here,” she remarks as she meets your staring gaze, fanning her face with one hand. “Something must have happened in here.”

Well, if she didn’t know earlier, then she definitely knows now. And she’s fucking with you to boot.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Your throat works around a lie. Futile, probably. Any moment now she could report your horny ass to a higher-up and have you on the street within minutes. But she hasn’t. So either she’s getting off fucking with you, or she wants something in return for keeping hush. Either one isn’t particularly ideal. 

“A‑ah, yeah,” you stammer. Smooth start. “HVAC’s acting up. I’ll put in a ticket.” You flick a random knob that does absolutely nothing, praying she’ll drop it. “Let’s get your tracking done before the air gets worse, yeah?”

Karina nods. Noncommittal. Disbelieving.

Man, you’re so fucked.

*

Karina nails the verse on the first pass—pitch perfect, emotion dialled, consonants crisp enough to slice butter. And for a little while, you forget about her standing in a room soaked in Hyeri’s cum.

Second pass? Even better. Third? Pure polish. By the time you hit stop for real, you're covered in goosebumps and it has nothing to do with the prospect of losing everything.

Karina’s simply that good.

You press the talk‑back. “That’s the one. Seriously, Karina—gold. Take five?”

She lifts one ear‑cup and flashes a grin. “Sure.”

You breathe a sigh of relief when the conversation ends there. Maybe… just maybe… you’ve dodged a bullet.

You lean back, arms stretching over your head, casual as you can fake it. The worst is over. You’re in the clear. She probably bought the ventilation excuse. Probably thinks nothing of the citrus-and-sex sauna she walked into.

Professional crisis: averted.

Thank fuck.

Perhaps Hyeri’s wrong. Perhaps Karina’s a little too sweet, a little too spaced-out, a little too fourth-gen golden girl to know what a post-sex room smells like.

Karina hums a little under her breath, fiddling with her phone. She looks harmless. Normal.

Just a girl in a sports bra and sweats, checking her messages, laughing at a reel.

But then you let your gaze skate over her bare stomach again. Then those magnificent tits.

And you wonder how that would be possible.

You shake your head. Refocus.

“Seriously, you crushed it,” you say, half to fill the air, half to genuinely compliment. “Some of your best work, period.”

Karina beams, cheeks flushing pink. And for another second, it’s easy to forget the whole ticking-time-bomb nature of this room. To forget Hyeri’s cum still somewhere deep in the booth fibers. To forget everything except how fucking pretty she looks smiling at you.

You even start mentally scheduling next week’s sessions—like you’re gonna get away clean.

You’re an idiot.

Because then she ruins your fucking life.

“So,” Karina starts, tilting her head just slightly, “how long have you been fucking Hyeri?”

You choke on absolutely nothing. Do a spit-take with no drink.

She says it like it’s a joke. Like she’s asking if you’re out of oat milk.

Except she’s not joking.

Not even a little.

 “I—I—what?”

“I mean, I’m assuming it’s Hyeri,” she muses, tapping a finger to her chin. "She did look pretty worn when I passed her in the lobby.”

You wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole. You wish you could eject yourself into the sun.

You wish she hadn’t said it with that much fucking glee.

“Don’t worry,” she says in a half-shrug. “I’m not gonna tell anyone if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Thank fuck.

“There is just one thing though…”

Oh fuck.

"I don’t really like being left out."

What the fuck?

"I want in."

What the fuck.

You stand up, pace around the room. Try to gather your thoughts, try to process what exactly she’s proposing here.

Karina wants to fuck you.

 You won’t pretend you haven’t thought about it. That you’re some righteous saint without the need for fantasy. 

But this is Karina you’re talking about.

It’s one thing for you to be caught with Hyeri, but Karina? Pillar of a whole generation? If the two of you were caught it’d be—

“—A PR nightmare?” she supplies. “A scandal? Headline of the century?”

You nod so fast you almost give yourself whiplash.

She just shrugs again, careless, reckless, hot as sin. "Don't care."

You open your mouth. Close it. Try again. "You—you have no idea what you're asking—"

"I do," she interrupts, stepping closer, breath frosting the booth window. Her voice is silk now. A trap you’re already caught in. "I know exactly what I’m asking."

She walks back to the bench, hands bracing behind her, legs spreading just enough to hint at what’s awaiting you.

“I want you like she has you.”

You’re not strong enough. 

You’re not stupid enough to pretend you are.

But even if you managed to steel your resolve, Karina bites her bottom lip. Runs a hand along her crotch.

"I’ve wanted you since the demo."

And you’re moving before you even register it.

*

You’ve soaked in some legendary sights on the label’s dime.

Dawn over the Han River from sixty stories up, neon Tokyo streets glitter‑wet after midnight rain, front-row seats to an Eiffel Tower light show in a suite. Gorgeous, all of them. Low-end bucket‑list kinda stuff.

But this view might just take the cake.

Sweat slicks Karina’s collarbones, soaks the carelessly lifted sports bra, gathers at the dip between her breasts, slides down to where your hands own her hips. Every grind turns your spine to liquid. Every thrust drives you deeper. And every bounce sends those perfect tits—shape and size defying God and physics—swinging in hypnotic rhythm.

“You fill me so good,” she pants, words cutting the hush of the booth, dirty and devotional at once. “Knew you'd feel this good—just knew it." She braces one palm against the glass, the other yanking her own hair into a makeshift ponytail, dragging it off her glowing face. The move juts her chest higher—an unspoken invitation, one you answer with your mouth. You latch on to the reddened mark just above her nipple, tongue finding its way around the sensitive circumference.

She whines.

You suck harder.

She tightens.

And you’re gone.

You should be thinking your job, about morality, about the very real possibility that a lone intern could wander past and see silhouettes doing something distinctly un‑PG behind the frosted glass. Instead, you’re cataloguing micro‑details: the faint scent of her shampoo under the musk of sweat, the tremor in her thigh when she sinks too deep, the almost reverent way her eyes lock on-to you when you hit that spot.

“Been wanting this for so long,” she reiterates, rolling her hips in a tighter circle. “Wanted your cock buried so deep I can’t hit a high note without it in me.”

The image alone nearly finishes you. You grit your teeth, hold your release back with sheer will and bruising fingers at her waist.

“Fuck, Karina—”

Karina leans in, panting against your mouth, grinding harder and harder, chasing her high and yours without a single shred of shame.

“Wanted you so bad,” she whines, breath hot against your ear, “thought about this every time you said my name—every fucking time—”

Your head falls back against the booth wall with a thunk.

You’re losing it.

She feels it—smiles a broken, wicked smile. “Already that close? Poor producer.” She makes a teasing cluck of the tongue, a soft caress to your cheek, then she slams down hard enough to shatter the bench. “Then give it to me,” she growls. “ Give me everything.”

You can’t not obey. 

Pressure builds and so does your pace. Driving into her with a fury you didn’t know you had in you. Karina’s moaning openly now, every last shred of composure thrown to the wind.

Pressure builds then detonates. 

Heat floods every nerve.

You break.

 She follows.

And it’s bliss.

Her cry is earth-shattering, torn from somewhere deep as she clamps down hard around you, milking you for everything you’ve got. Her thighs lock, her body seizes. She’s trembling, gasping, riding wave after wave like she doesn’t know how to stop.

Her nails rake your back, half for balance, half to brand you, and you let her. Let her take. Let her have you. Her breath stutters against your mouth as you kiss through the fallout—sloppy, greedy. A thank-you and a promise and a question all at once.

Aftershocks hit her in uneven jolts, and you revel in the way she twitches around you with each one. You’re still inside her. Still hard. Still pulsing. Still drowning in her.

KArina collapses forward, full-body flush against yours, forehead pressed to your collarbone. Her heartbeat drums against your ribs. You’re shaking. So is she.

For a long, breathless moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your combined panting, then, your lips colliding. 

You’re engrossed. And so is she. So much so that you both miss the sound of the booth door opening.

“And here I thought I came too early,” a voice says from the doorway.

You don’t look right away. You don’t have the mental bandwidth for anything beyond Karina’s skin and the twitch in your cock. 

And besides, you already know exactly what you’ll see.

Your head finally turns toward the door.

Hyeri’s grinning. “You two certainly wasted no time.”

“Hyeri,” you begin, less surprised, more irritated, “ what the fuck are you—”

“Save it,” she interrupts. “You’ll ruin the mood.”

“What fucking moo—”

In an instant Hyeri’s blouse is open again, revealing an absence of fabric over her tits.

You feel Karina tighten.

“Room for one more?” she asks with a sly grin.

You look at Karina.

Karina looks at you.

And Karina—God bless her, damn her, ruin you for life—grins. 

"Yeah," she says, voice high and sweet and so very, very gone. "Okay."

"You good with it, Producer-nim?" she teases.

You are not good.

You are very, very bad.

But Karina’s hips are still pressed against you, and Hyeri’s smile is so knowing, and your cock—traitorous, eager—twitches inside the girl already dripping down your thighs.

You’re fucked.

Yet you nod.

Reluctantly. Helplessly.

(Gratefully.)

Hyeri claps, wickedly pleased. “God, I love consent.”

Then she drops to her knees.

*

You’ve soaked in some legendary sights on the label’s dime.

Dawn over the Han River from sixty stories up, neon Tokyo streets glitter‑wet after midnight rain, Karina, sweat-slick, tits swinging and your name on her breath as she rides you into the Earth’s core.

But this view might just take the cake.

Which is ironic, because there’s no view at all.

Because Karina’s sitting on your face.

Full weight, full warmth, full heaven and hell combined.

Her meaty thighs clamp around your head, her cunt pressed flush against your mouth, slick and perfect and utterly suffocating. Her ass—round, shameless and the urban dictionary definition of fuck you—is covering everything else.

You couldn’t open your eyes even if you wanted to.

And you don’t want to.

Because the raw sensation—the taste of her dripping down your tongue, the way she grinds against your mouth with broken little whimpers—is worth more than any skyline on Earth.

You’re drowning in her.

And if that wasn’t enough?

Hyeri’s riding you at the same time.

Usually, you’d feel her braced against your chest, feel the needy, desperate grip of her hands as she takes everything you have and begs for more with every bounce.

But you suspect her hands are elsewhere: fondling Karina’s bare tits, holding her throat as they duel with their tongues. Either or works. 

Because God if that mental image isn’t Louvre material.

A lick to the clit softens Karina’s grip around your ears and you settle for sound instead.

Wet, filthy kisses sound somewhere above you. Giddy little gasps. The faint slap of a palm against skin. Karina moans into Hyeri’s mouth—or maybe it’s Hyeri moaning into hers—you can’t tell, you don’t care. 

“Fuck, you’re cute,” Hyeri purrs against her, the smacking of lips resuming instantly.

 You feel the words vibrate through Karina’s body, then feel her clench around your tongue.

“Sensitive too,” Hyeri adds. “You like it when I touch you here?” Karina gasps, the result of having her pussy licked and her tits caressed.

Karina tries to answer, but it comes out as a high-pitched whimper instead.

Hyeri laughs softly—not cruel, but giddy, drunk on the power she holds. 

 You hear the slick sound of their mouths meeting again. The sticky, obscene sound of a kiss that isn’t meant for cameras or fans or anything else where clean and polished is the expectation.

Just raw, messy and private.

Karina breaks away from it first, panting hard, lifting her hips just enough that a thin string of slick snaps between your mouth and her pussy.

You catch a glimpse of her when you blink up—face flushed, eyes glassy, lips and nipples swollen from Hyeri’s assault. 

You’d worship her if you could breathe.

But Hyeri’s hand is curling into Karina’s hair, tugging her up—gentle but insistent—and she moans like she’s been waiting for it.

"On your hands and knees, baby," Hyeri coos through another kiss, brushing the hair out of Karina’s sweaty face. "Be a good girl for us."

Karina whimpers, flushed and dazed, but obeys without hesitation, scrambling off your mouth and onto the bench, ass high, head low, presenting herself so shamelessly it’s enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

The second she’s steady, Hyeri slinks in front of her—legs spread, pussy slick and glistening, thighs trembling from earlier—and cups Karina’s flushed cheeks in her hands.

"You know what to do.”

Karina doesn’t hesitate.

She dives in, mouth open, tongue flat against Hyeri’s cunt, licking her like she’s starving for it. Like she needs it more than air.

Hyeri gasps, hips twitching, hand fisting tight in Karina’s hair.  She catches your eye over Karina’s bowed back, grinning like a cat who got the cream.

“Well?” Hyeri says to you, mid-moan. “You just gonna sit there and look pretty?”

You don’t need more encouragement.

You’re behind Karina in an instant, hands gripping her hips—tight, possessive—and line yourself up.

One push. Slow? Yes. Deep? All the fucking way.

Karina cries out into Hyeri’s pussy, body arching towards the flat of the bench. Hyeri laughs, breathlessly. Her hand strokes Karina’s cheek almost tenderly, but her words are anything but.

“Fuck, you’re loud,” she teases. "Who knew you were such a slutty girl?"

You thrust into Karina again, harder this time, savoring the ripple of her ass you do, the obscene wet sounds filling the booth as she tries—and fails—to keep up with both of you.

