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naughtyjjk · 1 year ago

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testing nanami kento’s self-control

characters: nanami x fem reader warnings: 18+, smut, riding, cock tease, edging, orgasm denial, begging, creampie notes: it's just so hot to see a man who's always composed start to break down hehe

whenever nanami comes home, his suit and tie are always in pristine condition, even after a long day of work. there’s never a strand of hair out of place or a speck of dust to be found anywhere. that’s just how he is—precise and focused and meticulous, almost to a fault.

even when you’re undressing him, kissing him, bringing your bodies together, he still manages to be so put together that it’s honestly a little frustrating. it makes you want to tease him to the point of torture and go slow enough that he falls apart. so slow that he begs.

you want to see him lose control. you want to ruin him.

pushing nanami down on the bed, you climb on top of him and grab the lube, slicking his cock with a few strokes. he’s already so hard, flushed red and throbbing in your grasp, desperate for more. when he bucks his hips to try and fuck himself in your fist, you let go completely and tsk at him.

“don’t move,” you say, coaxing him. “let me take care of you today.”

sighing, nanami lies back down, hips going still. you shift yourself so that your pussy is lined up with his cock, using a hand to brush the tip against your folds, never going further than that. this goes on for agonizingly long as you tease the both of you, feeling his hard cockhead poking at your entrance.

you push down a little, applying the slightest of pressure, and hold it there until you hear nanami groan, his cock twitching with arousal. he’s looking at you with lidded eyes, expression dark and hungry. “darling…”

but you only grin and move again, this time almost allowing his cock to slip inside you. almost. so close, but not quite there. you drag the head past your entrance, dipping barely inside, before you lift your hips again. nanami’s breath hitches, chest heaving. he swallows thickly, arms tense by his side, fighting against his instincts to keep himself still.

“ah—f-fuck—”

leaning forward to kiss him, you catch his bottom lip and flick your tongue over it. meanwhile, you spread your legs a bit wider and finally, finally sink down so that the very tip nudges inside you. only the tip. nanami is moaning your name in broken pieces, mixed in with a few curses and whimpers.

then you stop. again.

nanami groans in frustration and his hips jerk up involuntarily, but you were expecting it. you move with him, keeping just the tip of his cock in you, maintaining the position and refusing to let him go any deeper.

“wh-what did i do to deserve this teasing?” nanami asks, looking like he’s about to lose it.

you lick your lips and reply honestly, “you’re always so composed, kento. i want to make you desperate for it, see you completely wrecked for me.”

for a few more seconds, you stay in the same position, unmoving. the stretch of his cock is nice; he’s hardly even really inside you yet, but your pussy is already adjusting to his size, opening up for him. it’s so tempting to take all of him like you’ve done many times in the past, to ride him and bring him straight to the edge. but no. not yet. you have a plan to follow through.

lowering your hips just the slightest, you sink down further, taking more of his cockhead until the crown is almost fully inside. you can feel him throbbing against your walls, wanting more but never getting it.

nanami lets out a broken moan, breath stuttering. “you’re being cruel. how long are you going to make me wait?”

“that,” you say, “depends on how long you can hold out.”

as if to punish him, you raise your hips again, smiling wickedly as you pull away until all of him is resting outside your entrance again. it’s hard for you, too; you miss the feeling of having him inside. but you remind yourself that you’re going slow, as slow as you possibly can. slow so that you can watch nanami break.

nanami groans, low and needy. his hands clench and unclench the bedsheets by his sides. “fuck.”

without warning, you drop down again suddenly, less than an inch just so that you have the tip of his cock in you again. nanami gasps, throwing his head back against the pillow. you take in all the sensations: the messy feeling of lube and precum, the way nanami’s hard cock twitches with desire. how he’s struggling and using every ounce of his willpower to not buck up and thrust into you.

“good boy,” you lean in to whisper right by nanami’s ear, watching with delight as he shudders in response. he’s breathing hard, every muscle in his body tensed up.

you keep him there inside you for what seems like forever. every tiny shift of movement is agonizing and extra sensitive, sending waves of pleasure from where you two connect to the rest of your body. you can tell that nanami also feels it, by the way he’s losing control more and more with each passing second.

and that’s exactly what you want. it’s working. you’re going to break him down piece by piece until he’s nothing but a shaking, writhing, horny mess beneath you.

it’s such a fucking turn on to see nanami’s self-control slipping, breaths growing ragged, waiting in anticipation for whatever you’re willing to give him next. it’s getting hard for you to hold back as well. you let just a tiny bit more of nanami’s cock into your pussy so that all of the head is nestled inside and then you start the shallowest, most torturously slow rhythm you’ve ever done in your life. hardly moving at all, the most miniscule rolls of your hips to take only the tip of his cock over and over again.

up… and down…

“o-oh god,” nanami curses, and he can’t help rocking his hips to follow your rhythm, matching your pace. he knows better now than to try for anything more, knows that you could take it all away from him at any moment.

each time his cock nudges its way back inside you, your pussy clenches around him. tight, like it doesn’t want to let him go. and nanami moans, feeling your walls clamp down on his cock, wishing that he could feel your warmth along the rest of his neglected shaft, too.

he looks delirious now, so fucking aroused with his mouth parted and his eyes hazy and unfocused. his cock throbs and pulses inside you, making him dizzy with pleasure. the shallow thrusts are getting to him, slowly but surely, the sensation building up in tingling layers, bringing him closer to the edge.

honestly, you’re teasing yourself as just much as you’re teasing nanami. with only short strokes of his cock that barely manage to penetrate you, you feel empty, craving for him to hit your deepest parts. on one hand, it’s so fucking hot to drag it out like this, so arousing to see nanami at your mercy. on the other hand, you’re reaching your limit, too.

“beg,” you say. “tell me how badly you need it. let me hear you beg, kento.”

there seems to be an internal battle going on within nanami as he grits his teeth, trying to resist. but it’s futile; you simply keep moving your hips in that slow, steady rhythm until it becomes unbearable and nanami gives in embarrassingly fast, mind clouded with lust.

“hah—p-please, i can’t—fuck, please—”

“mm,” you consider his words. “please what?”

nanami chokes out a moan. “i wanna fuck you—ah, please, your pussy—” he looks at his aching cock, the precum spilling down the sides, the way his cockhead disappears into you. “let me come—i-i need—” then he gasps, “oh shit—”

it’s beyond arousing to hear him like this. in that moment, you don’t let him finish his sentence as something snaps within you and you give in to your own desires. your hips slam down on him without warning, burying all of his cock inside you in a single, rapid movement.

an intense wave of pleasure rushes through both of you, every nerve ending igniting at once. you moan, overwhelmed. you’re filled so deep and so fast that it takes a second for you to return to your senses. and nanami—fuck, the sound he makes, low and guttural, a stuttering, broken moan that should be illegal. his abdomen clenches, thighs shaking. it’s only one full thrust, but you can tell that he almost came right then and there.

“fuck.” his voice sounds destroyed, fucked out. chest heaving, he wants so badly to buck his hips into you until he’s spilling his release into you. it won’t take much more to get him there. but he very carefully doesn’t move, still following your orders, still being good.

“k-kento,” you whine, staying there, the sensation of his cock pulsing and splitting you open driving you dangerously close to orgasm as well. you don’t dare to move until the pleasure simmers down into something more manageable, until you’re sure that you’ve fallen away from the edge.

that’s when you draw your hips up again. still going slow, so fucking slow that it almost breaks you—but it breaks nanami too, and that’s what you’re aiming for.

by this point, nanami’s composure has completely crumbled. he’s resigned himself to the torture as you restart the aching, brutally slow thrusts. the tip of his cock dips into you, as far as the crown of his cockhead, and then pulls out almost all the way. again and again and again.

you’re dripping wet, the teasing against your pussy reaching an unbearable degree. there’s nothing you want more than to take nanami fast and deep, to feel him hitting your most sensitive spots instead of just playing with the entrance. but you almost have nanami where you want him and you’re betting on him to give in first.

“please—ah, m-more—” nanami cries out, breathy and horny and frustrated, trembling from the effort of holding himself back.

you keep the same pace, not giving him what he wants. keeping him just on the edge of satisfaction, waiting him out. and it’s infinitely worse now that you’ve both had a taste of what you could be getting instead.

your hips move up. then down.

then up again.

the crown of his cockhead catches and releases from your pussy, delicious friction causing your head to spin. nanami’s neck is arched, looking at you with narrow eyes, aroused beyond his limits.

“f-fuck, fuck,” he rambles nonsensically, body so tense. “please—let me—i’m—i need—let me inside you—i c-can’t take it anymore—”

“just a little longer,” you tell him, and nanami groans. “you can hold out for a few more minutes, can’t you? be a good boy for me.”

those words make a desperate, wrecked sound escape from his lips and his self-control is slipping, slipping, slipping. he’s turning wild under you now, squirming, writhing, frenzied and starved for his release. your own willpower is dissolving at the sight of nanami’s desperation.

your hips descend on his cock again, clenching tight around the tip. nanami sucks in a sharp breath.

up, agonizingly slow, leaving him throbbing at the loss of contact. this time, you let out a moan, feeling so empty. god, it’s not enough for you either, not nearly fucking enough.

“need you—n-need to feel you,” nanami pleads, whimpering, chanting your name over and over. “please, please, i’m close—fuck, i’m so—”

he’s panting, cock twitching madly, and this —this is exactly what you had been waiting for the whole time: nanami completely ruined, nanami undone by your actions, nanami looking at you with pure hunger and lust, overtaken by arousal. he seems to be right on the edge of pleasure, so close to tipping over, body burning with an orgasm held at bay. you’re sure that when you finally allow him to come, it’ll be ecstasy like he’s never felt before, coming harder than he ever has in his life.

and that’s the end of your limits. you can’t deny either of you any longer.

you slam your hips down all at once, plunging nanami’s hard, aching cock inside you.

“ah—!”

“f-fuuuck—”

nanami moans, loud and guttural and absolutely wrecked. it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever heard. his cock splits you open, so hard and thick, and you fall forward on his chest as your pussy spasms around him.

the sensation is entirely overwhelming, your mind going blank, pleasure jolting along your nerves tenfold, having built up by the teasing and denial.

“o-oh god,” nanami pants. he bends his knees to drive his cock even deeper inside you, and the change in angle makes you fucking delirious. “good, so good—”

you’re all out of patience. there’s no more waiting, no more drawing this out.

looking at nanami, you say, “kento. take what you need. make yourself come.” you swirl your hips in a circular motion, feeling his cock hitting every corner inside you, and both of you moan at the same time. “fuck me.”

something sparks in nanami’s eyes, washed over by a fresh wave of arousal. before you know it, he’s flipped the two of you over so that you’re now lying on your back and he’s propped up above you. his eyes stare into yours, so intense, and that’s when you know: he’s going to devour you.

with a growl, nanami begins to move, pulling out his cock just enough to shove it back into you. hard and fast and so, so fucking deep. your mouth parts but no sound comes out. you can’t think straight; your pussy feels so full, stretched tight around his aching cock.

“kento—kento—”

but nanami isn’t listening to you anymore. he’s so wound up, so fucking turned on beyond reason, that he can’t hold back anymore. he starts thrusting wildly and unrestrained using short, quick rolls of his hips to drive his cock into you. each inch that enters you burns with pleasure and the room fills with the filthy sounds of your moans, of nanami pounding his cock into you again and again.