"He was like this with me, too," Hyeri purrs, hips rolling against Karina’s mouth in lazy, devastating circles. "First time he fucked me? Thought I was gonna cum at the first thrust.”

You’re turned on by the memory, driving yourself intoKarina harder.

Karina whines around Hyeri’s clit, her thighs shaking, her slick dripping down your cock every time you bottom out inside her.

Hyeri threads her fingers tighter in Karina’s hair, guiding her movements now, rocking her face exactly where she wants it.

“She’s a natural, isn’t she?” Hyeri croons, locking eyes with you again. “Makes the prettiest fucking sounds.”

You can’t do anything but nod, the tightness and sight stealing your breath.

Karina's arms tremble where she braces against Hyeri’s thighs. Her moans are constant now—muffled against Hyeri’s.

And you’re so close you can taste it.

Hyeri gasps, grinding down against Karina’s mouth with reckless, frantic need.

"You close?" she teases, voice shaky but still smug. "Gonna fill her up while she makes me cum?"

“Fuck yeah,” you manage to get out. 

Your hand finds its way to Karina’s clit: extra stimulation to make her tighten, to get her closer to her own release, to motivate her to suck Hyeri even harder.  

Your strategy works like a charm, and you’re graced with the sight of Hyeri’s head’s rolling back, a sharp cry escaping her as she cums all over Karina’s face.  “Fuuuuuuck me,” she exclaims, thighs clenching around Karina’s head, hands yanking her closer like she never wants her to stop.

Karina whimpers too, grinding her ass back against you in frantic, desperate little jerks, her own orgasm building with nowhere to go.

And then you snap.

You grab Karina’s hips, pull her flush against you, and empty yourself inside her with a strangled groan, spilling deep into her own trembling body.

Karina falls apart between you both—moaning and sobbing and soaking the bench with her release.

The three of you collapse together, sticky and shuddering and utterly spent.

And despite being suffocated and impaled at the same time, Karina perks up again. She’s still panting, still catching up on oxygen, but that doesn't stop her from asking:

“Now who’s ready for round two?”

*

The booth door swings open.

Hyeri’s hair is a disaster, Karina’s everything is either red, swollen, glistening or all three, and you’re pretty sure you’ve left fingerprints in places you’re contractually forbidden to even think about.

 (And probably teeth marks, if Hyeri’s wincing is anything to go by.)

And yet, somehow, you’re all laughing.

Half-dressed, fully wrecked, riding the tail-end high of the worst—and best—decision you’ve made in years, but still: laughing. 

Karina tugs the hem of her hoodie down like it might erase the obvious evidence of a threesome. Meanwhile, Hyeri buttons maybe one button of her blouse and calls it a day and you’re wiping sweat off your forehead with the sleeve of your shirt when you notice it.

The recording light is still on.

The waveform’s still rolling.

The track: armed. The booth: live.

You lunge for the keyboard. 

Again.

Stop recording.

There are fourteen peaks this time.

You know exactly what they are before Karina even asks, hobbling over as she pulls her sports bra back over her tits.

“What are those?” she asks, peering at the screen with curious eyes.

Hyeri’s already smiling, smugness just emanating from her. “Our orgasms,” she says proudly, like they’re her children.

“Wait, it was recording? The whole time?”

“Courtesy of me,” Hyeri says, with an even bigger smile now. “Turned it on while you two were getting busy. “

“Surprised you’re smart enough to know how,” you tease. And she hits you right back, literally.

“Ow!”

“Gonna fap to this one too, are ya?” she cackles.

“He’s gonna what?” Karina squeaks, slightly turned on.

You barely make it three seconds into the collective laughter before Hyeri steamrolls right through it.

“That’s it!” she exclaims, snapping her fingers. “This could totally work!”

"Work?" you echo. "What do you—?"

“We use this,” she begins with manic glee, dragging the track into the main sequence, “in the final mix.”

Karina’s eyes light up. "Wait, that’s genius!”

You’re frozen. Horrified. Horny.

“We could layer it in,” Karina continues. “Just subtle. Like an Easter egg.”

“A very hot Easter egg,” Hyeri adds, giving you a wicked eyebrow waggle.

You can barely think up a response. Between the countless hours today you’ve spent having sex, agonising about losing your job, and simply dealing with the pair of women before you, the amount of fucks you can currently give is strewn remarkably thin. 

Not thin enough, though.

“This,” you say, pointing to the screen,“is a horrible idea.”

It’s Hyeri’s turn for her eye’s to light up. 

“Hear that Karina?” She steps closer to you, hand going to your exposed cock. “Sounds like he needs some convincing.” 

“Mm,” Karina hums in agreement, fingers making their way up your chest. “Definitely does.” 

You groan, running a hand down your face.

You’ve already lost.

 “...We’ll put it in the song.”

“Yay!” they both squeal at once, pressing quick, sticky kisses to either side of your cheeks.

You sigh, sitting back at the console, exhaustion setting into your bones.

But you’re already thinking about it.

You’re thinking about how those breathy, desperate little sounds could melt into the track.

How no one would ever know except the three of you.

How every time the song plays, it’ll remind you of the heavenly feeling of Karina’s pussy on your tongue and Hyeri’s cunt on your cock.

You sigh.

You’re weak.

But with the two of them broaching yet another round, who could possibly blame you?

Your hand finds the mouse.

Export > Documents > Private > Vocals — The Final Mix.wav

What a fuckin’ Tuesday, huh?

[grandwretch]

okay okay okay sequel to this post I wrote forever ago about Steve sabotaging Eddie's dates and Eddie being oblivious about it

Steve is about to give up. Like, he's been doing this for months now-- He honestly didn't think Eddie and Amelia would last this long; who stays with their first ever girlfriend for more than three months? But their fourth anniversary is quickly approaching and Steve can't help but feel sad and pathetic about the whole scheme.

He tells Robin as much and she looks at him with obvious disappointment. "You can't give up when it's just about to work, dingus. Commit to your homewrecking." Max agrees, when he tells the kids to leave Eddie and Amelia alone on Friday night-- The boys haven't figured out why Steve is set on ruining Amelia's life, just happy to try and get their DM back, but Max and El have. Steve is pretty sure that El is already planning the Steve-and-Eddie wedding: no one has had the heart to tell her it's illegal yet.

Despite their advice, Steve is determined to stay out of it. Stay home and nurse his broken heart and let Eddie be happy. If anyone deserves the kind of love that they have in movies, it's Eddie, and Amelia can give that to him in a way Steve can't. Safety and acceptance and babies and white weddings. Steve can let him have that. Steve wants him to have that.

until 7:30 pm on Friday night.

"One last try, and then I'm done," Steve promises over the phone. Max cackles, like she knows he's lying.

When they blow into the diner like they own the place, kids chattering and yelling and laughing, Steve sees Eddie and Amelia before they see him-- Amelia already looks upset, a look that is increasingly becoming familiar on her face. But Eddie is frowning, too-- his face is crumpled and so obviously upset that it makes Steve's heart thump dangerously in his chest.

His plan was always to break them up, but but if Amelia made Eddie cry, then Steve would actually have to dedicate the rest of his life to ruining her's.

To Steve's relief, when Eddie looks up and sees the kids, he smiles. Lights up from the inside, that joy that Steve cherishes so much is shining out of him. His eyes scan across the diner-- looking for him, Steve realizes with a thrill --and his grin grows when he sees his friends.

Sees Steve.

"Stevie!" he crows, hands flailing. " What the hell are you doing here?" Like Steve hadn't been on every one of his dates for the last four months.

When Steve drops into the booth next to Eddie, ignoring Amelia's glare, saying some bullshit he can't even hear himself spout, Eddie's eyes are still locked on him.

"I haven't seen you all week," Eddie says gently, and his hand cups the back of Steve's neck. Steve's on fire immediately, like he has been since the first time his hand rested there. "I didn't think I'd see you tonight."

"You know me," Steve says, watching the grin shift on Eddie's lips. "I'm where the party's at."

"You have to be fucking kidding me," Amelia says. Neither of them look at her.

[kunareads]

brat | track two

talk talk featuring satoru gojo

producer!suguru x popstar!reader

prev / next series masterlist / full masterlist

wc: 7.2k

content: best friend + safe zone!satoru!!! drugs (implied)/alcohol use, club-hopping / SMUT (so much of it but it's necessary i promise), studio sex, oral (m and f receiving), unprotected p in v, voyeurism, exhibitionism, threesome / soft angst if you squint

taglist is closed! 18+ please <3

Buzzfeed Music — COKE, CROP TOPS, AND COLLABS: THE WILD NIGHT THAT MAY HAVE GIVEN US THE SONG OF THE SUMMER

Page Six — BRAT PACK SPOTTED: GETO, YN, AND GOJO HIT THREE CLUBS IN ONE NIGHT, LEAVE TOGETHER

Fader — TRIPLE THREAT: YN, GETO, AND GOJO TURN HEADS ON A NIGHT OUT. COLLAB INCOMING?

the first club of the night is designed to be documented. manicured skyline, hand-selected crowd, the kind of party that wants to be watched.

you arrive on suguru’s arm, late and camera-ready. there’s a lull when you enter—a breath of recognition that follows the two of you like smoke. you’re barely past the threshold when you see him.

satoru, lit up like a match.

white hair glittering, sunglasses on at 10 PM, wearing the same grin he’s had since you were nineteen. he ditches whoever he was charming mid-sentence and heads straight towards you.

you don’t wave, but your smile gives you away.

“look who finally showed up,” he calls, already too loud.

“had to give you time to clear out the influencers.”

“you’re welcome.” he winks. “been doing your job all night.”

beside you, suguru’s already sipping on something clear and expensive.

“hi, suguru,” satoru drawls, eyes bright with mischief. “you miss me?

suguru takes another sip. pauses. “not even a little.”

“so yes,” satoru beams.

suguru just huffs a laugh in response like he knows how this goes.

satoru grabs your hand and spins you like you’re in a ballroom. “you look fucking hot.”

you lean in like it’s a secret. “i know.”

he grins, delighted, and the three of you dissolve into it—feeding off lights and noise and attention you didn’t have to ask for.

satoru waves at photographers, blowing kisses and posing for anyone who calls his name.

people gravitate to suguru despite how little he gives them, caught by that amused attentiveness that makes them forget their own names.

you pause at a branded backdrop. someone with a ring light asks if they can get a quick shot for socials. someone else holds their phone up, already filming: “fit check?”

“gaultier,” you say sweetly. “my bag is dior, but i’m not really sure where the jewelry came from—you’d have to ask suguru.”

a neon-lit photo booth glows near the bar. satoru sees it first and grabs your hand, already moving. you catch suguru’s wrist as you go. the flash pops three times: your tongue out, then suguru flipping off the camera, then them kissing your cheeks while you squeeze your eyes shut and smile so hard it hurts.

a cocktail appears in your hand—too fruity, not nearly strong enough. you slap satoru's hand away when he tries to steal it. “mine,” you say. he pouts, so you feed it to him from your straw. suguru mutters something about children.

the “dance floor” is mostly mood lighting, camera drones floating like ghosts overhead. satoru pulls you into it anyway. you dance for one song before passing him off to someone more eager. suguru mouths something sarcastic from where he stands—traitor, maybe—and you twirl your way back to him, grinning.

@/cultgeto (story) 📸 : satoru sipping your drink from your hand 💬 : @/cultyn @/gojos

the next stop is haze and bass that hits your chest before your ears catch up. low ceilings, red lights, fog machines in overdrive. no branded ice buckets or polite spacing between bodies.

you love it instantly.

the three of you are recognized on arrival—cheers, waves, a group of girls jumping up and down—but no one asks for photos or signatures.

satoru finds an empty stool at the bar and slaps his hand down, offering it to you like a throne. he’s already unbuttoned two more buttons than earlier, hair wild like he’s been in wind or trouble. probably both.

you take the seat with a dramatic curtsy and blow him a kiss. he catches it, fake-swooning into suguru’s shoulder like he’s just been shot.

suguru just looks at him, mildly debating whether to let him fall. he lifts a hand instead, rings brushing the back of satoru’s neck, almost affectionate. his mouth twitches like he might be smiling.

with all the subtlety of a fire alarm, satoru flags down the bartender. nine shots of tequila are lined up quick, glowing under red lights.

“we’re celebrating,” he shouts.

“celebrating what?” you ask, resting your elbows on the bar.

he shrugs. “being hot and alive?”

you clink your glass to his, then to suguru’s.

the first shot burns. the second fizzes. suguru kisses your head before the third, and it goes down too easy. your skin starts to hum, like your body’s picking up signal. the room softens at the edges, melting just for you.

satoru’s gone a second later, pulled into the crowd by something shiny or loud or both.

your stool spins—suguru turning it until your knees slot between his.

“he’s already drunk,” you say, trying not to laugh.