“this is payback,” he says, voice low and raspy. it makes you shudder to think about what he has in store for you. “i'm gonna—hah—gonna fuck you until you scream. fill you up with my come. shit, and i won’t stop until you’re coming on my cock like the naughty fucking girl you are.”

nanami’s hips are stuttering but his pace never falters. his next thrust hits that sweet spot inside you, making you arch off the bed and gasp, sparks of pleasure dancing along your spine. and now that nanami has found it, he aims there every time, knowing how sensitive it is, how it brings you that much closer to the edge.

moaning, it’s all you can to do keep up with the brutal thrusts. your stomach coils, orgasm building and building, threatening to take over your body. it feels so fucking good. nanami’s cock is pushing deep inside you, hard and fast, pulsing against your walls, stretching you open. he uses a hand to find your clit, rubbing tight circles around the swollen nub, and you cry out, hips bucking up to chase the sensation, clenching around his cock on instinct.

“oh—fuck, k-kento, i'm—i'm coming—”

the pleasure crests and your arousal spikes. you know that you won’t be able to endure it for much longer. and nanami is right there with you, thrusts turning erratic and desperate.

“m-me too,” he says, grunting. “come. don’t hold back. come for me, baby.”

one, two more thrusts and you’re moaning his name, body convulsing in waves. nanami fucks you through it, sending aftershocks to your nerves, and then he’s coming too, releasing everything that’s built up inside of him in spurts. he’s loud when he comes, mouth next to your ear; louder than you’ve ever heard him, riled up by all the teasing. his cock twitches inside you and his hips slow, eventually go still.

god, it’s so damn hot that it almost makes you want to fuck him all over again.

for a moment, both of you lie there, catching your breaths. then nanami pulls out slowly, careful not to overstimulate you. he holds you like that and you melt in his arms, all the strength leaving your body.

“next time,” nanami says, sounding defeated, “you’re going to be the one begging for it.”

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#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk men #jjk smut #jjk imagine #nanami kento #nanami smut #jjk nanami #nanami x reader #naughtyjjk

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yuzujjn · 7 months ago

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` ꣑꣒‎ ONE WIN, ONE DATE : 심재윤 ─── 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺 𝖽𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍

ʬʬ. football player!jake x cheerleader!reader 𖥔 ݁ ARCHiVE 7OO wordcount fluff . . . skinship, kisses ꒰˵ˊᯅˋ˵꒱ happy bday to jakey, && for my juni bby

YOU'RE STANDING ON THE SIDELINES, pom-poms in hand, watching jake tear through the field like he owns it. he’s got this intensity in his eyes, the kind that makes your pulse pick up because you know he’s giving it his all—just to win this game. all for one reason: he bet you that if he wins, he gets to ask you out.

it’s been a fun, flirty thing between you two for weeks now, but this? this is new. he made sure the whole team knew about his little bet, which has them teasing him endlessly about finally "making a move on his dream girl." you catch a few of his teammates smirking and nudging him before the game starts, and jake just rolls his eyes with a lopsided grin, eyes glancing at you every now and then. you swear you can feel his gaze even from across the field.

the game is close, way too close for your liking. you’re on edge, practically jumping each time he gets the ball, and maybe you’re clapping a little louder than anyone else (not that you liked him, or maybe you did). in the final minutes, it’s tied, and jake’s team has the ball. you watch as he gets the ball, weaving through the opposing team with an ease.

the crowd holds its breath, and so do you.

with a swift, clean kick, jake scores, sealing the win. the stadium erupts, but jake’s eyes find you instantly, a smug, triumphant smile on his face as he’s mobbed by his teammates. when they finally let him go, he sprints over to you, his eyes lighting up with joy.

“so…” he starts, leaning over, hands on his knees, slightly out of breath but still managing to look cocky. “still gonna pretend you’re not into me?”

you roll your eyes, though your cheeks are definitely giving you away. “who said i was ever into you?”

“i could tell.” jake flashes that heart-melting smile, moving closer. you’re aware of the other cheerleaders watching, and you’re definitely aware of his hand grazing your waist, lingering just long enough to make your heart race.

“oh, yeah? you’re that confident?” you ask, trying to sound unaffected, but your voice betrays you.

“confident enough to win a game for you,” he says with a smirk. “and i did say i’d ask you out if i won.”

“so ask away, sim,” you challenge, folding your arms.

he lets out a chuckle, his fingers brushing yours as if testing the waters. “okay, let me ask properly, then.” jake clears his throat dramatically, taking your hand in his. “y/n, would you do me the honor of going out with me?”

you’re pretty sure the butterflies in your stomach are doing somersaults, but you manage to keep your cool—sort of. “hmm… maybe. depends. what kind of date are we talking about?”

jake grins, squeezing your hand gently. “whatever you want. something fun. something that’ll make you smile like that.” he nods at you, obviously noticing the way your lips are curving, despite your attempt to stay composed.

“fine,” you say, relenting with a playful eye roll. “but only because you tried so hard.”

he leans in, closer than before, his voice just above a whisper. “only the best for you.”

your heart skips, and you glance down, trying to hide the way his words affect you. but jake isn’t done; he tilts your chin up, meeting your gaze. "guess you’re stuck with me now.”

“guess so,” you whisper, feeling heat rise to your cheeks as you realize he’s not moving back. his hand is still at your waist, his thumb gently tracing circles on your hip. the stadium is still loud around you, but it feels like it’s just the two of you here, his face inches from yours.

“think i can get a ‘good game’ kiss?” he asks with a wink, his voice teasing but hopeful. you roll your eyes, but you can’t hide the way you’re smiling now.

“don’t push your luck, sim.” but before he can respond, you lean up, giving him the quickest, softest peck on the lips. it’s barely there, but it’s enough to make his eyes widen in surprise and a smile spread across his face.

“you’re making me want to win every game now,” he says, looking down at you like you’re the only person in the world.

“i guess you’ll just have to keep scoring, then,” you reply with a grin, stepping back slightly, though your hand stays in his, fingers tangled together.

“oh, trust me, y/n,” he murmurs, tightening his hold on you, “i’ll be scoring a lot.”

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purplereina11 · 8 days ago

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Part 3

You spent your childhood drifting through foster homes, with nothing but a worn photo of two little girls and a note on the back: Your sisters, Alexia and Alba. You never imagined that at 25, after starting a new job, you'd meet them, through your boss who was your sister's girlfriend.

Word count: 9k

⚠️ This comes with a warning 🔞

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The phone rings only once before Patri picks up like she was already holding it, like maybe she still keeps you the only person set to ignore the do not disturb she always has on, even now.

Her voice is cautious but soft, immediately alert. “Y/N?”

You don’t speak at first. You try, but your throat is too tight, your voice caught somewhere between panic and exhaustion. All that comes out is a shaky breath.

That’s enough Patri’s voice lowers, gentle but steady like the ground beneath you just got a little more solid. “Hey. It’s okay. I’ve got you. What do you need?”

You still can’t explain it. Can’t bring yourself to shape it into words you don’t even know what you need, but your voice finally cracks through the pressure. “…Can you come over?”

There’s no hesitation, not even a beat. “Yeah. I’m already grabbing my keys.” You hear the clink in the background keys, door, a muttered “Vicky, I’ll be back later” then her voice returns, quieter now, but somehow more certain. “I’m on my way. Don’t worry, okay?”

You manage a whisper. “I’m scared.”

That silence holds for half a breath not because she doesn’t know what to say, but because she wants to say it right. “I know, but I’m coming. I’ve got you, cariño. Just hang on a little longer.”

She doesn’t ask for details, she doesn’t push, she doesn’t need to. She heard it in your voice something broke loose inside you and started flooding out, and all she cares about now is getting to you.

You hang up without saying goodbye, knowing she’ll be there.

And she will be, because no matter how messy or distant things have gotten, she’s always shown up when it counted and tonight, you didn’t need her to fix anything. You just needed her.

The knock comes quicker than expected sharp and urgent. You barely got the chance to sit down again after your panic call.

You call out, voice low but steady now, “It’s open.”

The door swings open with more force than necessary, and Patri storms in like she was ready to fight off an intruder keys still clenched in her hand like a makeshift weapon, eyes wild and scanning.

“Y/N?” she says quickly, stepping fully inside, breath just a little uneven. “What happened? Are you okay? Where are you?”

You step out from around the corner, a little sheepish, and point toward the ceiling near the window. “There’s a spider.”

Patri stares at you for a long, stunned second jaw slack, chest still heaving slightly from sprinting up the stairs like her life depended on it. She blinks. “A… spider.”

You nod slowly. “A big one.”

There’s a pause where you swear you can actually see the tension in her body trying to process whether to be furious, relieved, or amused. Patri exhales through her nose, visibly trying to remain composed but the twitch at the corner of her mouth gives her away, “You sounded like someone had broken in.”

“Well technically, the spider did,” you say weakly. “It certainly wasn’t invited.”

She closes her eyes for a moment, shaking her head, and when she opens them again, the panic is gone, replaced with dry amusement. “I left Vicky mid-sentence and ran four red lights.”

You bite your lip to stop the laugh bubbling up. “Sorry?”

She gives you a long look, then slowly, dramatically pulls off her jacket and tosses it on the back of a chair. “Where is it?” she asks, squinting toward where you pointed.

“Ceiling. Top right corner. It moved once.”

“I’m risking my life for this, you know.”

“You’re very brave.”

Patri grabs a magazine off your table with unnecessary determination and marches toward the window.

You stand behind her at a safe distance like the coward you are.

“You owe me so hard for this,” she mutters but she’s smiling now, and despite everything, it’s the softest she’s looked at you in days.

Even though you’ve clearly ruined her night and interrupted whatever plans she had, she handles the spider without complaint, because she always shows up even when it’s just for a spider and a scared voice on the phone.

Patri lifts the magazine gently, the spider inching along its edge like it has no idea it’s just narrowly avoided a death sentence.

You flinch instinctively, keeping a solid few feet of distance between you and her. “Kill it.”

She glances back at you, eyebrows raised. “No. I’m not killing it.” She starts toward the balcony.

“It’s just going to come back in,” you protest.

“It won’t.” Her voice is firm, like she’s the spokesperson for all spider-kind. “It’s more scared of you than you are of it.”

You scoff. “I doubt it.”

She shoots you a look over her shoulder, opening the sliding glass door. “Oh it is,” she says. “It’s seen how crazy you are.”

Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

She carefully taps the magazine so the spider drops down onto the balcony floor and scurries away. She straightens and turns to you with a smug smile. “Honestly, if I was that spider, I’d need therapy after this stunt.”

You narrow your eyes, arms crossing. “You didn’t have to come, you know.”

She shrugs, stepping back inside, letting the door slide closed. “But I did.” Then, softer, “You sounded scared.”

You pause, caught off guard again by how easily she shifts from teasing to gentle.

She sets the magazine down and walks past you toward the kitchen. “You got anything to drink that isn’t poison, I can take for the road that was such thirsty work” she reappears with one of your cold diet cokes from the fridge.

You watch her for a second, then finally exhale, the tension in your shoulders loosening as her presence settles the apartment back into something that feels like safety, even if she just called you crazy.

You follow Patri to the door, your hands fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve, nerves still humming slightly not from the spider anymore, but from her.

She moves slowly, like she’s waiting for you to say something. At the door, she turns halfway, her body angled toward you. “Thanks… for coming,” you say, voice quieter than you mean it to be. “I know it’s stupid.”

Patri shakes her head gently, her expression soft. “It wasn’t stupid. You called, I came. That’s it.”

You offer a small, lopsided smile. “Still. Thank you.”

For a second, neither of you move. The distance between you is small, but the silence makes it feel bigger. Then she meets your eyes fully, really looks at you, and something shifts.