“so are you,” he says, planting a kiss to your cheek.

you don’t disagree. the music shifts—heavier, sexier. suguru’s hand steadies you as you slide off the stool. the crowd presses in and you let it, head tilting back and shoulders going loose. no room to be shy. suguru steps behind you, one hand at your hip as the other traces up your side.

you turn your head, looking for satoru. he’s ten feet away, tangled in a group of strangers and dancing with a girl in silver boots, pouring liquor into someone else’s mouth. of course he is. he’s laughing, putting on a show, but his eyes find you. you match his rhythm, grinding back into suguru.

suguru leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“if i told you not to let him touch you,” he starts, “would you listen?”

you look back at him—oh?—and giggle. he doesn’t need an answer. he marks you anyway, teeth catching skin on your neck. it’s a brand, not a warning. you smile at the feeling. you knew he’d like that.

across the room, satoru observes, lips curled up like he knew this would happen. you keep dancing, arms outstretched and fingers flexing like you’re calling a puppy. the crowd parts as he starts toward you, drink in hand, grin pulling wide like he knows he’s walking into trouble.

when he gets close enough, you snatch the glass from him.

“this for me?” you ask, sipping slow.

“obviously,” he says. “i’m a giver.”

you hum, handing the half-finished drink off to suguru. he downs the rest without blinking, sets the glass on a nearby ledge.

“so obedient,” satoru coos.

he raises a brow. “you say that like you’re not worse.”

“i am,” satoru agrees brightly.

you smirk and shake your head, fingers curling into his shirt like you might pull him in—but instead you twist, catching suguru’s wrist in the same movement.

“bathroom break,” you announce, already walking. “come on.”

@/gojos (story) 📸 : mirror pic of all three of you in a bathroom—satoru taking the photo with a rolled bill tucked behind his ear, you fixing your lipgloss, suguru tying his hair back 💬 : band meeting

@/cultyn (story) 📸 : blurry photo of satoru and suguru smoking while walking toward the car ahead of you on a sidewalk

there’s a line down the block for the third club, but the bouncer nods the three of you in as soon as you exit the car.

it’s more intense here. strobes flicker slow enough to warp time, fast enough to keep you disoriented. bodies blur into one another. the floor feels like it’s bleeding.

you’re not sure who’s leading anymore.

suguru’s flushed, and your earrings are missing (he pocketed them twenty minutes ago). satoru’s shirt is fully unbuttoned now. his pupils are blown wide. so are yours. so are suguru’s.

satoru leans in to say something—and nearly crashes into a speaker. suguru catches him by the collar, steadying him with one hand and wiping under his nose with the other.

“you’re not cute enough to get away with that on camera,” he says, not unkind.

“yes i am,” satoru beams, eyes sparkling.

then he spins away like he’s proving it. disappears into the crowd for all of five seconds before materializing behind the booth, arms flung around the current DJ like they go way back.

suguru’s slower, tugging you along with two fingers curled into your belt loop. someone offers him a set of headphones and a password. he nods like he already knows.

you and satoru are already dancing. you’re in his arms before you realize—twirled into him, caught at the waist with his hands all over you like he forgot how to be subtle. the bass kicks up behind you—suguru’s doing it on purpose.

you're not sure how long it's been when you both reach for him. he resists for a second, makes you pull, but you end up caught between them anyway—hands at your waist, your ribs, your throat.

the lights shift: red to blue to violet. suguru’s palm curves around your stomach. satoru’s thumb drags across your bottom lip, smearing whatever’s left of your gloss. you lean back into suguru and tilt your head toward satoru’s mouth, not closing the distance.

someone calls your name. a flash goes off. none of it touches you.

“we’re gonna start a rumor,” satoru laughs.

“let them,” suguru murmurs, fingers skating past the hem of your top like a dare.

the bass shifts. your hand finds satoru’s jaw. the other curls into the chain at suguru’s neck.

satoru’s eyes flick down. he looks like he might do it—close the distance, taste you, start something. suguru’s breath ghosts against your throat like he’s already imagining it. you hold your breath, the moment hums with potential, and then—

“we should go,” suguru says, low and even.

automatically, you let go of his chain and reach for satoru’s hand. his fingers thread through yours as suguru’s palm finds the small of your back, guiding you both through the crowd.

the air outside is warmer than you expect—balmy and unbothered by the hour. the street hums low around you.

suguru finds a barricade like it was waiting for him, leaning back with his usual ease to light a cigarette. satoru slots behind you like a missing piece, arms over your shoulders, still bouncing like the music never stopped. you close your eyes and tip your head back into his shoulder.

“parle-moi, chérie,” satoru teases.

you giggle. “absolutely not.”

he pouts, swaying you side to side like a lullaby. “habla conmigo?”

“only if i get to use my secret made-up language.”

“doesn’t matter,” he says with a smile. “just talk.”

suguru exhales smoke. “no one understands either of you.”

you both laugh, and for a moment, everything holds. the three of you in borrowed warmth. smoke curling into still air. the city too preoccupied to interrupt.

then your phone buzzes in your hand—once, twice, then all at once.

a flash goes off. shouting.

“they found us,” satoru says, grinning like it’s a game.

the crowd closes in fast: paparazzi, a few screaming fans, a handful of quieter ones hanging back with their phones half-raised, like they just want proof they were here. the boys don’t flinch. the car’s already waiting.

suguru flicks his cigarette away. satoru’s hand finds your shoulder, calmly steering you like this happens every night.

halfway through the crush, someone gets too close. not aggressive—just a man with a phone, angling for a shot. you barely notice, but suguru's hand is immediate, pulling you a step back into satoru’s space. he moves forward, stepping between you and the outstretched arm with a look that doesn’t invite argument.

“don’t,” he says.

the man stammers something—sorry, maybe—but the moment’s already over. the driver opens the back door. satoru’s hand finds the small of your back, guiding you in without letting go. suguru slides in after, the door clicking shut behind him.

“studio’s closest,” he says, settling.

“let’s go,” satoru echoes.

you sink between them, breath catching up to your body. a laugh escapes you—quiet, stunned, not entirely sure why.

that could’ve gone differently.

“that was cute,” you say. “you guys almost looked coordinated.”

@/ynswife: do they know we can see them???

@/gojojojo: yn and satoru being besties is terrifying because neither of them has ever faced a consequence in their life

@/suguruowned: satoru is fun hot messy and suguru is scary hot mean and yn is all of the above

the studio is humming when you arrive, LEDs casting everything in soft pink. the three of you spill through the door, glitter-streaked and flushed, riding a high that’s more chemical than natural and definitely not wearing off anytime soon.

you kick your heels off by the door. satoru tosses his sunglasses onto the nearest surface. suguru sinks into his chair like he’s been missing it all night, the backlight from the boards catching on his rings as he starts scrolling through files.

a beat kicks up under the speakers, then dies. another takes its place—lighter, too slow. he lets it breathe. scratches it, then moves on.

you grab two mics and join satoru on the floor, sprawling out across cushions and cables. a stack of paper scraps sits between you—lyric fragments, setlists, a crumpled parking ticket. you’re already giggling, trading nonsense into the mics like they’re toys.

“talk to me in spanish,” satoru says, chin tilted back like he’s communing with the ceiling.

“hay una fiesta en mi casa,” you purr. “vengan, será muuuuy divertido.”

satoru nearly chokes laughing. “wait, wait—j'ai perdu mon téléphone,” he adds, deep voice turning airy. “mais tu sais quoi, ça valait la peine—”

you’re both laughing too hard to finish the line. satoru drops the mic onto his chest, grinning up at the ceiling. you lean back onto your elbows, breathless.

and then—unserious and perfectly on-key—he sings.

“are we getting too close?”

you snort. “shut up.”

he just winks at you. “you’re leaving things in my head.”

a lazy finger comes up to point at suguru. “i’ll be honest, you scare me.”

“my life’s supposed to be a party.” he pouts like he means it.

you toss your head back, giggling. suguru finally turns, amusement twitching at the corner of his mouth. “you done?”

“almost.” satoru sits up to dig through his phone. “i actually brought something.”

you blink at him. “like… to share with the class?”

he hands the phone to suguru, already playing. it’s rough. recorded in the back of a car, probably, but it’s there.

the more i know you, the more i like you can you stick with me, maybe just for life? and say what’s on your mind?

you sit up and grab your mic again. your voice slices through the air.

talk to me in french, talk to me in spanish talk to me in your own made up language doesn’t matter if i understand it

suguru lifts a scrap of paper while you sing and holds it up: talk right in my ear, tell me your secrets and fears.

you grin when you see it, saying the words without breaking rhythm.

from there, everything just… clicks.

satoru moves into the booth and gets the post-chorus down quick, making faces at you through the glass. you improvise your second verse. a lot of it’s nonsense that you’ll have to revise later, some of it hits.

you twirl barefoot across the room as you sing, eventually dropping into suguru’s open lap. he doesn’t react, just adjusts you with one hand on your waist, the other still working.

it plays back. you and satoru throw harmonies over each other and ad-libs where they’re needed. somehow, it works.

your high melts into something honeyed and warm. you curl up in suguru’s lap, mic abandoned somewhere behind you as you listen to satoru record one last take. his voice is lazy on the mic now, edges dulled by laughter. when it ends, he peels off the headphones and wanders back into the room.

suguru spreads his knees a little wider under you and tips his head back, eyes tracing your profile like he’s thinking about what to do next. you shift slightly, gaze trailing to satoru as he drops onto the couch with no urgency, legs wide, glitter clinging to his collarbones.

his eyes are half-lidded, but they don’t leave you—not when suguru’s hand starts to trail up your thigh, or when he brushes your hair back to kiss the spot below your ear.

you exhale slow.

suguru’s palm presses low on your back, guiding your hips into a slow roll. he's warm beneath you, just hard enough to feel. you follow, like you always do.

“you’re being mean,” you whine.

“am i?” he replies with a smirk.

you grind again, filthier this time—enough to tempt.

“you want him to watch,” he says, dragging his teeth against your throat. “or join?”

you tilt your head like you’re thinking about it. his teeth catch your jaw as you rock again, a little deeper. a little more obvious, like you want to be seen.

his hand tightens at your waist, the other in your hair as he pulls you into a kiss—deep and addictive, tongue and teeth and something filthy at the edge. he kisses you like he always does: like he owns you.

like satoru should know that already.

and you don’t stop. don’t even flinch when you feel satoru’s eyes burn hotter from across the room. you let it feed you, kiss suguru slow with your hips in motion, more intentional now.

when you finally pull back, your rhythm has slowed to a lazy, taunting grind. your forehead rests against suguru’s, gaze sliding sideways.

satoru looks like he’s buffering.

you hesitate just long enough for suguru to catch it.

“it’s okay, baby,” he says, quiet against your jaw. “go ahead.”

you didn’t think you needed his permission. but the second he gives it, something in you loosens. you kiss him once—tender, grateful—then slip from his lap.

he doesn’t stop you. just reaches for your zipper, unfastening it with one practiced pull. your skirt slips down your legs and his hand trails after it, light and reverent.

then he leans back with his arms crossed, watching you walk away from him like a gift he’s given.

you hook your thumbs into your panties as you go. they cling for a moment—slick stringing between your thighs—before dropping to the studio floor.

satoru’s eyes track every movement. “you sure?” he asks.

“are you?”

that makes him laugh. “come find out.”

without breaking eye contact, he pushes his jeans down like he has all the time in the world. he’s already hard, heavy and flushed against his abs.

your stomach flips unexpectedly, and you pause. not because you don’t want it, but because this is satoru. your enabler. your softest place to land. your favorite.

he sees it, hands finding your thighs. “hey,” he says, catching your eyes. “we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”

“i want to,” you say.

and you do. you trust him. you always have. and it’s easy—so easy—to give that trust shape now. to let him hold it.

“how do you want me?”

his eyes snap up to yours like you broke something in him just by asking.

but it’s suguru who answers. “turn around.”

you do. without hesitation.

climbing into satoru’s lap backward feels obscene—deliciously so. you like it. you like the way suguru sits up straighter when you do, like you’re the show now. nothing hides the way your ass fits satoru’s lap, or the way you reach between your legs to guide him in.

satoru groans as you sink down—one long, steady exhale like he wasn’t ready. like he didn’t expect you to take all of him. you gasp at the stretch, gripping his knee to steady yourself.

“oh fuck,” he pants.

you grin over your shoulder. “you sound pretty.”

“don’t start,” he grits out, but he’s smiling through it.

you settle with a shiver, feeling impossibly full. he’s so thick and so deep that you can’t help the whimper that slips out. his hands trace up your sides, firm but patient.

across the room, suguru watches—silent, eyes fixed on the way you take him.

so you move. each rock of your hips draws a sound from satoru’s throat and a matching one from yours. he meets every grind halfway like he can’t help himself.

you keep your eyes on suguru. not for his approval, just to show him: look what you made.

“jesus,” satoru groans. “he’s gonna let me die like this.”

you moan, breathless and giddy. you can feel slick running out of you, every drag against your walls, the ache where he's stretching you.

“he’s making me earn it,” you whisper.

he presses a kiss to your spine. “you never had to.”

and at that—finally—suguru takes his time crossing the distance. your body stills when he drops to his knees in front of you, heart tripping in your chest.

suguru spreads you wider, palms firm, fingers digging in. then, his breath against you. you moan before he even touches you. your head falls back onto satoru’s shoulder, chest rising and falling hard.

“easy,” satoru murmurs, one thumb stroking your waist.

“keep going,” suguru murmurs. it’s unclear who he’s talking to.

and when he finally licks—a slow drag of his tongue where satoru stuffs you—you cry out, whole body jolting forward.

satoru catches you, groaning. “jesus—”

“oh—fuck,” you gasp.

suguru doesn’t ease into it. he eats you like he’s been thinking about this all night. like this was the point. he’s confident, focused, working your clit between thrusts, letting your slick smear across his face.

“shit—she’s—she’s squeezing me,” satoru chokes out. and you feel how hips jerk up without permission, how he pulses inside you every time you moan.

you’re gasping now. your body gets caught in the rhythm—rocking forward and back as they take you apart in tandem. satoru fucking up into you like he needs it, suguru’s mouth locked between your legs like devotion.

your mouth falls open, silent at first, then full of noise—moans, whimpers, babbled nonsense.

“he’s—fuck—he’s—”

“yeah, princess,” satoru laughs, half-mad. “we know.”

suguru doesn’t let up. not until your whole body is vibrating, until your moans give out into sobs, until you’re clenching around satoru with your nails biting into his thighs and your head thrown back.

“oh my god, i—”

everything seizes, then lets go—a brutal, blinding pleasure ripping through you like a flood. you come hard. loud. body arching between them—into satoru’s chest, into suguru’s mouth, into the heat of being seen.

“fuck—fuck,” satoru breathes, arms crushing around your waist. “you’re—jesus, she’s fucking milking me—”

suguru groans low into you, vibrations rolling through you. he doesn’t stop, just eases you down until he catches the last tremors with his tongue. soothes you, like he’s not half the reason you just came apart.

you collapse into satoru, skin flushed hot. he’s panting hard, forehead pressed to your shoulder like he’s trying to stop the world from ending.

“fuck, i’m—” he starts. “don’t move.”

his voice cracks. he’s holding it in.

and you can’t do anything about it. not yet. your legs shake, head spinning too much to move, let alone help.

but suguru can.

his hands trail up your thighs as he stands. he leans in, close enough that it forces you even further back into satoru, and kisses you. slow, claiming. a filthy, reverent thing that tastes like you. it hits you again that he just had his mouth on you while you were full of satoru.

the thought makes you gasp into it. he strokes your cheek with the back of his fingers.

“off, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “let me handle him.”

you nod and he helps you lift, easing you off of satoru. you and satoru both whimper at the drag.

“arms up,” suguru says.

you obey, let him tug your top off gently. he doesn’t even glance at your chest, just presses a final kiss to your temple before settling between satoru’s legs.

satoru stares at you now, eyes glazed. you’re still catching your breath, but you press close anyway—one hand on his chest, the other at his jaw. you kiss his cheek, trace the slick curve of his abs. suguru strokes him once, then again. his eyes flutter shut.

“don’t cum yet,” you murmur, lips brushing his throat.

his jaw clenches. “i’m not gonna last.”

“mm,” you hum, smiling against his skin. “you can take it.”

and then suguru takes him into his mouth.

satoru moans—loud, broken. his hips jerk, but suguru is already there, holding him still with one hand. he sucks him slow and deep, tongue pressing firm beneath the shaft. satoru tries to chase it, hips straining up against suguru’s hand, desperate for more.

“fuck—please—”

suguru pulls off. “stay still.”

“can’t,” satoru pants, flushed to his ears. “please—fuck, please, just—”

you lean in close, running a thumb over his lips. “you gonna cry for him?” you whisper. “gonna beg?”

his eyes flutter open to meet yours. they’re glassy. gone.

suguru licks the underside lightly. up and down.

“please,” satoru breathes, begging you now. “please let me cum. i can’t—i can’t take it, fuck, i need—”

you glance down, meet suguru’s eyes, and nod. “then go ahead,” you say to satoru, voice sugar-sweet. “let him taste it.”

suguru doesn’t hesitate. he sinks back down and takes all of him—and satoru’s eyes roll back, one hand flying to find your arm as he spills down suguru’s throat with a sound like he’s breaking.

you stay quiet, holding him through it, letting him fall apart the way you did. you stroke his chest and his hair. press slow kisses to the side of his face.

suguru rises slowly.

satoru's head is tipped back, still panting, lips parted like he’s tasting the afterglow. he doesn’t even flinch when suguru leans over him.

“open your mouth.”

satoru obeys instantly. suguru slides two fingers in, deep and smooth, curling just slightly against his tongue. satoru moans, eyelids fluttering.

“can’t believe how fucking good you look like this,” suguru mutters, shaking his head like he shouldn’t be surprised.

he pulls his fingers out enough to slap his cheek—once, twice—then pushes them back in, slower, watching satoru suck them down greedily, whining around them like he needs it.

and you can’t help yourself. you lean in and kiss him, right over suguru’s hand. hot and messy, tongues tangling over the taste of suguru’s skin. your moan gets lost in his.

suguru’s breathing goes shallow as he watches you pass him back and forth. you’re all too gone now to pretend you don’t like it—this quiet collapse into each other.

satoru lets go with a hum when suguru finally pulls away. you pull back too, heat pooling when you see him—flushed and debauched, white hair sticking to his forehead, blue irises intruded on by dark pupils.

and he’s staring at you like you hung the moon.

when you look up, suguru’s watching you too.

his gaze moves down your body like he’s replaying things—your moans, the way you came apart on his tongue, the way you kissed him after. and now, soft and open, you hold his gaze without flinching.

he hooks a finger under your chin. kisses you again—slow and sweet, like a promise—before stepping back to undress.

behind you, one hand finds your waist. when you turn to satoru with soft eyes, he opens his arms without a word. you crawl into him and he pulls you close, turning you in his lap until you’re comfortable with back to his chest and your thighs falling open.

“hi,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder.

your lips curve as you lean your head back. “hey.”

suguru steps forward.

his hand trails up your thigh, thumb circling your entrance, eyes stuck on the way it flexes under his touch. he strokes himself once, twice—then lines up and sinks into you with one smooth, claiming thrust.

you cry out from the stretch, head snapping forward before satoru’s hand finds your forehead to guide you back to his shoulder. “breathe,” he whispers at your ear. “you can take it.”

and you do. you take all of him.

he draws it out at first—deep, dragging strokes as he gives your body time to catch up. your hand drifts mindlessly to where he fills you, just to verify the ache.

“you missed him, huh?” satoru says, teasing and soft, pressing a kiss to your hair. “he missed you too.”

suguru groans, snapping his hips harder. the rhythm builds like ritual.

each thrust lands heavy—the wet slap of skin filling the room, obscene and constant. he fucks you like he’s putting something back where it belongs.

and he can, because he knows you too well. knows the spot that makes you gasp, the angle that makes you cry, the pace that makes you go stupid.

your thighs tremble where they’re spread. you can’t hold still—can’t even try. every thrust shoves you into satoru, rocking you like a ragdoll. your fingers claw for anything—his thigh, suguru’s wrist, the edge of the couch—but nothing holds.

“god, she’s taking it,” satoru groans, awestruck.

“she always does,” suguru growls. “she fucking loves it.”

and you do. you can’t say it, can barely breathe, but you do. every thrust punches a new sound out of you—choked moans, gasps, desperate little whines.

suguru spits into satoru’s hand. you barely register it until you feel it: slick fingers rubbing against your clit in tight, filthy circles that make your eyes roll back.

“don’t stop,” you pant. “please don’t stop—”

satoru’s mouth brushes your ear. “you sound so fucking sweet like this.”

you nod, frantic, but it’s not enough. you’re falling apart, and all you can do is clutch at them like they might keep you together.

“fuck,” you gasp. “fuck, please—please—”

you’re not even sure what you’re asking for.

suguru grits his teeth and drives deeper. satoru kisses your temple like a blessing, fingers unrelenting. your whole body writhes in their hands. too full, too raw, too much.

and satoru must feel it—how your muscles flex without rhythm, how your breathing breaks out of sync.

he looks up. “you got her?”

suguru doesn’t answer right away. instead, he stills. stays buried deep as he leans in, his chest pressed to yours, foreheads meeting.

the shift is jarring—your body clenches around him, desperate for friction, for something. but you freeze with him, pulled under. the world drops out as his breath brushes your lips. your chest heaves. your hands find their way around his neck like prayer.

when he speaks, it’s just for you.

“i got you,” he breathes. like a secret. like a promise.

and something in you cracks.

it’s rare, this softness between you.

and for a second—just a second—you almost pull away from it. not because you want to, but because that’s what you do with each other.

but he’s here, holding the tenderness. holding you.

because he knows. of course he does.

“hey,” he whispers, brushing his nose against yours. his thumb strokes your cheek like he’s trying to hold you there. “stay with me.”

you nod, barely. your eyes well up.

“say thank you.”

your throat tightens.

“thank you,” you breathe. quiet. shaking.

he hums, half-praise, half-moan. his hips roll once, just to feel you clench.

and then, so quiet you almost miss it, satoru whispers. “say it again.”

“thank you.” higher this time. fragile as you hold suguru’s gaze. “thank you, thank you—”

you’re not sure if you’re thanking him for fucking you like this, or for holding you here, or for the way he always, always, knows how to bring you back from the edge without letting you fall.

but it works.

suguru groans at the sound of it. kisses your cheek like you’ve ruined him.

then he moves again.

he fucks into you with intent now—like he needs to finish what he started, needs to feel you fall apart around him. his thrusts grow deeper as satoru’s fingers find your clit again, circling in perfect rhythm. they both know exactly how close you are. they’re pulling you under together.

“oh my god—”

“come on, princess,” satoru murmurs. “give it to him.”

suguru groans at the words. he’s close—so fucking close—but he’s holding it. waiting for you.

your breaths come short, whole body pulling taut now, like you’re being wound too far.

his hand finds your throat—not to choke, but to anchor. his thumb presses up under your jaw as he leans in, lips ghosting over your cheek.

“you’re right there,” he murmurs. “i feel you. give it to me.”

your heart squeezes. and when your head tips back, your mouth open in a moan—

satoru kisses him.

he slides his free hand behind suguru’s neck, pulls him down into it, and kisses him over your head. open-mouthed and frantic and needy.

it lands like a spark.

suguru moans into it. he kisses satoru back like he’s starving for it—biting at his lip, hips still slamming into you like nothing else exists.

your orgasm hits you so hard you go silent.

your body locks up—mouth open, no sound—until a sob breaks free from your throat, raw and desperate. tears spill over your lashes as you writhe, clenching so tight it nearly forces suguru out.

but he chases it. moaning into satoru’s mouth, fucking you through your orgasm and straight into his own. his pace falters, his breath catches, and then he’s spilling inside you, hips rocking through it like he can’t stop, like he wants to stay.

no one moves right away.

suguru's hand strokes your cheek. behind you, satoru exhales—his arms relax just enough to let you breathe deeper as his smile curves at your temple.

eventually, suguru pulls out slow, kissing you when you whimper. he stands, silent as ever, and slips from the room.

you melt fully into satoru, exhaustion settling as your eyes slip shut.

he brushes damp hair from your face and laughs quietly. “you two are so in love it’s disgusting.”

you swat at his chest, eyes still closed. “you’re projecting.”

“no, really,” he giggles. “you should see your face right now.”

“can’t,” you mumble. “sleepy.”

“mhm. poor baby.”

you would’ve hit him again if your arms worked.

the couch shifts. suguru’s back—barefoot, still shirtless—carrying three water bottles and two soft t-shirts over his shoulder. he sets them down, kneels beside you.

“gonna clean you up.”

he uses a shirt, dabbing gently between your legs like he’s done it a million times and will do it again. you flinch, but he hushes you immediately, murmuring praise you can barely hear. when he’s satisfied, he slides the clean shirt over your head, guiding your arms through like you’re delicate.

you slump back into satoru, half-asleep. suguru lifts a water bottle to your lips. you sip twice. he sits beside you, drinking the rest of his, and for a while, no one speaks.

then satoru, voice muffled in your hair: “we’re not sleeping like this.”

“we could,” you whisper.