Patri leans in slowly, giving you time to move, to stop her, but you don’t. You stay right where you are as her lips press against yours soft, steady, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. It’s not long. Just enough.

When she pulls back, you see the flicker of panic in her eyes regret, maybe, or restraint. Her brows knit slightly, and she whispers, “I’m sorry.”

You swallow, your heart beating in your throat. “It’s okay.”

She nods slowly, holding your gaze one last second before turning and stepping out the door. You watch it close behind her, the quiet settling in her absence but the feel of her kiss lingers, like a warmth on your skin you’re not ready to brush away.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The sky is bright blue and clear when you pull up, the engine humming low as you double-check the playlist and the coffee in your cup holder. The streets are mostly empty, the city not quite awake yet a perfect quiet before three hours of Alba. You were driving Alba and yourself to Huesca for the Copa del Reina final

She appears in the doorway dragging a small suitcase and a very large iced coffee, dressed like she’s about to be snapped by paparazzi, sunglasses too big, hoodie too low, leggings and a tiny, perfectly curated frown.

You roll down the window. “Wow,” you call, grinning. “You really went full celebrity on me.”

She gives a mock bow, then gestures to the back of the car. “Pop it. I’m not lifting with one hand. This coffee is more important than life right now.”

You laugh and hit the release. She throws her suitcase in, then climbs in the passenger seat without a word.

For a minute, there’s only the sound of your playlist starting up soft, low, safe. Then, after taking a long sip of her drink, she speaks, “So… this is weird, huh?”

You smile without turning to her. “Extremely.”

“Good,” she nods. “As long as we agree.”

20 minutes in.

The tension eases the further you get from the city. Alba has her feet on your dashboard, despite your protests, and she's already made three comments about your music taste being 'worryingly moody.'

You countered by switching to a girl group ballad from 2008 that made her grimace, but she didn’t skip it.

Somewhere past Terrassa, she glances at you and says, “You nervous?”

You blink. “About what?”

“Spending this long alone with me. Talking. Potentially sharing snacks.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh no, I’ve emotionally prepared myself. I even packed backup snacks in case you start gatekeeping the good ones.”

She snorts, nodding slowly. “Smart. Very little sister of you.” There’s a beat. Then she adds, a little quieter, “Feels weird, doesn't it? Like… we missed the whole part where we were supposed to fight over clothes and annoy each other during puberty.”

You glance at her, then back at the road. “You say that like you’re not incredibly annoying.”

She grins but there’s something else in her voice when she adds, “I just… I’m glad we’re doing this.”

You let the silence sit for a moment before replying. “Yeah. Me too.”

An hour in.

The mood shifts again. She’s leaned her seat back, one leg tucked up beneath her, scrolling through your music and making quiet commentary.

“Patri text you yet?” she asks, eyes still on your phone screen.

You glance at her, caught off guard. “You have my phone you tell me.”

Alba nods slowly, like she knew the answer already. “Have you spoken to her at all?.”

“Little bit,” you reply, carefully, eyes on the road, "Nothings changed"

“You sure?,” she murmurs.

You shoot her a look. “Why do I get the feeling everyone’s been having secret conversations about my love life?”

She gives you a slow, too-innocent smile. “Because they have.” You groan. “But don’t worry,” she says, patting your arm. “On this trip, we talk about us. Not your tragic dating life.”

You snort. “Fine, but I’m gonna need another coffee if I’m gonna survive your version of sibling bonding.”

“Done,” she says, already pointing ahead. “Next town, we'll stop for food. You get coffee, but if you come back with fruit, I will abandon you on the side of the road.”

You grin, despite yourself and as the kilometres slip by, so does the awkwardness.

2 hours in

The sunlight’s turning gold, casting long shadows across the dashboard as you pull into a parking space just off the main road. You both have greasy paper bags of Burger King in your laps, the car filled with the comforting smell of fries and warm bread. Alba already has mayo on her hoodie and no shame about it.

You unwrap your burger slowly, watching a few birds circle lazily overhead through the windshield.

Alba takes a big bite, chews, swallows, then looks at you. “You miss her?”

You pause your fingers still holding half the bun mid-air.

She doesn’t push, just watches you with that too-serious look she gets sometimes, the one that reminds you she’s seen more than she says.

You sigh, set the burger back on the wrapper in your lap, and lean your head against the headrest. “Yeah,” you say, finally. “I do.”

Alba doesn’t say anything for a moment, just crunches on a fry and nods like she expected the answer but wanted to hear it from you.

“Is it the sex thing?” she asks casually, and you turn to glare at her. “Because Ale said—”

“Oh my God,” you groan. “Do you all have like a group chat or something? Y/Ns sex watch party 2025?”

Alba laughs, nearly choking on her drink. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s more like Drama Monitoring Services.”

You shake your head but you’re smiling now, even as your stomach tugs at the topic. After a moment, you say, quietly, “I think she wanted me, but she didn’t know how to want me in the way I needed.”

Alba leans back, sipping her drink. “And did you ever tell her how you needed to be wanted?” You’re quiet. “Yeah,” she says, shrugging. “That’s what I thought.”

You look over at her, frowning. “What, are you a relationship expert now?”

“Nope,” she grins. “I just don’t want you to keep pretending she broke your heart when you handed it to her with the manual missing. I reckon the first chance you get, just fuck her, solves all the issues then”

You stare at her, floored by the honesty, then laugh not because it’s funny, but because it hurts in that true kind of way. You nod. “I actually miss her.”

“Then do something about it,” Alba says, brushing salt from her fingers. “Or don’t, but don’t sit in this car acting like you didn’t feel loved just because it didn’t end with fireworks and lingerie.”

You stare at the horizon for a moment. “Wow,” you murmur. “You’re kind of wise.”

“I contain layers,” she says, deadpan, then immediately drops a fry in her lap and yells “Shit!”

You both burst out laughing, "Alba the Ogre"

"huh?" she turns her head to you and the expression on her face is like you've sprouted a second head

You glance over. “Shrek.”

She frowns. “I’ve never seen that.”

You slam the brakes, figuratively, but the gasp you let out is nothing short of betrayal. “You’ve never seen Shrek?!”

Alba looks confused, even a little defensive. “No? I don’t know, it just never looked that good.”

You turn to fully face her in your seat. “Take that back. Right now.”

She raises an eyebrow. “It’s an ogre movie. With a donkey.”

“That ogre movie is a cinematic masterpiece. It has layers, like onions and parfaits, and you won't even get that reference because you haven't seen it.”

Alba laughs. “You’re actually upset.”

“I’m furious,” you say. “I don’t even know how we’re related right now. What were you doing in 2001 when the world changed forever?”

"l was four,” she says flatly.

“And failing at life, apparently.” You shake your head. “There’s romance, there’s action, there’s Eddie Murphy singing about waffles. Alba, I can’t explain Shrek to you. You have to feel it.”

She looks at you, amused. “You want to put it on in the hotel later?”

“I want to put it on right now,” you say. “This road trip is cancelled. We’re going home, you can’t be trusted.”

Alba grins, finally a little sheepish. “Fine. You can show me, but only if there’s no singing along.”

“No deal,” you say immediately. “I will be singing, loudly and you will be emotionally moved by Hallelujah when it plays, or I’m leaving you at a petrol station on the way home.”

She rolls her eyes but smiles. “You’re insane.”

“And you,” you say with great drama, “are culturally bankrupt. I was one when that movie came out and even I've seen it, you have no excuse”

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You and Alba make your way through the crowds at Huesca stadium the Barcelona fans loud already, your matching sunglasses doing little to hide the fact you both look slightly road-weary but buzzing. Alba walks ahead of you with the practiced confidence of someone used to navigating stadiums, but you can tell even she’s excited there’s a bounce in her step that wasn’t there earlier.

You finally reach the family section, flashing your passes at security and he waves you through, you spot Eli first, seated near the front, scanning the pitch like she’s mentally coaching from the stands. She’s dressed casually, but her whole posture is alert, focused, maternal. Probably nervous.

Then she looks up and freezes, her eyes land on you and Alba together, side by side, and for a second, her mouth actually falls open in a silent, stunned kind of happiness. She stands immediately, hands over her chest like she needs to make sure she’s not imagining things. Alba grins and waves, you offer a small, awkward one of your own.

“Mi niña,” Eli breathes, moving to greet you both at the aisle. “What—what are you doing here?”

“We thought we’d surprise you and Ale,” Alba says casually, like it’s no big deal, but you can hear the warmth behind it, the meaning. She throws an arm around your shoulders and squeezes.

Eli’s eyes flicker to you, wide and glassy. “I didn’t think—”

You shrug a little, trying not to make it a big emotional moment, but your voice still comes out quieter than you expect. “Alba said she wanted company and, I wanted to see Alexia play.”

“She’s going to be so happy,” Eli murmurs, then steps in and hugs you both tightly, one arm around each daughter. “Thank you for coming.”

You sit between them once you're settled Eli to your left, fussing with her sunglasses, and Alba to your right, bouncing her knee with silent energy. The pitch below is alive, the players warming up under the late afternoon sky, and you spot Alexia easily in the distance, her ankle still taped up but dressed in full kit, talking with teammates near the bench.

“She doesn’t know either of us are here?” you ask quietly.

Eli shakes her head. “She thought it would just be me. I’m sure she’ll spot you both soon.”

You nod, feeling a little strange nervous, even, not in a bad way. Just unfamiliar, like being part of something you’ve spent your whole life picturing.

Then Alexia jogs toward the touchline, glancing up at the crowd probably looking for Eli. She finds her first, then her gaze lands on Alba and then you.

She stumbles mid-step and breaks into the widest, stupidest, most gleeful smile you’ve ever seen her wear. It’s not cool or composed at all. It’s just joy.

She waves frantically, mouthing something that’s probably ‘What the hell?’ at Alba, then pointing at you with mock offence. You smile right back.

Alba leans in and says quietly, “Worth the drive?”

You glance back at Alexia beaming like an idiot on the sideline, then over at Eli, who’s wiping her eye subtly like she isn’t. “Yeah,” you admit, voice low. “It really is.”

After warm-ups, as the players begin drifting toward the tunnel, Alexia peels off from the group and jogs over toward the family section her eyes locked on you like she's half afraid you'll disappear if she looks away.

She slows just before the barrier, cheeks still flushed from movement, her ponytail bouncing slightly as she beams up at you. She glances at Alba first, offering her a quick high five and a mouthed “hello,” before her gaze shifts back to you.

"You came," she says, almost in disbelief, eyes scanning your face like she still can’t believe it’s real. Then, softer, "You okay? You look… tired."

You swallow the lump in your throat, not from her concern but from how seen it makes you feel. Even with the chaos of the final, even with her ankle not at a hundred percent she still noticed. You force a small smile and shake your head, brushing it off. “I’m fine. It’s just the drive.”

Alexia studies you a second longer, not totally convinced, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she leans a little closer across the barrier, grinning.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she says again, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Don’t leave at halftime, yeah? I need to show off in front of you.”

You scoff gently, crossing your arms. “Focus on the final, not showing off.”

She gives you a wink, backing up. “Same thing.” Then she turns, jogs backward a few steps, and just before disappearing down the tunnel, shouts, “Save me a drink at the after party!”

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The stadium is electric drums pounding, cheers echoing from the stands, a wave of blue and red cascading over the crowd like a tide of pride. You watch from the family section as the final whistle blows, and Barça players collapse into one another, elated, exhausted, victorious.

Alba nudges you hard in the side. “They did it,” she says, grinning wide, almost like a kid.

You nod, eyes already on Alexia she’s somewhere in the middle of the huddle, half-laughing, half-crying as her teammates drape themselves over her, shouting, singing, celebrating. Her hair is stuck to her forehead with sweat, her ankle still lightly taped under her sock, but she doesn’t care.

You feel your breath catch as she steps forward. She takes the Copa de la Reina trophy in both hands, shares a moment with her teammates getting them fired up, and lifts it high into the air.

The lights hit it just right gold gleaming, confetti beginning to fall and she throws her head back and roars, primal and full of joy. You feel it deep in your chest, that pride, that strange, soft ache that says you’re part of this somehow, even from the sidelines.

Eli claps loudly beside you, tears in her eyes, and Alba is on her feet cheering, but your eyes never leave Alexia and hers even through all the noise, the lights, the photographers manage to find you.

Just for a moment it’s brief, but you see it that soft flicker of recognition, a smile not just for the crowd or the cameras, but for you.

You smile back, eyes stinging a little, your voice too full to shout but your heart is louder than any noise in that stadium.

You step down onto the field beside Eli and Alba, your pass still hanging around your neck, the noise somehow both deafening and muted as your eyes scan the sea of jubilant players and there she is, Patri.

Laughing, arms flung around a teammate’s shoulders, bouncing on the balls of her feet like the win has filled her up with helium. Her hair is wild from the match, cheeks flushed, and she looks alive. Radiant, in that unfiltered way joy makes people beautiful, she doesn’t even know she’s glowing she never does.

You freeze for a second, because your heart traitorous, familiar, honest flutters the moment you see her. She’s still in her kit, socks rolled low, mud spattered on her thighs, and she hasn’t seen you yet, but Eli nudges you forward gently.

You step forward slowly, the sounds around you going a little soft again as Patri turns, she sees you, stops mid-spin and for a second the world seems to slow. Her eyes widen just a little, like maybe she wasn’t expecting you, or maybe she didn’t let herself hope to. Her grin falters not because she’s not happy, but because she’s surprised in a way that hits deep.

Then it returns full force, bright and unguarded. You don’t even realise you’re walking toward her until your feet are already carrying you forward and she’s doing the same steps hesitant at first, then more certain with each stride until you're meeting halfway, just like muscle memory, like it’s always been this simple.

Neither of you says anything, you just fall into each other, arms wrapping tight like this is the only place either of you has exhaled in weeks. Your face tucks into the crook of her neck, and her cheek presses against yours, both of you clinging a little too hard but neither pulling away.

You feel her breathing and for a second, the noise of the stadium falls away completely. She smells like grass and sweat and whatever bubblegum she’s been chewing during the match. Her fingers grip at your back like she’s afraid if she lets go, she’ll wake up and it’ll all have been imagined.

“Watch those hands, Guijarro!” Alexia’s voice cuts through the moment, teasing, smug and loud from behind you.

Patri groans without lifting her head. “For once, Ale, can you not?”

You turn your face enough to glance back over your shoulder, where Alexia is grinning from ear to ear, leaning against the barrier with her arms crossed, ankle clearly wrapped up still, smug as hell. Eli is beside her, pretending to scold her but very obviously holding back a laugh.

“I will not be silenced,” Alexia declares, mock-offended. “My little sister is out here getting felt up by one of my oldest friends. I’m just protecting the families honour!”

You bury your face in Patri’s shoulder, muffling a laugh as she mutters, “She’s the worst.”

“She really is,” you whisper back.

Patri eases back just enough to look at you, her hands still resting on your waist, thumbs rubbing small circles through your jacket. “you doing okay?” she says, eyes searching your face,

You nod and because she’s Patri, you manage a real smile. “Yeah. Better than when you found me cowering because of a spider.”

She laughs, rolling her eyes. “I will never forget the sound you made.”

“It was a very aggressive spider,” you insist.

“So aggressive it needed a panic call and a professional footballer on emergency duty?” she teases.

“Exactly,” you say, and you both dissolve into quiet laughter.

The movement makes the medal on her chest clink softly. You reach out and straighten the ribbon, letting your fingers brush the cool metal.

“It looks good on you,” you murmur.

She raises a brow. “The medal or the sweat and grass stains?”

“Both,” you admit, cheeks warming. “But mostly the medal.”

Patri’s grin softens. “Stay proud of me for at least twenty‑four hours, okay? I’m going to be milking this.”

You tap the gold circle once, then glance toward the family section where Alexia is still lobbing snarky comments your way. “I should go over before she tries to moon‑walk on that ankle just to get attention.”

Patri nods, but catches your hand before you step away. “One condition,” she says, tone mock‑stern. “You promise we have a drink together at the after‑party.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Water counts?”

“Nope.”

You roll your eyes with exaggerated exasperation, but your fingers squeeze hers. “Fine. One drink. Maybe two if no spiders are involved.”

“Deal.” She lifts your joined hands briefly, sealing it with a gentle squeeze before letting go.

You start toward your little family, feeling her eyes follow you, and for the first time in what feels like forever the buzz in your chest isn’t panic it’s something bright, brand‑new, and almost dizzyingly hopeful.

Alba watches you approach from where she’s leaning against the barrier, her arms crossed and her eyebrows practically reaching her hairline. As soon as you’re close enough, she nudges you with her elbow, her grin slowly spreading. “Well?” she asks, eyes wide and unmistakably smug.

You glance back toward Patri, who’s still being tackled with hugs and cheers from teammates, medal swinging around her neck, then back at your sister. You raise a brow. “Well, what?”

Alba practically bounces on the balls of her feet. “Don’t do that. You just hugged her like the final scene in a romance movie. What did she say? Did you say something?”

You scoff and shove her gently with your shoulder. “Shut up.”

Alba bursts into laughter, hands raised in mock surrender. “I’m just asking! You have that weird happy face you only get when something good happens.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks warm despite yourself. “You’re worse than her.” you jerk your thumb to Alexia oblivious talking to Eli.

“Yeah, but I’m the one you’re stuck with for the drive home,” she says, winking. “And I want every detail.” You groan.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The music thumps low and warm through the venue, the kind of bass that vibrates gently through your chest without demanding too much attention. You’re leaned casually against a high-top table, half-laughing as Cata Coll animatedly mimics her reaction to a goal-line clearance, and Claudia Pina is mid-eye roll, clearly not buying the dramatics.

You’ve found yourself oddly comfortable here, chatting with them they’d made it easy. You’d spent time with them before, back when things with Patri were simpler, lighter. They hadn’t treated you like an outsider then, and they weren’t now either, despite everything.

Cata’s halfway through a joke when your eyes lift and you see Patri weaving through the crowd toward you, a drink in each hand. She's changed out of her kit now, dressed down but still radiant with that post-win energy that clings to her like sunlight. Her eyes are already on you, there’s something unmistakable in the way she looks at you warm, focused, a touch nervous, like you’re the only person in the room that matters.

Cata notices, so does Pina, you see it happen the flash of recognition between them. Pina glances at Cata, one brow raised. Cata, with the subtle awareness that only close friends have, clears her throat softly and shifts her weight. “Well,” Cata says lightly, brushing her fingers against your arm with a grin, “We’ll go harass the DJ or something.”

“Yeah,” Pina smirks, already stepping back. “Don’t let her spill that drink on you. She’s got a history of that.”

Before you can respond, they’re already slipping into the crowd, leaving you with a quiet exhale and Patri, now standing just in front of you, holding out one of the drinks.

You take it, your fingers brushing hers. She smiles, a little crooked and uncertain around the edges. “You didn’t say what you wanted, so I guessed.”

You raise the glass. “Good guess.”

There’s a beat, the space between you hums with something unspoken but thick and alive like static before a storm. “Hey,” she says softly.

“Hey.”

Patri studies you, her expression tightening with quiet concern as her eyes trace over your features. “You okay?” she asks, voice low, nearly drowned out by the music. “You look kind of pale.”

You let out a breath, deflecting with a soft scoff as you tilt your drink. “It’s the lighting,” you murmur, glancing up at the ceiling like it’s personally responsible. “They’re trying to set a mood, I guess, dramatic shadows and poor complexions.”

Patri doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it go, smiling softly instead. “You look good, but I already knew that.”

You raise a brow, your lips twitching into a smirk despite yourself. “You flirting with me now, Guijarro?”

She shrugs, stepping just a little closer. “Maybe. Is it working?”

You pretend to consider, gaze lingering on her lips for just a second too long. “Might be.”

The smile she gives you is real, warmer now, more confident. The noise of the party fades to a dull throb around you both, like the rest of the world has respectfully stepped back.

You don’t realise how close you’ve gotten until your forehead is pressing gently against hers, your eyes slipping shut as your breath slows. The contact is soft, familiar, intimate. “I miss you,” you whisper, the words tumbling out without warning, fragile and honest. “I miss you so much.”

Patri’s breath hitches and then before you can say anything else, before your doubts can crawl back in she leans in and kisses you.

It’s not rushed or desperate. It’s steady, sure, her hand finding the side of your face like she’s afraid you might drift away again. The kiss deepens just slightly enough to taste the longing behind it, the weeks of silence, the ache of missing something that once felt like home.

When she pulls away, barely, her forehead rests against yours again. You swallow, nerves catching in your throat as you glance at her lips, then you hear Alba's voice, the first chance you get, just fuck her. You shift, your voice low and hesitant.

“Do you, uh…” You clear your throat, flicking your eyes up to meet hers. “Do you have a room of your own or…?”

Patri blinks, startled, her breath catches audibly not in a way that’s uncomfortable, but like someone hearing something they’ve been hoping for but didn’t expect to come. “I—” she starts, her voice a little higher than usual. She stops, bites her lip, recalibrates. “Yeah. I do.”

She watches you carefully now, her confidence from earlier dimmed by the sudden gravity of what you’re asking. There’s a flicker of nervousness in her eyes, but it’s softened by warmth, by care. She steps closer, almost hesitantly, like she doesn’t want to spook you.

“Are you sure?” she asks, quietly. “You don’t have to, just because of tonight, or the moment. I want you to want it… not feel like you have to give anything to restart us.”

You nod slowly, gaze steady on hers despite the pounding of your heart. “I know. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to. I’m… nervous, yeah, but it's you, you're all I want.”

Patri exhales slowly, visibly moved. She brushes a hand along your arm, fingers barely grazing your skin. “Okay,” she says, her voice almost a whisper. “Then let’s go, but only if you hold my hand the whole way, I'm nervous to.”

You offer a small, nervous laugh, and she smiles wide, taking your hand in hers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Neither of you says anything more as you walk out hearts racing, hands locked, the moment finally, tenderly, unfolding.

The hallway to the lift feels longer than it probably is. You and Patri walk side by side, hands clasped tight but swinging gently between you, as if neither of you wants to draw attention but neither of you can let go. Your footsteps echo softly against the sleek floors of the hotel corridor.

Neither of you speaks, it’s not awkward just weighted. Like the space between words when something big is about to happen.

When you reach the elevator, Patri presses the button with her free hand. The chrome doors reflect a version of you both that somehow looks braver than you feel.

The silence in the lift is thick you feel the warmth of her hand pulsing in yours and dare a glance her way. She’s looking straight ahead, but there’s a tiny smile on her lips like she knows what you're thinking, like she’s thinking it too.

The numbers above the doors light up one by one too slow, then too fast.

She leads you gently down another corridor, her room’s near the end, a quiet corner. Her hand finally slips from yours just so she can get her key card out. The little green light flashes, and the lock clicks open.

She glances at you, just once, checking in, you nod it’s subtle, but it’s everything. Patri pushes the door open and you both step inside.