“we shouldn’t,” suguru replies, already moving.

satoru stands and lifts you gently into the producer’s chair. you hear the soft clinks of the frame, the rustle of blankets pulled from the closet.

as soon as the couch is pulled out, you crawl into it. suguru slides in beside you, and you curl into him like you always do.

satoru groans dramatically when he joins, rearranging until he finds the perfect position: his head pillowed in suguru’s lap, one arm flung across your waist.

for the first time all night, everything is still.

you’re asleep first.

satoru’s not far behind—he mumbles something into suguru’s lap, then goes quiet. his breathing evens out quickly, mouth parted, fingers twitching once at your waist like he’s dreaming something warm.

but suguru stays awake.

he doesn’t know why. maybe it’s the weight of both of you on him. maybe it’s the part of him that always watches, always waits.

his fingers trace slow circles against your back. your cheek is warm against his chest, one leg draped over his. you look peaceful like this. like the sharp edges that usually cling to you have melted clean off for tonight.

part of him aches.

he doesn’t resent it at all. he knows how you are with satoru. he has for years.

how you lean into him without thinking. how you smile easier, laugh without checking yourself first. how your chaos and his collide in ways that never spark danger—only more light. you don’t guard yourself with satoru because you’ve never had to.

it’s not a competition.

he’s told himself that more than once.

but you’ve never given suguru that kind of ease without a fight.

and god help him, he likes it.

he likes that every soft thing you give him feels like a win. that you make him work for it. every laugh, every let-down guard, every tender moment—he’s had to fight you for those.

but tonight—

you gave it to him without the war first. like it didn’t cost you anything. he can’t stop turning it over in his mind, trying to understand what changed. what he did. and whether he can do it again.

his hand keeps moving along your spine, slow and steady. a silent tether.

because he can’t ask you. not without risking the quiet. and maybe he doesn’t need to.

because at the end of the day, you’ll flirt with the whole world. you’ll light up every room, throw yourself across stages and hearts. you’ll let satoru make you laugh until you’re gasping for air, let him be the reason you catch your breath instead of losing it.

but you’ll still end up here, in suguru’s arms.

you’ll still call him first.

that’s just the game.

he’ll keep playing for as long as you let him.

@/deuxmoi BLIND ITEM: a certain pop darling, a white-haired chaos agent, and your favorite producer’s favorite producer were seen stumbling into a studio after hours last night. security’s been posted up since 2 AM, and nobody has left ten hours later.

you wake slowly.

your body aches in that full, molten way—spent, sated, soft at the edges. you blink through the quiet, eyes adjusting to the haze bleeding through the studio’s curtains.

across the room, suguru is already up.

he sits in his chair, shirt on, sweatpants slung low. his hair’s messy, like he raked his fingers through it and gave up halfway.

he’s staring at his phone, thumbs moving: swipe. pause. tap. type.

you almost miss the tension at first. but then you catch it: something flashing across his face. gone too fast to name, but you saw it. not a frown, not quite surprise. more like confirmation. like he received something he knew was coming.

he doesn’t know you’re awake. tap. tap. type.

you stay still. your heart ticks up anyway.

it’s probably nothing.

probably some brand deal he doesn’t want. or an annoying scheduling conflict. some PR request, a time zone fuck up, a half-buried deadline. something normal.

you tell yourself all of that.

but it echoes anyway. lingers like static—soft but charged.

the spell breaks when satoru stirs beside you.

his arm flexes over your waist, searching until his hand finds the bare skin at your hip. his fingers curl there, loose and lazy, and he hums—eyes closed, voice rough.

“c’mere.”

you shift without thinking, curling into him. his nose nudges your shoulder, mouth brushing your skin.

suguru looks up. he softens at the sight of you relaxing, satoru smiling into your neck like he’s dreaming.

then satoru mumbles into your hair: “did we record something?”

you blink, your brain still syrupy. “…yes?”

suguru’s already moving. he sets his phone down—screen dark, face down—and reaches for his laptop. the screen wakes with a soft glow. a project is already open.

music bleeds through the speakers.

the intro is unfamiliar—then satoru’s voice, airy and laced with heat. a low beat that hits hard. your voice looping over it: talk to me in french, talk to me in spanish.

it’s better than you remember—sharp and sexy and fun. by the outro, you’re sitting up and grinning so wide it hurts.

“we sound fucking unreal,” you say, turning to face them.

suguru doesn’t look at the screen. he looks at you.

“you are.”

your stomach flips.

“get a fucking room,” satoru groans, dragging the blanket over his head like it personally offended him.

a laugh escapes you. and when you meet suguru’s eyes again, you’re still smiling.

so is he.

and the tension from before—whatever it was—doesn’t vanish. but it recedes.

[lacemyimpurities]

♱ ⸝⸝ next thing i know she was feeling on me ,

cw. older brothers bestfriend!sukuna ༝ ballet dancer!reader-ish , nsfw , car sex , piv , super whipped kuna , ooc kuna cause yessss... lwky streetracer!sukuna too umm, written with the ryd by steve lacy in mind

it's 9 pm on a friday afternoon, the two of you in the backseat of his ZL1. large hands on your waist guiding you to meet his thrusts as you lay prettily like putty in his hands against his chest, he does all the work usually. and he doesn't mind it, considering he's your first and he'd do anything to stay as your last. his nose presses against your neck, the scent of florals and vanilla invading his senses. a scent he already committed to memory. a scent that reminds him of you.

his hands slide up under your dress, trying to get a feel of all of you while he listens to your whines. the prettiest sounds he's ever heard, from the prettiest girl.. your brother will definitely kill him.

you guys met when you both were in middle school, him in 8th grade and you just enrolled into 6th. you were his buddies little sister, always known as his little sister and nothing more. he tolerated you, didn't really ever make remarks towards you knowing he would have his head on a stick if your brother ever found out. so you three were peas in a pod, your brother always making sure you were with him so he can keep track of you and have you experience some sense of a normal childhood, knowing it'd be exploited soon enough by the time you reached high school yourself.

they both would walk you to school like a your personal bodyguards. since the highschool was next to the middle school, even after they went to grade 9 they stayed accompanying you. a routine, for 4 years until the two boys graduated and went to college. having to leave you behind for Utokyo, sukuna hadn't seen you after that. your brother visiting you when he was free instead of you coming to him, sukuna didn't think much of it. that was, until your brother decided to graduate early and make big moves to the states. you had just gotten into college and absolutely devastated you only had one year with your dear brother, him leaving sukuna as your guardian for his last year as a senior.

it wasn't as bad as he'd thought, you didn't really make a fuss or anything. just had his number as an emergency contact, but rarely heard from you. he'd do monthly check ups in honor to stay loyal to your brother's request, you'd say your okay and both of you would go on your merry ways. months quickly passed. and it was already sukuna's turn to graduate. you didn't have any family that was as close as your brother, since you two were the son and daughter of very busy figures. and sukuna's little brother yuuji that was the same grade as you, claimed he was busy.

you attended his graduation, cheering when he gets his name called and receiving his diploma. he was surprised, when you ran to him after the ceremony with roses and a stuffed bear just for him. (more like for you since it was the brown male version rilakkuma to your favorite bear korilakkuma) he never expressed it, but he appreciated having you around.

since then, you two had gotten closer. having a more casual relationship with occasional meet ups, you'd have performances and give him your plus one ticket. while he had his races and you'd get vip seating, sometimes even getting to ride with him during practice runs. although you like the thrill, he has only let you join a handful of times for safety reasons. it was now your senior year, with you freshly 21 it was natural you wanted to go get drinks and celebrate your coming of age. sukuna of course tagging along, muttering something about "needing to make sure you don't get laced or some shit.". you get to a booth with your of age friends, them all clearly oogling him but he'd be glancing at everything else. from the dance floor to the bar he so longingly wants to perch at, on a stool and drink his own heart away. but he stays sitting next to you, on the end to make sure no idiot gets close to you. his arm was outstretched your direction behind you casually, as you nursed at least 8 shots. your alcohol tolerance was never good, when your brother and sukuna drank in highschool, you were always welcomed to join but only ever had soju mixed in with some sprite or yakult. he knew your limits, and he knew your habits, your likes and dislikes.

you tapped out fairly early as he predicted and decided to leave, tapping sukuna's thigh and he paid your part on the check given to the table. (birthday girl privileges he explained) the two of you then made your way out to his car. he drove you back to your place, but you had asked him to stay when he was about to turn the other way. he was reluctant, but stayed standing where he was. you said to get a bag of his stuff to stay the night while you shower off the sweat and smell of alcohol. and get he did, deciding to bring a pack of beer as well so he can drink as much as he missed at the club.

you didn't seem drunk, far from it. coming out your bedroom to him watching some movie and cleaned up himself. clad in a tee and pajama pants, his cherry blossom colored hair damp. you'd settle down next to him, curious about what he's drinking. he'd give his currently opened can for you to taste, knowing you'd hate it and scrunch your face. when you scrunch your face, he'd laugh and get you some water to rid of the taste. you never liked beer, so why would you now? you always liked routine, never strayed far from what you liked, consistent. he watched as you down the glass of water, beginning to munch on one the various snacks you had on the coffee table when you felt like picking at something, something that was occasionally sponsored by sukuna. when he'd pick up groceries at the market for himself or for a friend, he'd also pluck some chips or sweets from the shelf, making sure to never have you snackless.

he knows you like the back of his hand, you're predictable.

it was the next day and you had the worst hangover ever to be recorded in the history of humans, as so you claimed. both of you had knocked out on the couch last night, but you had awoken with a wince and he sprung up. he was amused as he took in your expression, your hands rubbing all over where your could on your head in attempt to soothe the fog.

"i'm surprised, you didn't seem drunk at all." he hummed, getting up to make some sort of hangover aid with the knowledge he gained from being in the frat with your brother, that also claimed to have the worst ever human recorded hangovers.

"i was, i just.. tried really hard to keep composure i guess." you say, watching him plucking things from your kitchen. you padded over, leaning beside him to see what he was doing. "your favorite soondubu jigae you get at that korean barbecue we go to all the time is good for hangovers, i'll make it since you have the ingredients. plus an egg." he'd explain, and you always so ever attentive when he spoke.

he sets down your bowl on the kitchen island first when he's done, making sure you were seated and had a glass of water too. he settled down beside you with his portion, occasionally watching you blow on the soup.

you two finished and he washed the dishes, settling beside you on the couch once more, squeezing your calfs to soothe the ache from your heels as you laid back. you two were conversing about alcohol and it's effects, before it faded to something else.

shortly after, that new anime that came out was on the tv. then mario kart. then mario party. you both tying each time on the switch, causing you call break to shower. you go and he scrolls on his phone, hearing you calling out from your bedroom that he can shower next. he does and comes out, towel around his neck with a new tee and shorts. but instead of the tee and shorts you were wearing earlier, you wear a nightdress. red, silk. he doesn't think anything of it till you guys lounge in the dark. moonlight shining through the window, and you suddenly slide a hand up his forearm to his bicep. clinging onto him like he's one of your plushies.

he accepts it. not saying a word, not moving a muscle.

that was, before you began speaking about checking off another thing on your bucket list with him.

losing your virginity.

he spirals, brain short circuiting. you? asking him? absolutely nothing could have led him to predict that you'd ever ask him such a question, nor anything to prepare him. he had been celibate for the most part since graduating due to work, and due to male anatomy... plus his cursed imagination.

he pops a boner.

still, he refuses with every last shred of dignity he has left after that question. saying you should keep it, save it. it's something sacred. but you stay quiet, and it makes him nervous. when was the last time he felt nervous?

"am i not attractive to you?"

he feels his hand twitch.

you are. hell, you are in every damn way since you entered college that it hurts. but your his best friends little sister, and he respects that. he feels you beginning to slip away because he didn't respond, his hand quick to halt you at your wrist.

"you are, pea.." his voice shakes at the end, almost as if it burned to call you by that name. sweet pea. he had given you that name after his graduation, because you were so small and sweet as fuck with that big bouquet in your arms. you look at him with those eyes, and he sighs. "boundaries," he says vaguely, "save it for someone you love."

you both sit in silence for a moment, before you move to slip off the left strap of your night dress while your other hand rests on his shoulder. "there were never any between us, why are there now?" you murmured leaning in, and he feels his heart skip a beat.

"i think... i do love you."

everything after that was a blur, you were underneath him on the couch. the same couch your brother had left you with, before he ventured off to new york. sukuna felt guilty, his hands gentle as he caressed every part of you he could in attempt to comfort you from his size. overwhelmed you felt. and terrible he feels. but all he could really do was kiss you, distract you from what you wanted. what he had wanted.

he feels your walls contracting for the 3rd time, your endurance ever so short compared to him and it's all the more endearing. he presses his lips against yours rather harshly, his hand that grabbed your face sliding down your neck to your breasts. the ones you've been insecure about for being so small, since you were small.

but he loved every part of you. so why couldn't you?

he pulls away for you to get air, fingers rolling your nipple beneath the flimsy fabric you call a dress. you're a sight, satin dress glued to your clammy skin. in red, his favorite shade too. a color that would never have graced your pretty pink and ivory hued closet if it weren't for him. you were always eager to appease him, but he was already too enamored to ever be unsatisfied. your hair was tied into a messy bun prior by him, a habit he's gained so he can feel and see you all over without your silky hair obstructing his vision. face flushed, body trembling, and a prominent bulge in your stomach from him. your his, and he's completely yours. "you left your lip gloss in my car," he murmurs, hands moving up and down your waist a few times, before finding your hand to press kisses against your palm leading to your fingertips.

you hum, watching him kiss your fingers. worshipping, he always is with you. your finger tips lightly press against his face when he releases your hand, nails dragging down to his chest. the ones he recently paid for. "haven't you known?" you murmur, confused on why he's mentioning it now.

sukuna's eyes darken as your finger traces down his neck, his pulse jumping beneath your touch. he knows exactly what he's doing, mentioning the lip gloss now. it's a reminder, a declaration. you've left pieces of yourself all over his life, little by little, until he can't ignore the fact that you're everywhere. in his car, in his apartment, under his skin.

he rolls his hips into yours, a low groan comes from his chest as he feels you clench around him. his hands grip your waist, fingers sinking into the soft flesh. he's trying to hold back, trying to be gentle, but it's a losing battle. especially when you look up at him with those big, doe eyes. eyes just like your brother's, but somehow softer. kinder.