The room is warm, soft lighting. A faint trace of perfume in the air hers. It’s not overly fancy, but it’s quiet, calm. She places her key card on the dresser and turns back to you.

Patri doesn’t move quickly. She just looks at you for a long moment, her eyes flickering between yours, like she’s trying to memorise the shape of your face, the emotion behind your eyes. Then she steps closer, close enough for her hands to find your waist gently.

She hugs you first, slow, firm, grounding, her arms around you aren’t possessive, they’re comforting. Her cheek rests against your temple for a second, and you feel her exhale softly. She smells like her shampoo, something faintly citrus and clean, and you close your eyes without meaning to.

Her hands start to move, not rushed, just exploring the curve of your back, the dip of your waist. She traces careful lines like she’s learning you with her fingertips. She pulls back a little not away, just enough to see your face.

“You’re sure?” she murmurs, eyes asking more than her words ever could.

You nod once, her lips brush yours feather-light, a question.

When you don’t pull away, she kisses you again, a little deeper now, but still gentle, still measured. Her hands pause every few moments, as if to say 'This is your moment. You can stop it anytime.' She gives you all the space in the world to step back, but you don’t.

You move with her, into her and in every quiet pause she leaves, you choose to stay.

Your hands find her shoulders and you guide her gently, steadily, until she sits at the edge of the bed. Patri looks up at you with a mix of awe and curiosity, her breath catching slightly. You don’t give her much time you step between her knees, hands sliding along her jaw as you lean down and kiss her slow, purposeful, with more pressure now, more intent.

Her hands rest at your waist, hesitant at first, then holding you tighter as the kiss deepens. You move your hips, just slightly, not rushed a slow, instinctive motion that draws a soft sound from her throat.

The heat builds in the spaces between kisses, in the way her fingers spread across your back as you move to straddle her. In the way your body presses closer, seeking more of her, more of this.

You pause for a second, foreheads resting together, both breathing a little harder now. Her thumbs brush under your shirt, tracing the bare skin at your sides, a silent ask for permission, and you don't stop her.

You kiss her again this time, with no hesitation.

Patri’s arm wraps around your waist with purpose, steady and sure, and in one smooth motion, she stands, effortlessly lifting and turning you. You barely have time to react before you’re laid back on the bed, your head hitting the soft pillow as she settles gently between your legs, her body fitting perfectly against yours.

She pauses, her weight balanced carefully so as not to press too hard, her eyes searching yours in the quiet dimness. Her hand brushes your cheek, her voice soft but steady as she asks, “Lights on or off?”

There’s a flicker of hesitation in your chest not because you don’t want her, but because it’s vulnerable still, you manage a quiet, “Off.”

She nods instantly, no questions asked, no judgment in her gaze just understanding. She reaches over and turns off the lamp. The room is bathed in darkness, except for the faint light spilling in through the hotel door from the corridor.

Then she leans back down, her lips brushing yours again, softer now, slower patient. Like she knows this moment matters. Like she’s ready to show you, without a word, just how much she cares.

In the hush of the darkened room, your breaths start to sync, slow and uneven, charged with anticipation. Patri doesn’t rush, her hands move with respect, fingertips ghosting over the hem of your shirt before she gently pulls it up, pausing only when it’s lifted over your head. Her eyes adjust to the low light, and even in shadow, you feel her taking in every inch of you like you’re something sacred.

You reach for her next, fingers fumbling slightly as you tug at the edge of her top. She smiles faintly at the nerves in your touch and lifts her arms to help you, letting the fabric slip away. She looks so calm, but you catch the subtle shift in her breathing the flutter in her throat that matches your own heartbeat.

Her hands are back on you, slower now, trailing over your sides, memorising the lines of your body with soft, steady pressure. Her thumbs brush just under your ribs, pausing for the slightest moment when they pass over the faint ridges of a scar the first she found of many, but she doesn’t stop. If anything, her hands linger, almost like she’s grounding herself to you. Proving she's not repulsed by your history etched on your skin with your scars.

When she unclasps your bra, it’s with a softness that tells you she’s waited for this not just the intimacy, but the trust. You shiver as it falls away and she presses a kiss to your shoulder, then to the center of your chest, right where your heart beats, like she knows how hard it’s worked to bring you here.

You help her with the rest of her clothes, your hands firmer now, more certain, guided by want and the need to feel her fully overtaking your nerves to a distant memory. Every layer removed between you is like shedding hesitation until there's nothing left but warmth, skin, and closeness.

She leans in, her forehead resting against yours again, your bare bodies brushing in quiet tension. “Still okay?” she whispers.

You nod, breath catching. “Yeah,” you manage, voice thin but sure. “I want you.” And with that, the space between you disappears Patri’s hand moves with care, exploring your body. There’s no rush only a quiet, deep patience in the way she touches you, like she’s listening to every breath you take, every shift in your body’s rhythm.

Her fingers trail slowly down your torso following your biggest scar like a road map down to your centre, a soft path of heat following her motion. When she reaches the curve of your hip, your breath hitches, a tremble running through you that you can’t hide. She pauses, her eyes lifting to meet yours in the dim light.

“Still okay?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, lips parting on a shaky breath. “Yeah. Don’t stop.”

When her hand finds the most sensitive part of you and runs through your folds, the feeling is overwhelming not just the sensation, but the intimacy of it, the way she touches you with both confidence and care. It’s like every nerve in your body lights up at once. You curl closer, your hand gripping her wrist lightly, not to stop her, but to feel anchored.

You kiss her in another silent 'I'm ok', Patri watches not just your body, but your face, the way your lashes flutter and your jaw tightens as you react to her. Her expression is full of focus, awe, and something deeper, affection, even love.

She kisses your neck gently, letting her lips trail up to your ear. “You’re beautiful like this,” she murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

Patri’s touch is slow, reverent more about connection than urgency. She watches your face, learning every reaction like it’s a language only she wants to speak fluently. Her fingers move with gentle precision, exploring with a tenderness that sends waves of sensation through you.

You tense slightly at first not from discomfort, but from the vulnerability of it, but she’s patient, her other hand stroking your side in calming circles, her mouth close enough to whisper affirmations only meant for you.

“You’re incredible,” she murmurs. “I'm so hot for you right now”

When her fingers ease inside, your breath catches, and her gaze never leaves you. She moves with intention, every movement measured, listening to the subtle cues of your body. There’s nothing hurried, nothing careless only the deep, growing rhythm.

You cling to her, your body finding its own rhythm against her hand. The way she touches you firm, slow, knowing makes you feel understood in a way words could never capture. You can feel the pressure building, pleasure winding tighter inside you with every stroke and the whole time, she’s there present, grounded, entirely focused on you. You cup her face forcing her lips to yours, you kiss her with the passion you could never voice, your tongues brushing, you pull your lips back as your forced to gasp her name with the sensation she was creating deep in your stomach,

You breathe in through your mouth "Patri" you say on the exhale and Patri’s hand moves with more purpose, fingers pressing deeper, tracing firmer paths that ignite sparks along your skin. Her grip tightens just enough to make you shiver, sending heat pulsing through every nerve ending.

She’s no longer gentle as she learns you can take it, but still deliberate, her touch demanding and fierce, matching the fire building inside you. You arch off the bed slightly, each movement sending a new wave of pleasure crashing through you. As your breathing grows heavier, she shifts, lowering herself until her lips graze across your chest.

Her mouth closes around your nipple gently at first, her tongue teasing, her lips warm. Then she deepens it, the suction on your nipple sending a jolt straight through your core as her fingers don't let up. The combination of her touch and the heat of her mouth pulls a your first moan from your lips.

You're wrapped up in her the way she moves, the way she focuses on every part of you like you're something to be treasured and devoured at the same time. It's overwhelming in the best way, and you feel your body start to tremble as everything she gives builds toward the edge.

Her other hand grips your waist firmly, holding you steady as her fingers explore with raw, urgent rhythm. The tension coils tighter, pleasure and desire crashing through you like waves, relentless and fierce.

She leans in, her breath hot against your ear, voice low and rough. “You like this, don’t you?”

You can’t hold back the answer, your body craving every stronger, rougher stroke she offers, your trust in her fuelling the wildness between you. "Harder, please" you beg, "Harder, faster, 'm gonna cum"

Her fingers move with a steady, commanding rhythm, each stroke driving deeper into you, making your pulse race and your breath hitch. Patri’s eyes lock onto yours, dark and intense, as she watches every reaction, every shiver she pulls from your body.

Her touch is fierce but careful, a balance of strength and tenderness that sends you spiraling higher. The heat between you is electric, raw desire mixing with a deep trust that wraps around you both.

You reach out, tangling your fingers in her hair, pulling her closer, craving every moment, every sensation. Patri responds with a kiss, her movements gaining urgency, never letting you forget just how much she wants you how much she needs you to feel this too.

The world narrows to just the two of you, the quiet hum of the room fading away beneath the storm of sensation you’re both creating, into the late hours of the evening.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The early morning light spills gently through the thin curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. It’s quiet, still except for the sound of Patri’s soft, steady breathing beside you, but your body feels wrong.

You blink slowly, your head heavy, skin hot and clammy. Sweat clings to your chest, dampening the sheets. Something tightens in your gut as a wave of panic rolls through you.

Carefully, you peel the covers back, not wanting to wake her. You spot one of Patri’s t-shirts tossed over a nearby chair and pull it over your head, the familiar scent of her comforting for just a second. Your legs feel unsteady, but you manage to stand, one hand gripping the edge of the bed for balance.

You take a step then another but the world tilts sideways, you stumble, bumping hard into the wall with a dull thud.

The noise jolts Patri awake. “Y/N?” she calls out, voice hoarse with sleep but laced with worry. She sits up quickly, blinking in confusion as she sees you slumped against the wall, pale and drenched in sweat, your chest rising in quick, shallow breaths.

She’s out of bed and in an instant beside you, her hands on your arms. “Hey, hey what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

You shake your head weakly, throat tight. “I don’t… I don't feel ok. Patri I'm scared.”

Patri's eyes scan you, alarm settling on her face. Your body sags against her, drained, Patri’s grip on you tightens just as your knees buckle and then you go completely limp in her arms.

“No, no, no Y/N!” she cries out, trying to hold you up, but your body slips from her grasp and crumples to the floor.

The sound of your body hitting the ground sends Patri into full panic.

“¡Ayuda! ¡Por favor! Help! Someone!” she yells, her voice cracking as she drops to her knees beside you, cradling your face. “Wake up please wake up,” she whispers, checking your breathing with shaking fingers.

Your skin is hot to the touch, your breaths shallow, moments later, the door bursts open Cata and Pina are the first to arrive, both in sweats and half-awake but alert the second they see your body on the floor and the fear on Patri’s face.

“What happened?” Cata rushes forward, already pulling out her phone. “I’m calling emergency services.”

“She just collapsed,” Patri breathes, barely holding it together. “She was hot clammy and then just… she fainted. I don't think she's breathing!"

“I'm calling for help,” Cata says firmly, stepping back into the hallway to make the call.

Pina looks between Patri and your unconscious form, then bolts. “I’ll get Alexia.”

She sprints down the corridor, "Pina?" Mapi asks coming out her hotel room door, "What's going on?"

"Get the doctor, Patris girl has stopped breathing!" Pina gets in front of Alexia's door and bangs on it, not waiting before pushing it open. Alba is inside, sitting up already, hair a mess, clearly startled. Alexia’s rubbing sleep from her eyes, confused by the sudden intrusion.

“What’s going on?” Alexia asks, half-standing.

Pina’s tone is urgent, short of breath. “You need to come. Now. It’s Y/N.”

The look on Alexia’s face changes instantly sleep disappears. “What happened?”

“She collapsed, she's not breathing.”

Alba is already throwing on a hoodie. Alexia doesn’t even pause to grab her shoes. “Where is she?”

“Patri’s room,” Pina says, already leading them out. Alba and Alexia follow without a word, hearts hammering, fear overtaking everything.

Patri barely hears the footsteps pounding down the hall she doesn’t lift her head from where she’s knelt beside you, one hand gripping yours tightly, the other stroking damp strands of hair off your burning forehead.

Then Alexia drops to the floor beside her. “Come on you, wake up for me, Y/N,” Alexia murmurs, her voice cracking, her hand gently touching your cheek. “Hey COME ON, please.” There’s real fear in her eyes now, seeing you like this, so still, takes the air from her lungs.

Alba stands just behind them, wide-eyed, her arms crossed over her chest like she’s physically trying to hold herself together. She sees the way Patri’s face is streaked with panic and guilt, and the tension she’s been carrying all trip suddenly breaks, sharp and loud.

“What did you do?” Alba snaps, stepping closer. “What did you do to her? I trusted you with her!”

Patri’s head lifts sharply, her eyes glassy. “I didn’t, Alba, I didn’t do anything! I swear—”

“She was fine when I left her yesterday,” Alba shoots back, voice rising. “She was fine! And now I’m being woken up because she’s on the floor not breathing?”

“I didn’t know she wasn’t feeling well,” Patri pleads, barely keeping it together. “She didn’t say anything, not really. She just got up and then-”

“Don’t yell,” Alexia says firmly, turning to Alba without looking away from you. Her voice is strained but steady. “Not now. Not while she’s like this.”

Alba’s mouth opens again but then closes when she sees Alexia’s face, her jaw clenched, her hand still resting on your cheek, fingers trembling.

The room falls silent, only the distant voice of Cata on the phone in the hall filling the space.

Alexia leans closer. “Come on, hermanita,” she whispers to you, voice cracking. “Don’t scare us like this. Wake up. Mami just got you back you can't go now, not like this"

The hallway erupts in noise as the Barcelona medical team rushes in, led by the team doctor. The moment they see you on the floor pale, motionless they drop their bags and spring into action.

“Move back.. now!” one of them orders, already kneeling beside your body. Alexia and Patri are both frozen until someone physically pulls them back. Alba stumbles a few steps away, hand clamped over her mouth.

“She’s not breathing,” one doctor says quickly, pressing two fingers against your neck. “No pulse.”

“Starting compressions!”

The room explodes into urgency. "Has someone called an ambulance?"

Pina answered the only semi composed in the room, "Cata is onto them"

Patri gasps audibly, a sharp sound of shock as tears fill her eyes. Her hands tremble uncontrollably at her sides. Alexia grips the edge of the table beside her so tightly her knuckles turn white, her chest heaving with the weight of watching.

One medic is performing chest compressions, counting under his breath, while the other breathes for you.

Alba can’t look away, her knees buckle, and she grips the doorframe for balance. “Please,” she whispers. “Please no…”

They pause only briefly, two fingers coming to your neck “Still no pulse. Resume compressions!”

Patri turns away, burying her face in her hands. “No, no, no…” she whispers like a prayer.

Alexia watches, her eyes rimmed red, face pale, and her voice finally breaks through the rising panic in the room. “Y/N, please…” she chokes. “Don’t do this. Don’t go.”

#alexia x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas fanfic #woso fanfics #alexia putellas #woso #barca femeni #barcelona femeni #alexia putellas imagine #woso imagine #alexia putellas x y/n #alexia putellas one shot #fcb femeni

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ladysharmaa · 6 months ago

Text

Heat

Jay Halstead x pregnant!reader

Summary: When Chicago is in a heat wave, Y/n feels unwell while pregnant, worrying Jay

It was definitely the hottest day of the year. Chicago was going through a heat wave and Y/n had never felt more miserable. It also didn't help that she was seven months pregnant with her husband's baby, Jay Halstead. She could feel the beads of sweat falling from her forehead and her face heating up so much that she must have looked like a walking tomato.

Jay warned her to stay at home and protect herself from the heat, but when the air conditioning broke, Y/n decided to go out to buy a fan. But she didn't know it would be so difficult to walk and even breathe on this hellish day. It seemed like with every breath she took, the air burned her lungs. She walked slowly, one hand on her stomach protectively, trying to at least get to the store that was a few blocks away.

Y/n knew Jay would be so upset if he knew she left the house in this weather. Since she became pregnant, the man has become even more protective than before. However, she knew he was having a busy day and couldn't leave work just because Y/n was hot — although he would do that if Y/n called him and asked to buy a fan.

But everything got worse when Y/n's vision became blurry and a feeling of nausea appeared. Jay's wife leaned against the wall next to her, trying to get some shade to compose herself. She brought a hand to her mouth, trying to breathe slowly to calm her heart that was beating rapidly against her chest.

"Miss! Miss, are you okay?" a man appeared in front of her, with a worried look. "Do you need me to call an ambulance?"

"No, it's okay." she managed to whisper. "Could you help me get to Fire Station 51? It's just a two-minute walk." the man, already advanced in age, seemed friendly enough for Y/n to trust him. And the truth was that she had no other option, as it seemed like her legs were going to give out at any moment.

"Sure thing, ma'am. Here, lean on my arm." he agreed with a gentle smile, offering her his arm to help her walk. "In this heat, no one should be walking around. It could be dangerous, especially in your condition."

"I know." Y/n sighed, knowing that beyond this lecture, she was going to hear worse from Jay when he found out. "But I wanted to buy a fan. It wasn't even a five-minute walk."

The man patted her hand in understanding. "I don't judge you, dear. My wife has already had three children, and in all of them, she was very stubborn. I understand that you don't want to be dependent on us, poor husbands, but we just want you to be well."

The woman didn't respond, now feeling even more guilty for not calling Jay to ask for this favor. She didn't want to bother him, but the plan didn't go as expected. The rest of the short walk was done in silence, Y/n's cheeks becoming more flushed, and having difficulty breathing in the hot air.

When they finally saw the fire station, Jay's wife couldn't be more relieved. Gabby and Brett, who were getting out of the ambulance, having just arrived from a call, noticed Y/n's tired form and immediately took hurried steps towards her, helping to carry her and him into the shade.

"Y/n? What happened? Are you feeling okay?" Gabby asked worriedly, helping her into the back of the ambulance. Y/n sat down, one hand on her stomach and the other on her back, closing her eyes as she started to feel dizzy.

"I'll call Jay." she managed to hear Brett say, but she was more focused on not throwing up than responding to the paramedics.

Thankfully, the man who helped her took charge of explaining what had happened. Y/n had the strength to open her eyes and thank him deeply for his help, asking if she could do anything to repay him, but he just shook his head and smiled. Then he left, as Y/n was now with people who could help her medically.

"What are your symptoms, Y/n?"

"I don't feel well, Gabby." her voice shook, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall. "I'm sick, dizzy, and a headache is forming."

After leaving the phone call, Brett began taking her vitals, while Gabby applied a cold compress to her forehead. "You're most likely dehydrated, we have to go to the hospital to put you on an IV and check the baby."

"But he's fine, right?" Y/n sobbed scared, clutching her belly as she looked at her friends with a frown.

"Yes, he seems fine. But just to be sure." Gabby comforted, starting to help Y/n lay down on the stretcher.

"What did Jay say?"

"Well, he—" the blonde paramedic started to say, but was interrupted by the sirens of a police car, getting closer and closer. "I guess that's your answer."

"How did he get here so fast?" Y/n thought out loud as he watched the police officer get out of the still moving car. He immediately looked around for his wife. When he saw them, he quickly broke into a run, his eyes wide in panic. Hailey got out of the driver's seat, right behind Jay.

"I'm really sorry."

"What, baby? You don't have to apologize." Jay knelt down next to Y/n, gently cupping her face with his hands so he could assess her condition. Unconsciously, his hand slid down to her round belly, finally managing to take a deep breath when he felt a light kick against his touch. "I shouldn't have left you alone in this weather. You're okay, baby."

When Brett called him to explain the situation, he felt a sense of fear like he had never felt before. Not even when he had been shot at, kidnapped or beaten. The most important people in his life being in danger was his worst nightmare.

Luckily, they were in the neighborhood and managed to get to the fire station in record time thanks to Hailey's driving. Over time, Y/n and the blonde had become very close, often ganging up together against Jay. Not that he minded, since hearing his wife's giggles and knowing she was more relaxed when Jay was working as she trusted his partner to protect him.

"We need to get them to the hospital. Y/n is showing signs of dehydration and the baby needs to be checked." Jay's head turned unusually quickly to Gabby in concern. She hurried to add, "They both seem to be fine, but I want to make sure."

"I'll go back to the police station and let Voight know you won't be working anymore this week." Hailey offered. "I hope you're okay, Y/n. I'll stop at the hospital to check on you."

"Thank you, Hails." Y/n smiled weakly.

"Let's go." The man nodded, kissing Y/n's forehead comfortingly. He climbed into the back of the ambulance with her and held her hand the whole way while Gabby got into the driver's seat and Brett checked some vital signs.

The ride was relatively calm, but Y/n was getting paler and sicker by the minute. Jay mumbled words in an attempt to calm her down, but inside, he felt like he couldn't breathe. They should have called two ambulances because he was close to passing out.

Finally, they arrived at the hospital where Maggie and Will were waiting for them at the entrance. In no time, she was already settled in and several doctors were checking everything they could. Jay stayed by her side the whole time, answering some questions from the doctors when necessary.

The fluorescent lights of the hospital were harsh against Y/n’s already sensitive eyes as she waited for someone to tell her what was going on. Jay never let go of her hand, his grip firm but gentle, his thumb softly brushing against her knuckles in a silent attempt to comfort her. Her heart was pounding, but the cool sheets of the hospital bed and his touch gave her some relief.

Will Halstead, dressed in his white coat and looking every bit the composed doctor he was, entered the room, clipboard in hand. His face softened the moment he saw Y/n and Jay.

"Hey," Will greeted, his tone warm yet professional. "How are we doing here?"

"Not great, Will," Y/n admitted, her voice weak as she tried to give him a small smile. "I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck."

Jay immediately turned to his brother. "What’s going on? Is she okay? Is the baby okay?" His words came out in a rush, and it was clear he was doing everything he could to keep his composure.

Will raised a hand to calm his younger brother. "Take a breath, Jay," he said, flipping through the chart. "We ran some tests and monitored Y/n’s vitals. She’s severely dehydrated, which is why she felt dizzy and nauseous. Her blood pressure dropped, but thankfully, the baby is doing great. The ultrasound shows a strong heartbeat."

Y/n let out a shaky breath of relief, her free hand instinctively moving to her belly. Jay visibly relaxed beside her, the tension in his shoulders easing.

"So, she’s okay? The baby’s okay?" Jay asked again, needing to hear it one more time to truly believe it.

"Yes," Will assured them with a kind smile. "We’re giving her IV fluids to rehydrate her, and she should start feeling better soon. I do want her to stay overnight for observation, just to be safe, but I’m confident she and the baby will be fine."

"Thank you, Will," Y/n said, her voice cracking slightly as tears of relief welled in her eyes.

Will reached out to pat her head. "No need to thank me, Y/n. Just promise me you’ll stay out of this heat, okay?"

She nodded, feeling a mix of guilt and gratitude. "I’ll try," she murmured, glancing at Jay.

Jay turned to Will. "Thanks, man."