"i've known, pea" he murmurs, voice rough and low. he knows exactly what he's doing. just like he knows that 'pea' is his new name for you. sweet. something fragile and delicate, just like you. he leans down, nose brushing your cheek as he inhales deeply. vanilla and florals fills his lungs, and he knows it's not just your perfume. it's you. It's the way you smell after a shower, after dancing, after... this.

"it's just my buddies at work know now too,"

"oh..." is all you manage under your breath, half lidded eyes flickering between his own soaking in his words. "m'sorry... what'd they say..?" you ask, wrapping your arms around his neck as you rest your head in the crook of his neck. sukuna's eyes drift shut as your arms wrap around his neck, his face burying into your hair. his hands start to wander, one tangling into your messy bun to hold you close while the other traces down the side of your neck. he feels your pulse fluttering beneath his touch, matching the rhythm of his own.

"nothing much," he whispers, voice muffled by your hair. "just gave me shit. said i was whip cream when i used to be chocolate. that i was settling down, becoming soft."

he pulls back to look at you after you laugh a bit at his metaphor, red eyes dark and intense in the moonlight streaming through the window. His thumb brushes your jaw, your cheek, the swell of your bottom lip. he's studying your face like he's trying to memorize it. like he's trying to understand how you crept under his skin without him even realizing.

"but they're not wrong," he says softly, words almost tender. "i am different. everything's different now that you're in my life."

his hand slides down to your collarbone, fingers grazing the swell of your breasts. the thin fabric of your dress does little to hide your hardened nipples. gaze following the path of his hands, eyes darkening further. "i don't want to be chocolate anymore, pea," he whispers, ducking his head to press open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. "i want to be your whip cream. i want to be the part of your life that's sweet and perfect. that fits with everything else."

he looks up at you, expression vulnerable in a way that's completely foreign. to him. to everyone. but especially to you.

"i want to be yours," he says softly. "completely. wholly. present, and in the afterlife."

you, sensible and perfect, stare up at him with those pretty eyes that he's been seeing in his dreams. those pretty eyes that he's been waking up wanting to see every morning.

he's been thinking a lot lately. about you. about your past, his past. the two of you squished together in the tiniest apartment he could find, a bed angling out from the wall and knocking into the kitchen counter. about all the things he swore he'd never do. a relationship. commitment. the white picket fence.

but now? with you on him, around him, everywhere? your fingers tracing the shell of his ear, your warm breath hitting his neck? your thighs squeezing his waist?

he wants all of it. badly. enough to throw away every boundary line and code of honor he's ever had.

"tell me you want it too," he pleads, voice hoarse and desperate against your throat. "tell me I'm not crazy to think this could work. that your brother would kill us if he found out, but that maybe, just maybe, we could sneak glances at each other across the dinner table and steal kisses in the kitchen. that we could wake up to the smell of coffee and each other." his hand slides down from your collarbone to your waist, squeezing the dip of your ribs. holding onto you like you're something precious. something he never wants to let go. "tell me," he whispers against your throat, ears ringing. "are you mine? are we doing this, together?"

you listen to his words, head tilted towards the ceiling of the car as he hunches over to your throat. your heart beats twice as fast than it already was prior, since when was sukuna one for labels? your hands sliding up his to hold his head close, pressing your cheek against his forehead.

"you're not crazy," you breathe out with a soft exhale, pressing kisses to the side of his face. "i want that too." you whisper, pressing your forehead into his cheek and holding him closer as if you two could merge into one.

"i'm yours ryo, completely."

yours. you said it. yours. the word repeats in his mind, sinking into his brain to carve a permanent place for itself there. he wants to laugh out loud, shout it to the world, smear it across every surface until the truth of it is blaring from ten miles away.

instead, sukuna squeezes his eyes shut and presses open mouthed kisses across your throat, his hands fisting in the fabric of your dress. one hand hooks under your knee, hitching your leg up to wrap around his hip. the other finds your jaw, tilting your face towards his like a bossy, demanding lover. his mouth crashes over yours, kissing you like he's been wanting to do it for years and finally getting permission. he kisses you until your breathless. until your lungs burn for air and your head spins from lack of oxygen. until you forget that you're still in the car, still pressed up against him with miles and miles of highway stretching out before you. he kisses down the column of your throat, fingers fumbling with the zipper at the back of your dress. it's not a request. it's an order. the command of a man who always gets what he wants. his hand slides up the curve of your side, palming the slope of your breast and tweaking a stiff nipple through the thin lace of your bra. one click. ther another. halfway down with the zipper. your dress gapes open, the chill of the air making you shudder.

this is happening. you're happening. the lines crossed. the decisions made. the past catching up to the present.

you're in this now. together. no turning back.

sukuna looks at you, red eyes blazing with mischief and hunger with a possessiveness that steals the breath from your lungs. you're both panting, both flushed, desperate to unwind the desire you both been holding eachother out on. his thumb drags across your bottom lip, smearing the lip gloss that's already smeared. marking you. claiming you. he leans in close, until you can feel the heat of his breath and the weight of his stare. he's taking it all in. memorizing every detail of your face. burning it into his mind for all of eternity.

he kisses you like he's starving for it, like you're his sustenance and he can't live without you. like he'll die if he doesn't taste you, doesn't touch you.

he kisses you like he's in love with you. like he's always been in love with you. like he'll never stop.

he needs to get you under him, around him, everywhere. all at once.

[dakusan]

Y O U T E X T “ I M I S S Y O U ” O U T O F N O W H E R E

stray kids ot8 x reader | quiet confessions, sleepy chaos, and hearts that ache before they answer

🌙 synopsis: You don’t mean to send it. Not dramatically. Not with tears in your eyes. Just…“i miss you.” Quiet. Honest. Unfiltered. And suddenly—They’re not okay. This isn’t just texting. This is emotional freefall in three words or less. This is “i miss you” turned into “i love you” without either of you saying it.

💌 a/n: this was supposed to be short. just a little “what if you texted ‘i miss you’” post. and then chan said “i wanna hold you while the track renders” and everything spiraled. i hope you feel held. i hope you feel insane. i hope you text someone “i miss you” and they drop everything to say “get here. your side’s cold.” thank you for reading this 8-piece set of emotional damage disguised as fluff. p.s. reblogs = forehead kisses p.p.s. if one of them ever actually said this to me i would simply dissolve into a memory and haunt their laundry.

📍credits: @cafekitsune for the dividers

🎶 Now Playing: "All About You" — Taeyeon

Bang Chan // 방찬

It’s 1:13 AM when you send it. No emoji. No context. Just:

i miss you.

He sees it between takes — fingers hovering above his keyboard, cursor blinking on the same half-finished vocal comp he’s looped for 40 minutes. The studio is dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of his screen and the flickering ‘recording’ sign outside the booth. His hoodie sleeves are pushed to his elbows. There’s a half-drunk bottle of Pocari on the desk. Lo-fi is playing quietly in the background — something soft, without words.

He stops.

Just… sits there for a second, staring at your message like it reached into his chest and gently pressed there.

Because you never say it out of nowhere. You’re careful. Thoughtful. Always timing your affection like a gift. And now, when you’re apart and quiet and distant—You miss him.

He exhales, thumb brushing over the screen. Smiles, crooked and slow, like it snuck up on him.

Then he does what he always does with feelings too big to hold: he turns to the mic. Doesn’t even rerecord the verse. Just switches on the track, leans into the mic, and softly hums something new — something with warmth, with ache, with the kind of sound that curls like a blanket around everything he can’t say yet.

When it’s done, he sends it.

[1:24 AM] (1 audio message) “miss you too. enough to put it in a song. come over if you can. you don’t have to say anything. i just wanna hold you while the track renders.”

Lee Know // 리노

You send it at 10:56 PM. No warning. No dramatic lead-up. Just:

i miss you.

He’s in bed. Not asleep. Not even trying. Just lying there in the dark with his phone balanced on his chest, a drama paused mid-episode and a cat curled up by his legs.

He sees your name light up, reads the message twice — once with his heart, once with his overthinking.

Immediately: suspicious. Out of nowhere? From you? At this hour?

His first instinct is to roll his eyes. His second is to reread it. His third is to sit up, grab his pillow, and clutch it in his lap like it’ll stop the way his stomach just turned to something embarrassingly warm.

You don’t say it unless you mean it. You don’t say it unless you need something. And suddenly, he hates that he’s not there — that you miss him and he can’t fix it, can’t hold you, can’t act all unimpressed while secretly tucking you under his arm like you belong there.

His thumbs hover over the keyboard for a while. He types and deletes twice. The third time sticks.

[11:02 PM] ...what happened? [11:02 PM] did someone say something? are you lonely? do you want me to come over or do you just want attention? [11:03 PM] ...because if it’s attention, you have it. idiot.

He throws the pillow across the room right after. Then spends the next hour watching your typing bubble like it holds the moon.

Changbin // 창빈 💪

It’s 8:14 PM when you send it. You don’t say anything else. Just:

i miss you.

He sees it halfway through a workout — hoodie tied around his waist, arms flushed and pumped, headphones in, breath ragged from a set he absolutely overdid. His phone buzzes on the bench. He wipes a hand on his towel, glances at the screen—

—and freezes.

There are a few people still in the gym. He barely hears them. Because something about that message punches the air straight out of his lungs.

You’re not usually the one to say it first. Not without a reason. Not unless something’s aching a little too much. And now you miss him — and he’s here, lifting weights like that’s gonna hold you together.

He grabs his phone and walks off into the hallway, chest still rising and falling like he just sprinted. It’s not even just the message. It’s the way his heart reacted — instantly. Like it’s been waiting to hear that from you all day.

His thumbs move fast:

[8:16 PM] you do?? 😭 [8:16 PM] pls tell me you’re free tonight i’ll cancel everything [8:17 PM] srsly. i miss u so bad i almost tripped doing lunges bc i started picturing ur face like a loser.

He stops, stares at his own text, groans into his towel.

And then:

(1 voice note) “if you’re free, come over. if not… call me? i’ll sit in my room like a lovesick sitcom character until you do.”

He puts the phone in his hoodie pocket after that. Heart loud. Arms sore. Entire soul? Yours.

Hyunjin // 현진 🎭

It’s 12:01 AM when you send it. Simple. Soft. No punctuation, no drama. Just:

i miss you

He’s painting. Alone in his apartment. A candle flickers beside his easel, wax dripping slowly as strokes of deep indigo curve across canvas. There’s music in the background—something orchestral, echoing, probably a little sad. His sleeves are rolled. Fingers stained with muted color.

The message buzzes through his speaker. He pauses mid-stroke. His breath catches.

Because you say it without pretense. You say it like it’s just true. You say it like you couldn’t hold it in any longer, like your heart blurted it out without consulting your pride.

And it ruins him.

He sets the brush down. Gently. Like it might shatter. Wipes his hands on a cloth. Looks at your name glowing on his phone like it’s the first star of the night. His throat is tight.

His first text is typed and deleted. Too dramatic. He rewrites it. Softer.

[12:04 AM] i’ve been aching to hear that [12:04 AM] i miss you in every quiet moment between brushstrokes [12:05 AM] do you want to facetime or do you want me to come stand outside your window with a candle and recite pablo neruda

He stares at the send button like it might bite him. Then presses it anyway.

His heart is a cathedral when you reply.

Han // 한 🌀

It’s 2:06 AM when you send it. No buildup. No emojis. Just:

i miss you

He was literally just lying there. Hoodie on. Face half in his pillow. Watching some dumb video on mute. Laughing at something he won’t remember in 3 minutes. He’s got crumbs on his hoodie and like, four unread messages in his group chat. He’s vibing. Barely thinking. Just static.

Until he sees you on his screen.

And suddenly — he’s wide awake.

He sits up like a corpse in a horror movie, staring at your message with the kind of intensity people reserve for bomb countdowns. His heart does a full Olympic gymnastics routine. His brain? Gone. Offline. In heaven. On fire.

He starts typing and deleting. So fast.

First message: too clingy. Second: too cool. Third: accidentally a marriage proposal.

He hits send before he can regret it:

[2:07 AM] What do you mean 😭😭😭 do you miss me like... miss me or like miss my memes [2:08 AM] bc if u miss ME i am currently free and emotionally compromised [2:08 AM] if u call me rn i’ll answer like it’s a drama and say ‘you finally called…’ i’m not kidding

Then, because he hates himself but also needs you to KNOW:

(1 voice note) “hi. i miss you too. like. so bad. like ‘watching our old tiktoks and tearing up’ bad. ok i’m gonna go cry into my cereal now bye 😭”

And then he rolls over, buries his face in his pillow, and kicks his feet like a 16-year-old girl in a coming-of-age movie.

Felix // 필릭스 🌻

It’s 9:36 PM when you send it. Soft. Unassuming. Just:

i miss you

He’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, gaming headset half-on, controller resting in his lap. His monitor’s still glowing with the lobby screen, but he hasn’t clicked “ready” in three minutes.