"Anything for my sister-and-law and nephew." He winked at her before stepping back. "I’ll check on you in a bit, but for now, just rest."

As Will left, the room fell quiet, except for the soft beep of the monitors and the rhythmic drip of the IV. Jay pulled a chair close to the bed, sinking into it as he brought Y/n’s hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to her fingers.

"You scared me today," he said softly, his eyes glistening as they locked onto hers. "Don’t ever do that again, Y/n. Please."

"I’m sorry," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I didn’t mean to worry you. I just... I didn’t want to bother you at work."

Jay let out a soft, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. "Bother me? Y/n, you and this baby are the most important things in my life. I’d drop everything in a heartbeat if you needed me."

Her lips trembled, and tears spilled down her cheeks. "I didn’t think it would be such a big deal. It was just a fan."

He leaned forward, cupping her face with both hands, his thumbs gently wiping away her tears. "Listen to me," he said, his voice steady but filled with emotion. "Nothing is ‘just’ when it comes to you or our family. You’re my world. Promise me, no more trying to do everything on your own. I’m here for you. Always. Ask me to buy you a fan, food, a house, I don't care, I'll do it in a heartbeat."

She nodded, fresh tears streaming down her face. "I promise," she whispered, her voice breaking.

Jay leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead before resting his against hers. For a moment, they stayed like that, their breaths mingling as the world outside the hospital room faded away.

"I love you," she said softly, her hand finding its way to his cheek.

"I love you more," he replied, his voice low and full of sincerity. He placed a hand on her belly, feeling the soft flutter of movement beneath his palm. "And I love you, little one. But you’ve gotta cut your mom some slack, okay? No more giving her a hard time."

Y/n laughed weakly, the sound light and sweet. "Hear that?" she said, looking down at her bump. "You are already giving Daddy white hairs."

As the IV continued to drip and the monitors beeped steadily, the weight of the day began to lift. They were together and okay. That was all that they needed.

#jay halstead imagine #jay halstead x reader #jay halstead x oc #jay halstead x you #jay halstead #chicago pd x reader #chicago pd imagine #chicago pd #chicago fire #kelly severide x reader #chicago fire x reader #will halstead x reader

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dollyswishingwell · 9 days ago

Note

the lads men with a chivalrous/protective mc who likes spoiling them? Brings them flowers, gives them gifts, stands up for them (quietly and visibly- depends on the guy she's with I think)

Thank you! Have a nice day!

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ My Knight

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluff, i hope i fulfilled your request, i think this is such a cute unique idea!

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ You’re their knight in shining armor

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The studio lights were hot. Too hot. Rafayel was already yawning before the photographer even lifted the lens.

“You were scheduled two hours ago, Rafayel,” snapped Thomas, teeth clenched behind his business smile. “Do you know how much time and money this cost?”

“I was swimming,” Rafayel replied easily, reclining deeper into the white velvet couch they’d stuck him on. “The kelp blooms were in season. Time and money can’t buy that.”

The assistant photographers exchanged glances. The lead producer’s brow twitched. Thomas opened his mouth again, wound tight, about to snap, but he never got the chance.

Because you stepped forward.

Quiet. Composed. A cool sea breeze after a thunderstorm.

“I understand you’re frustrated,” you said, your voice soft but steely. “But if you want a picture-perfect shot, screaming at the subject won’t help. Especially not my husband.”

The room went still.

Thomas blinked. “I— But. I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t.” Your eyes didn’t flinch. “But next time, speak to me first. I manage his schedule.”

That wasn’t even true. Rafayel didn’t have a schedule. But no one argued.

Silence stretched. Then you turned to him, calm as ever, and offered your hand.

“Come on,” you said gently. “Let’s go home.”

Rafayel stared up at you, stunned. Then, slow as ink, a grin crept across his lips. He slid his fingers through yours and stood, the sunlight catching on his earrings and his smug, pleased flush.

As you walked out, Rafayel leaned close, lips brushing your temple. “You looked so scary back there,” he whispered, eyes glittering. “You gonna defend my honor again later? Maybe punish me for skipping?”

You gave him a sideways look. “You did flake again.”

“Mmm. Then punish me gently.”

You rolled your eyes. He kissed you anyway, just behind the ear, where it made you shiver.

Later that night, as you were brushing your hair, you caught him watching you from your bed, head tilted, cheeks still faintly pink.

“…What?” you asked.

He shrugged, pulling your brush from your hands to do it for you. “Nothing. Just wondering how I ever tricked a knight into marrying me.”

You smiled. “You didn’t trick me.”

“Oh no?”

“You just needed someone to protect you from everything you hate.”

He didn’t reply, just pressed his face into the crook of your neck and stayed there.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

Zayne’s office was dimly lit, just the slant of city dusk creeping in through the blinds. He’d removed his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves halfway, and was hunched over a file, knuckles white around the pen. Another emergency surgery. Another twelve-hour shift. Another award shoved to the back of the shelf, untouched.

You didn’t say anything when you entered. Just walked in quietly, heels soft against the tile, a small bag in hand.

He didn’t look up.

“You’re supposed to be home,” he said, voice low, even.

You stepped closer, placing the bag gently on his desk. “So are you.”

Zayne finally glanced up. His eyes were bloodshot behind his glasses, the skin beneath them faintly gray. His tie was still neatly knotted, of course, but you could see the tremor in his hands. The smallest fatigue-induced shake.

You didn’t ask permission. Just undid his tie slowly, fingers brushing his collarbone, and began unbuttoning the top of his shirt so he could breathe.

Zayne blinked. “You’re acting like I’m the patient.”

“You look like one,” you murmured. “I brought dinner.”

“I don’t need—”

You leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth. “Let me take care of you. Just this once.”

There was a pause. A long one.

Then Zayne exhaled, very quietly, like he was trying not to sound relieved. He reached up, slid his hand along your waist and pulled you into his lap without warning. Your knees bumped the desk as you gasped, but he didn’t flinch.

“I’m not fragile,” he said, lips brushing your throat.

“I know,” you whispered, hand moving through his hair. “That’s why I want to protect you.”

His chest rose and fell. You felt it more than saw it.

Zayne didn’t respond right away. But his arms wrapped around you fully, and he pressed his face into the side of your neck, letting you hold him close in that too-quiet office, the scent of antiseptic still clinging to his sleeves.

You stayed like that until the stars rose outside the window, until his breathing slowed, and the tension melted from his frame bit by bit.

That night, he let you feed him. He let you undress him carefully, guiding him into a warm shower. And when you tucked him into bed at home with his glasses off and his hair still damp, he caught your wrist just before you turned away.

“…Stay,” he murmured. “Just for tonight.”

As if you’d ever leave.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

You found him exactly where you expected: curled up sideways on the couch, still in half of his uniform, his white coat draped over his eyes like a makeshift sleep mask.

The soup was still warm. The bag was still tucked under your arm.

You knelt beside him, brushing the coat back just enough to uncover his face.

“Xavi. Wake up.”

He cracked one eye open, slow and unfocused. “Hm.”

“I brought food.”

That got both eyes open.

You pulled the thermal container from the bag, unscrewing the top. “Seaweed soup and rice with egg. You haven’t eaten anything today.“

“I was…thinking.” Xavier sat up, blinking. His hair was tousled, his jacket somehow still crisp. “Why are you feeding me?”

You blinked back at him. “Because you’re mine.”

His ears turned pink. “I see.”

You handed him the chopsticks. He took them with that slow, deliberate grace of his, and immediately tried to eat the rice without breaking apart the clump.

You sighed. Took the chopsticks back. Broke the rice for him.

Xavier watched you with quiet fascination. “You’re being very gentle.”

“I always am with you.”

“…I don’t deserve it.”

“You do,” you said simply.

You let him eat in silence, slow, thoughtful bites, and once he’d cleaned the container, you reached for the last thing in your bag. A small rectangular box, wrapped in soft cloth.

He stared at it. “What’s that?”

“A present.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You don’t have to.” You placed the box in his lap.

He unwrapped it like it might explode.

Inside: a set of custom socks. Soft, warm, pale purple. Each one had a tiny stitched version of your face on the ankle.

Xavier stared. Then stared some more.

“You always forget to wear warm socks in winter,” you said softly, suddenly feeling a bit ridiculous. “So I thought—”

“I will wear these for the rest of my life,” Xavier said, in a deadpan.

“…What?”

He looked up at you, blue eyes unwavering. “I will never remove them.”

“You have to wash them, Xavier—”

“No.”

“You’ll ruin them—”

He was already peeling off his boots and putting them on. The moment they were on his feet, he looked down at them… and smiled. Barely. But it was there.

You blinked.

“You’re smiling.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

He pulled you gently onto the couch with him, arms sliding around your waist.

“Thank you,” he said, voice muffled in your sweater. “For feeding me. For the gift. For staying.”

You kissed his forehead. “Always.”

Within seconds, he was asleep again, socks and all.

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

The gala was opulent, white marble floors, crystalline chandeliers, and the kind of guests who could afford to wage wars with pocket change. The kind Sylus found unbearably dull.

He sat at the head of the table in the inner circle, legs crossed, wine untouched, expression unreadable. His red brooch caught the light like a drop of fresh blood.

He hadn’t said a word in twenty minutes. Not because he had nothing to say, but because the moment his wife walked in, everything else became… irrelevant.

You were dressed in deep crimson to match the streaks in his shirt, tailored, commanding, predatory elegance. And you weren’t subtle.

You stood behind his chair, one hand on the back of it, the other gently smoothing his hair like you owned him.

Because you did.

“I see you’re finally done loitering,” Sylus murmured, lips twitching. “Did you buy out the boutique this time?”

“Only half.” You leaned down, lips brushing his ear. “I saved the rest for your penthouse. Your closet looked lonely.”

He smirked. “You spoil me.”

“You let me.”

Across the table, one of the minor dignitaries, a green-eyed scion from a neighboring trade alliance, dared to hold Sylus’s gaze too long. Dared to smile at him.

You moved before Sylus did.

Your hand slid from the chair to his shoulder, and you leaned forward just enough to speak into the scion’s line of sight, your tone saccharine sweet.

“I’d appreciate it,” you said, voice calm but cold, “if you looked at your own man.”

The scion paled slightly. Sylus let out a slow, amused breath.

“Mm. Jealousy,” he hummed, tilting his head back to glance at you, “or chivalry?”

“Ownership.”

Sylus laughed. Genuinely.

Later, back in the hovercar, you found a black velvet box tucked into your coat pocket. Inside: a new version of his crow brooch, this one shaped to mimic your silhouette, perched beside his.

When you looked up, Sylus was already watching you from the passenger seat, red eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

“Careful,” he said softly. “You keep spoiling me like that, I might forget how to be cruel.”

You smirked. “You won’t. But you’ll remember who let you be soft.”

He smiled then, smug, dangerous, yours.

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

The Farspace command deck was silent as you stepped onto the bridge.Not because you weren’t allowed there, no one would dare question your presence, but because you were holding something no one in the fleet had seen in years.

A bouquet. Sunburst lilies, warm yellow and orange, hand-tied with a silk ribbon.

Civilian. Soft. Beautiful.

Just like you.

A pair of lieutenants stared. One of them opened his mouth, caught your eye, and immediately decided oxygen wasn’t that important after all.

You moved past them without a word, boots echoing on the polished floor, until you reached the elevated platform overlooking the planetary maps.

He stood there, arms crossed, coat tails swaying with the artificial breeze. Black gloves. Tactical harness. That cold, unreadable expression that sent shivers through entire ranks.

“Caleb.”