Because your name popped up. And those three little words didn’t just land — they sank.

He re-reads it, smiling like he can’t help it. Like your message reached through the screen and gently cupped his face.

He’s not the type to question it. Not the type to pretend it doesn’t matter. You miss him — and he misses you too. More than he’s said. More than he knows how to say sometimes.

So he picks up his phone, pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders, and texts back with all the warmth he has:

[9:38 PM] angel :( i was just thinking about u too [9:39 PM] i miss u in like. the way stars miss the sky [9:40 PM] wanna call? or i can come over w snacks n cuddles n a playlist titled ‘us time’ 🫂💛

And because that’s not enough — not nearly enough — he sends a voice note too. His voice low, soft, wrapped in honey:

(voice note, 0:08) “i miss you so much it kinda makes my chest tight... but like in a good way. please come over. i’ll make hot chocolate. with the cinnamon u like.”

Seungmin // 승민

It’s 11:22 PM when you send it. No flourish. No drama. Just:

i miss you

He’s brushing his teeth. Pajamas on. Sleep playlist already playing low from his Bluetooth speaker. The apartment is still. Lights soft. Everything quiet — except his brain, which goes static the second your message appears.

He pauses, toothbrush halfway out of his mouth. Stares at the notification like it personally insulted him. His heartbeat? Loud. Chest? Tight. Eyes? Suddenly way too focused on the “i” in “i miss you.”

And of course—he has to respond the only way he knows how: with sarcasm and a mild breakdown. He rinses, spits, towels off his face, and flops onto bed, one arm dramatically over his eyes. Then, thumb to phone:

[11:24 PM] wow. desperate much? [11:25 PM] should i feel special or r u just lonely n scrolling ur contacts [11:26 PM] jk. unless.

He stares at those texts. Chews his lip. Rolls over. Sighs. Then types again — slower this time.

[11:28 PM] ...i was literally just about to text you [11:28 PM] this is annoying [11:28 PM] i miss you too

And because he knows you’re probably pouting, he sends one final message:

(photo attachment: his pillow with space beside it) get here. your side’s cold.

I.n // 아이엔

It’s 10:01 PM when you send it. Simple. Sweet. Just:

i miss you

He sees it while leaning against the balcony railing, earbuds in, hoodie unzipped, cool night air brushing against his skin. The city glows beneath him — golden windows, blinking lights, soft hum of life continuing below.

He reads your message and smiles — not wide. Just a slow, knowing curve that tugs at the corner of his mouth.

You texted first. You cracked first. And he loves that.

But what he doesn’t say — not yet — is that he’d been about to text you the same thing. He’d been replaying that last voice note you left him. He’d been standing out here thinking about the way your hand feels when it’s tucked inside his hoodie pocket. He’s not cocky about it. Just… calm. Quietly wrecked.

He replies:

[10:02 PM] you miss me already? [10:02 PM] i thought u were tougher than this 🤭 [10:03 PM] ...good. i was starting to think i’m the only one losing sleep over you

Then he sends a photo: His shadow on the balcony, city lights in the distance, and the caption:

“you’d look better standing here next to me.”

And just like that — you're done for. Because so is he.

[titaniasfairy]

heard you, saw you, felt you

summary: you hate working closing shifts, but when a strange man stops by for a drink, you have no choice but to say yes.

a/n: hi y'all! here's what i wrote for the waitress!reader prompt i posted a few days ago, this is the longest and filthiest thing i've written period. thank you so much @spikedfearn for beta reading this for me! mwah enjoy <3

18+ MDNI

pairing: remmick x female!reader

wc: 5.2k

cw: dub-con!! reader hates her job lowkey, remmick is a FREAK, obsession, manipulation, vampire stuff y'know, biting, blood sucking, cunnilingus, piv sex, creampie, reader blacks out.

closing shifts were the worst. you loved opening shift, spending your shift with the early birds who had fresh smiles and always greeted you with a grinning “good morning” was always your favorite way to start the day. you’d get out around 4:00 pm, leaving the diner to be handled by whatever poor soul was working the dinner shift. on a good day, you’d leave with a couple of dimes jingling in your apron and plenty of guest receipts that had little notes like “have a good day!” or “thank you for breakfast” written on them. you could still stop into town if you needed anything at home, the sun still shining high in the sky beaming down on the townsfolk in the streets. you’d get home at a reasonable hour, just in time to make supper for yourself. at most nice of all, you’d be in bed at a decent hour with plenty of time to sleep before the morning comes. 

you didn’t have those luxuries when you worked closing shifts. 

when you’d seen the weekly diner schedule shortly after it’d been posted, your lips had shifted from a upward grin to a complete scowl. despite having begged your manager to keep you on opening shifts, you had still been assigned a closing shift, on a saturday night, even better. closing shifts always began while the diner was jam-packed full of patrons. people slumped on barstools, people huddled around tables, people shoved in booths like sardines, and people loitering around outside with lit cigarettes hanging from their mouths. the smell was abhorrent and always made your clothes smell like burnt tobacco before you even punched the clock. when you’d arrive, someone would always greet you with a “thank god you’re here” or “where the hell have you been?” despite you being on time. your feet would end up aching around the second hour of your shift from the constant back and forth from the kitchen to the diner, your wrist would be throbbing from writing countless orders, and your ears would be ringing just from how loud everything was. 

it would only start to improve by the time the sun had long gone down, around 9 or 10 o’clock. by then, the kitchen would be closed and the only diners left would be just about finished with their meals. all the other waitresses would head home, leaving you to finish the closing tasks. you’d spend the rest of your shift wiping down tables, polishing silverware, and mopping the floors before you left and locked all the doors. though you originally hated cleaning the restaurant, you found it calming to end the night with such a silent task. sometimes you’d hum or sing to yourself just to pass the time while you swept the floors. the walk home was the worst part, your legs ached and your eyes struggling to stay open while you hobbled home. you’d rely on streetlights to illuminate your way until you made your way to the dirt roads where you’d use the fireflies as guidance. eventually, you’d finally get in your door just to pass out as soon as your back hit the mattress. god forbid you had an opening shift the next day.

tonight’s closing shift was no different than your expectations. 

you arrived around 6:00 pm after walking through the dense clouds of gray cigarette smoke, staining your clothes with the stench. you couldn’t even set your things down before another server approached you with the usual “finally, we’re swamped out there.” conversation. you punched your time card in and smoothed out your apron with your hands, making sure to get out any creases or wrinkles that anyone would notice. you checked inside the apron for your pencil and writing pad before going out into the dining room. and like always, you were swamped. diners lined the bar with their hunched over frames, chowing down on whatever special was available that night. people were stuffed in booths, their shoulders rubbing together each time they moved their fork. the section assigned to you was already filled with patrons eager to get their order taken, they’d already resorted to snapping at you to get your attention. during morning shifts, you were always called by a “excuse me miss” or “pardon me”, but when the sun went down it seemed people had forgotten about pleasantries. your night continued with you taking orders and running food, refilling drinks, handing out checks, and cleaning up the messes people left when they got their receipt and change back. your table’s must’ve been stingy, because you were only left with a nickel or two once everyone had staggered out. 

after what seemed like a never-ending rush, the diner was finally empty. your co-workers had left as soon as they could, abandoning any opportunity to help you with the side-work that needed to be done. you were completely worn out from the dinner rush. your hair, which was neatly tied up when you came in, had now fallen out of place and stuck out in places where it shouldn’t have. your uniform was colored in a myriad of stains ranging from food, drinks, and grease. sweat had dried on the back of your neck, your forehead, and various other places, leaving you to feel just plain gross. your feet felt as if you had just ran a marathon, aching from holding yourself up all shift. you didn’t even give yourself the blessing of a break since it was so busy throughout the diner, leaving for 15 minutes would have only made things worse. 

the sun had been replaced with a bright full moon, illuminating the outside and shining through the windows of the diner. you had finished polishing the silverware and sorting them in the back, leaving you with only sweeping and mopping to do. like usual, you broke the eerie silence throughout the restaurant by singing to yourself. you never sang too loud, just enough so you could hear yourself sing along to a familiar tune. you drowned out the sound of the mop squelching on the floor with a melody you learned from your mother long ago, back when she’d sing to herself when hanging up the laundry. those songs would always find a way to cheer you up, no matter how exhausting the night was. the crickets outside acted as your back-up singers, chirping along to a rhythm you couldn’t pick up on. 

before you knew it, the entire floor had been mopped. you put the mop back in the closet, then grabbed the bucket of dirty water to dump into the sink in the back. after ensuring that everything else was put in its right place and cleaned up properly in the kitchen, you grabbed your things and locked the back door before punching the clock. you made sure to shut the kitchen light off as you walked out into the diner. but as you scanned the restaurant one last time, something was off. the crickets had stopped chirping and the silence left in the room wasn’t something that could be remedied with a song. it wasn’t until you looked out the window that you saw him. 

a man, standing outside the diner with his back to the glass window that spanned across the dining room. his hands were tucked in his pockets with his head turned down to the ground, like he was praying for something. his clothes weren’t pristine and spotless, but they weren’t tattered and soiled either, they just looked worn. a set of suspenders crossed against his bag and held up a pair of dark trousers. the shirt on his back looked to be just a bit too large for him, definitely not tailored for the man. the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows on arms that looked to be a smidge too pale for the month of june, especially in the mississippi delta. you shrugged it off and told yourself it was just the moonlight playing tricks on you. you felt as if he was waiting on the door to open, his frame was leaning on the window and he kept looking to his side to see if anyone was there. you figured he was waiting on you, so you made your way across the diner to open the door, making the bells on it ring out. the man immediately turned to look at you, like it was reflex. a smile was spread across his face, revealing his not-so-perfect teeth. 

“can i help you, sir?” your voice was just low enough to hear. the man’s eyes flickered up and down, looking at the state of your stained apron and dress. he inhaled what sounded like a chuckled before replying, “that was a beautiful song you were singing in there.”. your brows furrowed in confusion. how could he hear you in there? perhaps you were louder than you thought. still, you were flattered, you could feel heat rising up to your cheeks. 

you weren’t able to get a good look at his face until you opened the door, you were delighted to find the man quite handsome. he looked to be about your age, if not older. his eyes were soft but his face looked like it’d seen years of hard labor, his features littered with small scars and marks from god knows what. shadows fell across his brow bone, leaving his eyes dark with no distinguishable color to his irises. his smile felt human, his teeth not aligned like someone wealthy, with a few overlapping each other. you were too busy admiring him to notice that you didn’t respond, making your entire face warm, now. 

“t-thank you! my mama used to sing it all the time.” you tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear like a enamored schoolgirl would, embarrassing yourself even more. the man turned his head to side, cocking it while he looked at you, making you stumble on your words. “can i help you with anything? it’s awfully late.” you looked up at him while you spoke, he wasn’t much taller than you. “well..” he looked at your name tag safety pinned to your uniform, the back up to you. his accent was thick but sweet like honey, it didn’t sound like he was from the delta, but he was certainly from somewhere down south. your name fell from his lips, hanging from them like vines. the air was stagnant until he opened his mouth again. “i just finished my shift at the construction site and i am mighty thirsty, sugar.” he licked his lips while he awaited a response from you. 

you looked back into the diner, still lit by the overhead lights hanging from the ceiling. technically you were closed, and you’d have to charge him for something like a sweet tea or lemonade, but you doubted he’d turn down water. you looked back outside to discover the man had moved closer, you gave him another look. “i ain’t ever seen you before.” you weren’t suspicious, just curious. you were used to the people who came around at night, the same people who carry flasks in their pockets and don’t tip unless you flirt. he didn’t seem like them, though. “i don’t come around much. i just want to sit down for a bit, is that too much to ask?” you considered saying no, that your manager would throw you through the ringer if you let someone in after hours, let alone a stranger. but he did look thirsty, you couldn’t count the amount of times his tongue ran across his lips. he stared at the diner like it was an oasis in the desert, like if he closed his eyes too long he’d find it gone when he opened them. “i don’t suppose why not. c'mon in, i’ll get you something.” his face was beaming before you could finish your sentence. he held the door for you as you walked in, you wondered to yourself if he was always such a gentleman. he found his way to the bar and sat down on one of the stools as you walked behind the bar. “i don’t usually do this, y’know.” you said while looking at him across from you. he had his elbows resting on the wood, his body leaning in towards you. on his neck sat an iron chain, slightly rusted from age. it caught the light when he moved, shining in one place then another when his neck turned. he kept that toothy grin of his as he responded, “well i’m certainly grateful,” he said your name again like he’d known you for awhile, not just for a few moments. “you know my name but i don’t know your’s.” his eyebrows were raised as you spoke, intently listening to whatever you had to say. 

“remmick” 

he spoke it like he wasn’t proud of it. his eyes shifted down to the wood, averting his gaze from your eyes. you titled your head a bit, you’d never heard that name before. it sounded almost ancient, foreign to you in a way. “i ain’t ever heard that name before, you from around here?” he chuckled at your confusion and looked back up at you, his blue eyes now clear as day in the diner’s bright lighting. “you sure do ask a lot of questions, darlin’” remmick’s hands were clasped in front of him, his interlaced fingers were thick and his nails were short and worn down. your cheeks warmed up again, making you smile in embarrassment. “well i don’t want to serve a stranger, you could be dangerous.” you grabbed a glass from behind the bar and polished it with a nearby rag. remmick licked his lips again, smirking at you. you couldn’t fight the butterflies flying in your stomach as his eyes raked over you once more, like he was eyeing a meal. “but you let one in?” 

he ran the back of his hand over his mouth after he said it, wiping a string of drool off his lips that you didn’t see. “there’s a first time for everything.” you looked around, then remembered the icebox was off. you’d have to wait at least 10 minutes if he wanted ice. “i don’t have any ice…” the sentence hung from your lips as your mind wandered off. “i don’t need it sweetheart, i’d just about drink anything right now.” you gave him a nod before walking to the nearby sink and turning on the tap. you filled the glass up before turning the handle and pouring out the excess water from the class. 

“i can’t thank you enough, sugar.” he told you as you made your way around the bar. you set the glass down on the wood before sitting yourself at the barstool next to remmick. his hand wrapped around the glass and raised it to his lips, taking one short sip. for someone who just said they were near death from dehydration, he wasn’t very eager to drink the water. you shrugged it off and took a closer look at his clothes. his dress shirt was opened up a few buttons, revealing a white wife-beater underneath. they looked aged, but not quite as worn down as you’d expect. 

“you never did tell me where you were from.” his eyes were trained on you, almost locked on your lips as you spoke. his other hand sat resting on his knee, his fingers tapping against it every now and then. “i’m from around.” he said, seemingly avoiding the question. his eye’s moved from your lips to somewhere below them, staring at what you assumed to be your necklace. you held the pearl hanging on your neck between two fingers, fiddling it in nervousness. the back of his hand wiped over his mouth again. 

your facial expression changed from curiosity to confusion, brows furrowed and eyes squinted. you looked back to the counter, where the water sat. remmick hadn’t touched the glass you gave him since he took the first sip. you wondered if the well had something to do with it. “that water no good or something?” you looked back at him and saw a new man, one who didn’t look like a man at all. his once blue irises were now a dark crimson, hiding beneath his black lashes. he gave you that toothy grin you’d noticed when opened the door, but his teeth had been replaced with jagged daggers, his canines now sharp like fangs. 

“i think we both know that’s not what i wanted.” 

your breath hitched, the air from your lungs suddenly disappeared and left you speechless. you tried to respond but were only able to let out a squeak. remmick rose from the barstool and stepped towards you, almost towering over you now. he brought a long clawed finger up to your mouth, shushing you. “aw, it’ll be alright, sweetheart. don’t cry.” his voice was rasped and low, the frequency vibrating through you. your vision began to blur with tears, making you squeeze your eyes shut in fear. he brought another finger to your cheeks to wipe the salty streams that had begun to fall from your eyes. 

“i knew i had to have you. from the moment i heard that pretty voice i knew what i had to do.” his lips were on your ear, his voice paralyzing you in place. he kept one hand cupping your cheek and one holding your waist, gripping the apron you’d had on all night along with your plump flesh. you found the courage to speak again, your voice only a weak whisper, “what are you?” remmick let out a low chuckle and you could feel his smile on your face.

 “your savior.” 

you gasped when his lips began to kiss your jaw, making their way down to your exposed neck. “i know just how miserable you are, sugar. you don’t do nothing but work all day and night just for a couple of dimes and nickels. nobody ever thanks you, either. you practically run this place yourself but you don’t have anything to show for it. isn’t that right, darlin’?” his breathing sent shivers down your spine, his words festering in your head. 

he was right. you work your ass off nearly everyday to keep the diner afloat but you hadn’t received a promotion in years. your co-workers rely on you to keep things steady but don’t have the decency to offer any help. 

“you go home miserable and lonely, no husband at home and no kids to feed. all the other girls your age are married off by now and got litters of young-ins, don’t they?” 

more tears fell from your eyes, you’d always dreamed of having a family just like you did growing up. but no man was ever willing to give you the time of day, not when you came home smelling like grease and coffee. your heart panged in your chest, still pumping fast from sheer adrenaline. you shook your head, but you knew there was no point in denying him. 

“i can take you away from all this pain. give you a life you always wanted, doesn’t that sound sweet, sugar?” 

you sobbed in remmick’s arms as he continued to kiss down your neck. you tried to ignore the way your thighs clenched each time his tongue touched your flesh, but it wasn’t worth trying. you leaned into his touch, back arching into each kiss and lick he laid on your skin. 

“i chose you to be mine, and i met you there, and you invited me in.” 

a small moan left your lips before you felt it. his lips enclosed on your neck and kissed the flesh before remmick widened his mouth and bit into you like a ripe georgia peach. you felt the pressure of it first, your head lolling back and screaming out in pain. after a few seconds you felt the fangs retract, allowing him to take from you what he wanted all along. he sucked in your gushing blood like a man starved, tongue flicking over the bite wound and making you squirm in his hold. you felt the rush of blood loss run through you, making your vision flood with black spots. you squeezed your eyes shut and anticipated the worst, but once remmick’s lips left your neck, you experienced euphoria. 

an invisible weight lifted from your aching shoulders, your lungs let out an exhale you didn’t know you were holding or how long you were keeping it in. after a few moments you opened your eyes and laid eyes on the monster you’d devoted yourself to. the lower half of his face was smeared with your blood, his nectar. you couldn’t deny the sudden pull he had on you, his gaze making your cunt quiver. 

remmick’s bloodied lips were on yours before you knew it, his kiss almost bruising. his hands cupped your face while yours tangled in his locks. your tongues slid over each other’s, interwoven in a soul binding kiss that felt like heaven on earth. your blood had smeared onto your face, marking you as forever his. as you leaned into the kiss, you could feel remmick’s hands slip behind your back and untie the apron you’d been wearing, discarding it to the floor once it fell into his grasp. his hands fell to you hips and pushed lightly, causing your back to hit the wood of the barstool, pinning you there. your chest heaved like a panting dog as his sharp claws played with the hem of your dress, his forehead pressed up against yours as he breathed life into your mouth. after a few moments, remmick’s fingers pushed your dress back to bunch it at your hips, revealing your plump thighs to him. 

before you knew it, he was on his knees below you. he took his time admiring your legs, holding one with both hands, leaving a trail of kisses starting from your calf and ending at the tops of your thighs, then switching to the other. it was hauntingly romantic. your mouth couldn’t stop the small whimpers that left you each time his lips found the places that left goosebumps on you when kissed, his eyes would shoot up to meet your’s with each sound that left you in a desperate need of approval. his lips left the top of your thigh and his hands landed under the backs of your knees, holding them to your chest. he gasped when he saw them, your cotton panties that had stuck to your heat and the darkened wet patch that sat just where your opening was. remmick’s nose pressed against the cloth, breathing you in and surrounding himself in nothing but you. it made your stomach flip and your cunt clench. in what could only be impatience, a razor sharp claw sawed its way through your panties, cutting them from your body and finding themselves somewhere on the floor along with your apron. you gasped in a strange mixture of arousal and fear, the sound coming out of you like a wanton moan. once your cunt had been revealed, his eyes were glued to watching it react to its new surroundings. he even blew a stream of air on it to watch you jump. he let out a dark chuckle, grinning to himself. 

“i heard you, i saw you, felt you. and now, i’m going to give you the gift of belonging.” 

you batted your lashes down at him, now holding your legs apart for him. remmick’s dark eyes stared back up at you, two dark voids filled with only god knows what, but you didn’t care anymore. god be damned if he’s a monster, he’s the most beautiful one you’d ever seen in your life. you nodded your head to tell him you were ready, even though remmick knew he didn’t need your permission anymore. he left a small kiss to the top of your clit before devouring you. his tongue ran its way over the seam of your cunt, then his lips began to suck. it was bliss you couldn’t have even imagined, your back arching off the seat and the butterflies in your stomach beginning to swarm. his tongue lapped up your arousal like it was his god-given right to, slurping up each drop you could possibly give to him. remmick moaned into your folds, the vibrations sending shockwaves throughout your body. his lips moved to suck your clit, flicking the bundle of nerves with his tongue every so often. while his mouth was occupied with the top of your heat, two fingers made their way to your opening, pressing into your entrance. 

“taste like heaven, sugar. i’m gonna have so much fun with you.” 

the quiet diner on the downtown street was suddenly filled with the most sinful of sounds, a filthy combination of moans and whimpers. remmick’s fingers had made their way inside you, thrusting at a slow, but moderate, pace. your own fingers were interlaced in the dark strands of his hair that had begun to mat from his own sweat. you ground your hips into his open mouth, making him groan out in satisfaction. you felt his fingers hitting the sweet spot you’d only felt with your own, the feeling even more intense along with his lips lapping over your folds. 

your cunt clenched tight, and remmick knew your orgasm with approaching, making him more ravenous than before. his movements became calculated, he was laser-focused on making you reach your climax. your breathing became labored, chest moving up and down with each breath. the coil in your stomach tightened, your body tensed up and awaited his approval. 

“now give me what i need, sweet girl.”

a flood of emotions washed over you, a wave of euphoria hit you like a strike of lightning and your cunt was gushing before you knew it. remmick discarded his fingers from your hole and used his tongue over your entrance as you rode out your orgasm. underneath the blissful wailing from your mouth, you could hear him moaning against your heat, breathing you in his lungs. when the flood had subsided, he came up for air and rose from his knees. remmick’s mouth that was previously covered in your blood was now wiped clean, the taste of you still lingering on his tongue. your chest throbbed with adoration, your head only filled with thoughts of him. his hands cupped your face again, noses touching and foreheads pressed against each other. you closed your eyes and brought yourself down to earth, his thumbs caressing the underside of your job. remmick kissed you softly, the kiss passionate but not hungry. his lips lingered over your’s for a moment before he spoke, “you’re so beautiful” your name leaving his mouth as your eyes closed. never in your life did you feel so wanted. 

you raised your lips to his as a thank you, hands clutching his face. your tongue ran over his lips, eliciting a moan from the man. your tongue slid into his mouth and explored, running it over the backs of his fangs and the roof of his mouth. he groaned into the kiss, hands sliding down to hold your waist. as the kiss began to heat up, remmick pulled away and flipped you around, bending you over the barstool. 

“fuck, babydoll.” his hands ran down the sides of your waist and across the mound of your ass, squeezing the flesh just for a moment. his claws ran over the sides of your hips, scratching lightly and sending goosebumps down your spine. you let out a sigh of relief when you felt his groin press against you, the hard bulge placed on your entrance. you pressed your hips against him, meeting him in the middle. you whined at the sudden loss of feeling, but your thighs clenched when you heard the clinking of a belt buckle from behind you. “i’m gonna make you really sing now, sugar. make sure the whole world knows my name, baby.” remmick slapped your ass light before pressing the tip of his cock to your opening. he gave you a few moments to adjust before sliding his whole length inside you, filling you until it felt like you were overflowing. 

his cock was thick, most certainly thicker than the two fingers he’d given you earlier. the sheer length of him was enough to make your eyes pop, head snug against your cervix once he bottomed out. you tried to let out a whine, but you were shushed before you could protest. “none of that now, sweetheart. this is what you wanted. i could smell it on you as soon as you opened that door.” when you tried squirming your hips, one large hand pushed them down while another gathered both your wrists and pulled hard, forcing your back to arch to the point where you were almost standing. remmick’s lips pressed against your ear, whispering low in a voice that shook your soul, 

“we are going to make beautiful music together, sugar.”

his hips pulled back and slammed into you, pushing you forward and causing you to wail. his cock bullied itself inside you, the tip hitting your sweet spot with each rough thrust. the angle remmick had you in allowed him to sink himself as deep as he could, sending shocks throughout you and making your head throw back in bliss. your head was empty, only filled with want and obsession. “there we go, use that pretty voice for me.” the hand pressing down on your hips wrapped around your neck, exposing the unbitten side to him. his hips continued to thrust into you with deep and rough strokes. each whimper and moan you let out was awarded with remmick’s own groans, his cock twitching inside you. his lips began to lick and suck on your neck, preparing you for the inevitable. his nose breathed your scent in once more, making your eyes squeeze shut in pleasure. 

“i can’t wait to spend eternity with you.” you could only remember the pressure of his fangs puncturing your flesh and the excruciating pain that came afterwards. it wasn’t pulling and intimate like the first bite, it was ravenous and animalistic. you felt remmick’s thrusts stop suddenly and felt warmth begin to fill your cunt before your vision went black.

the next morning, the owner came in to collect the time cards only to find the door wide open and the fresh pool of blood on the floor. it was smeared from the barstool down to the tile, no footprints or handprints to be found. he yelled out in horror and alerted the whole block of a murderer. the cops thought it was a robbery gone wrong, but the cash register was left untouched. once they found out who was closing that night, they came to your doorstep and searched for any sign of you, but you were nowhere to be found. days turned into weeks, and you were put on the “missing, presumed to be dead” list that had gotten longer with each week that passed. but you wouldn’t be dead for a long long time.