He didn’t turn. “I told the bridge to hold all communica—”

The bouquet touched his shoulder.

“…What.”

You leaned up and gently tucked one of the lilies into the front of his uniform, right beneath the Farspace insignia. It didn’t match at all. That was the point.

“Colonel,” You said sweetly. “Your wife is here to pick you up.”

Finally, he turned.

His eyes were still that deep, eerie purple, but softened the second they landed on you.

“What are you doing here, Pipsqueak?” he asked, voice lower now. Loving. Curious.

“Bringing you flowers.”

“I can see that.”

“I missed you.”

Caleb blinked once. Then again.

“…You walked onto my command deck. With a bouquet.”

You smiled. “You’re still my Caleb.”

And somehow, that was the thing that broke him.

He stepped forward suddenly, wrapping one arm around your waist and pulling you flush to his chest. The bouquet bent between you.

“You’re insane,” he murmured into your hair.

“I know.”

“Do you have any idea what they’re going to say when I walk around with a flower on my uniform?”

“Yes.” You grinned. “They’ll say the Colonel is taken.”

He chuckled. Quiet, fond. The kind of laugh only you got to hear.

“…Come home with me,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple. “Before I do something unprofessional in front of my officers.”

You arched a brow. “Like kissing your wife?”

“Like clearing the bridge,” he said softly, “so I can kiss her properly.”

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twst-aceofhearts · 1 month ago

Note

🔆anon

Can you make a story with an oblivious reader who says something like “you’re cute” as an offhand statement? Any character is fine though maybe Azul or Riddle

Terms and Flustered Conditions

𝖆/𝖓: This was really fun to write for a first request teehee :>

~no tw, just flustered zul~

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: azul x oblivious!reader

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖘: 1670

taglist: @luxaryllis @thegoldencontracts @waterthatsmoe @oya-oya-okay

Azul prided himself on two things: his contracts and his composure.

Tonight was no exception. He stood behind the counter at the Mostro Lounge, overseeing operations with his usual calculating smile, adjusting his glasses every now and then like he was always in control. Floyd was off somewhere (causing problems, probably), and Jade was handling a VIP table, so that left Azul as the face of service.

You strolled in, humming to yourself, clutching a clipboard of deliveries for the Lounge.

“Hey Azul,” you said cheerfully, barely noticing the low lighting, the faint jazz playing, the dangerous glint in his eyes that usually put most people on edge. “I dropped off the supply list in the back.”

Azul looked up, his smile sharp and professional. “Ah, thank you. Ever the dependable one, I see.”

You leaned your elbow on the counter casually. “Mhm. Also, you’re kinda cute when you’re in work mode. Like, ‘merchant but make it adorable.’ Y’know?”

Azul froze.

The world stopped.

You blinked. “Anyway, I gotta head back to Ramshackle. Later!”

You turned and left before Azul could even start a reaction.

His pen slipped from his hand. Clattered to the floor.

Azul stared at the spot where you had stood, glasses sliding slightly down his nose, mouth slightly open in stunned disbelief.

Jade appeared silently beside him, placing a fresh tray on the counter like nothing had happened.

“…Did I hear that correctly?” he asked smoothly.

Azul didn’t answer. His brain was frantically short-circuiting, replaying the exact cadence of “you’re kinda cute” over and over like a cursed spell.

“Adorable,” Azul muttered, nearly choking. “They called me adorable…”

Jade hummed, far too amused. “How fortunate. Not everyone gets complimented by the oblivious type. Though I wonder… should I warn them what they’ve just unleashed?”

Azul grabbed his handkerchief and tried (in vain) to cool his face down. “Absolutely not. I need time. I need—negotiation tactics, leverage—damage control.”

Jade chuckled quietly. “Or perhaps, a contract offering one ‘free date’ in return for a second compliment?”

Azul choked on air.

Azul had prepared.

He’d reviewed social scripts, coached himself in the mirror, and even had Jade run mock conversations with him using your exact inflection. He would not be flustered again. This time, he’d have the upper hand.

You walked in holding a box of new menu supplies, completely oblivious to the psychological warfare Azul had been conducting in his own head all day.

“Hey, Azul!” you chirped.

He smiled, composed and calculated. “Ah, welcome. Back with another delivery?”

You set the box down. “Yup! That and a couple updated drink cards. Oh, and I got you something.”

You pulled a small bag from your pocket and handed it to him.

He blinked. “What… is this?”

You shrugged. “Saw a little octopus charm at Sam’s shop and thought of you. Kinda looks like a chibi form of you. Cute, right?”

There it was.

That word again.

Azul’s soul momentarily vacated his body.

You were already unzipping the box, oblivious. “Anyway, Sam said it wards off bad business deals or something. You should hang it near the register—ah, this one’s leaking, oops—”

Behind the counter, Azul’s hands twitched. He was gripping the little charm with all the delicacy of someone holding a live bomb. His face? A slow-burning shade of red creeping up from his collar to his ears.

He managed to speak. Just barely.

“…You—you bought me a charm. Because it’s cute.”

“Mhm,” you said, busy sorting menus. “You say ‘customer satisfaction’ like ten times a day, but you forget self-care, y’know? Gotta protect that soft heart of yours.”

You said it like you were discussing the weather.

Azul nearly collapsed.

Jade, ever the specter, appeared at his elbow with a tray of sparkling drinks.

“Azul,” he said with dangerous calm, “your heart rate just spiked. Shall I fetch the emergency potion?”

Azul wheezed, “No—no potions. I’ll recover. I’m fine.”

You peeked up. “Huh? You okay? You look kinda pink.”

Azul gave you a strained smile that looked like it had been stapled onto his face.

“I am perfectly fine,” he said, voice a full octave higher than normal. “In fact, would you—ah—consider signing a contract?”

You blinked. “What kind of contract?”

He fumbled for his notebook. “A-ah, well, hypothetically… one where I provide you with free menu samples, and in return, you… perhaps… say that word again. Just once. As research.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Which word?”

He swallowed. “The one that starts with a c and ends with—”

“Croquette?”

Jade actually turned away to hide a laugh.

Azul buried his burning face in his hand. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

You just tilted your head. “You’re acting weird today. Kinda cute though.”

Azul.exe has stopped responding.

Azul was suffering.

Every time you walked into the Lounge, something happened. A stray compliment, a casual smile, a devastatingly innocent, “You’re so reliable, Azul!”—it was all too much. He was spiraling, and unfortunately for him, the Leech twins had noticed.

Which is why tonight, after closing, he was cornered in the VIP lounge by the two eels.

“So when’s the big confession?” Floyd asked, draped over the couch like a lazy predator. “You gonna tell Shrimpy you’re in looooove, or should I?”

“I am not—!” Azul started, face already heating up. “I am not in love. I simply… appreciate their company.”

Jade sipped his tea. “Mm. You’ve ‘appreciated their company’ so much you rewrote a contract proposal twelve times because they called you cute.”

Floyd grinned wickedly. “Azully’s got a cruuuuush~”

“Stop saying it like that!”

Floyd, naturally, did not. “C’mon, why not just tell them? Be like, ‘Hey, I like your dumb smile and your cute voice and—’”

“I am not calling their voice cute!”

At that moment, the door creaked open.

“Azul? You still in here?” you called. “Sam said I left my notebook, and I figured—”

The scene you walked in on:

Azul frozen mid-sputter, flushed and holding Floyd’s sleeve like he was trying to drag him into a volcano.

Floyd smirking like a shark on its lunch break.

Jade very politely sipping his tea, totally composed.

“…Am I interrupting something?” you asked, confused but amused.

Azul tried to recover. “N-No! Not at all! I—uh—Floyd was just—”

“I was helping Azully confess his feelings,” Floyd said brightly.

Silence.

You blinked. “To who?”

Azul made a strangled noise. “Don’t say it—”

Floyd pointed straight at you. “You.”

Azul immediately went into cardiac arrest.

You tilted your head. “Wait, me? Like, romantically?”

Azul was redder than a boiled shrimp. “I—it’s not—! That is to say—I may have some interest, b-but it’s entirely conditional! Professional! Not—not that you’re unattractive, in fact you’re very attractive, I just—!”

You blinked. “Huh.”

Azul waited for the ground to swallow him whole.

Then you smiled.

“…That’s cute.”

Azul nearly fell over.

Floyd cackled. Jade, still sipping tea, gave you a nod of approval.

You handed Azul your forgotten notebook. “Well, if you ever want to talk about it, I’m around. Don’t stress too much, okay? You’ll wrinkle.”

And then you left.

Azul sat in stunned silence.

“…Did they just compliment me again?”

Jade patted his shoulder. “Yes. Yes, they did.”

Floyd flopped over him. “Ooooh, they’re gonna ruin you.”

Azul, dazed and doomed, just whispered, “I think I want them to.”

For once, the Mostro Lounge was quiet. No crowds, no clatter of dishes, not even Floyd terrorizing a freshman.

You walked in, waving as usual. “Hey, Azul. Got the last invoice from the alchemy club.”

Azul stood behind the counter, perfectly groomed, hands folded neatly, like he’d been waiting. Which, in fact, he had been. For hours.

“Ah,” he said, his voice unusually calm. “Thank you. Actually, before you go… I have something for you as well.”

You paused. “Oh? Is it tea?”

“…Not quite.”

He reached below the counter and pulled out a single scroll, tied with a navy ribbon and sealed with wax bearing his personal sigil.

You blinked. “Did you write me a contract?”

“Yes,” he said, too quickly, then coughed. “I mean—technically. But it’s… different. Please, read the terms.”

You unrolled the scroll.

Contract Proposal Recipient: [Your Name] Terms of Agreement: In exchange for continued emotional support, offhanded compliments, and existing in a manner Azul Ashengrotto finds extremely flustering endearing, the undersigned proposes the following: - One (1) date at a mutually agreed-upon time and place. - One (1) opportunity to confess his genuine romantic intentions without being interrupted by Floyd. - Optional: hand-holding, future compliments, and/or further shared activities of a couple-like nature. Signatories: Azul Ashengrotto (pre-signed) [Blank space left for you]

You stared.

“…You wrote a confession contract.”

Azul looked like he wanted to curl inside his octopus pot and hide until he was eighty. “I thought it might be… efficient.”

You started to laugh—not cruelly, but warmly, delighted.

“This is so you,” you grinned. “You actually drafted a romance agreement.”

Azul cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses in a doomed attempt to look composed. “If you don’t wish to sign, that’s perfectly—”

You picked up the pen and signed your name with a little smiley face and heart at the end.

Azul froze. “Y-You agreed?”

“Of course I did,” you said, handing the contract back. “Honestly, I thought you didn’t like me because you always get weird when I say nice things.”

“That’s because you keep calling me cute,” he muttered, scandalized. “In public. Repeatedly.”

You beamed. “Yeah. I’m gonna keep doing that, by the way.”

He made a soft, strangled noise.

“Anyway,” you said casually, leaning over the counter, “so when’s our date, octoboy?”

Azul’s face went fully red. “…How’s Saturday?”

“Perfect.”

Floyd leaned around the doorway, grinning like a cat with a mouthful of canary. “Ooooooh, Azully’s got a sweetheart~”

Azul sighed dreamily, holding the signed contract to his chest.

“…And they called me octoboy.”

Jade set down a tray, completely deadpan. “Shall I prepare the wedding registry?”

Azul didn’t even argue.

credit to @enchanthings-a for divider

#athena fics #twisted wonderland #twst #twst azul #azul ashengrotto #azul x reader #twst x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #🔆 anon

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hellsslibrary · 1 year ago

Note

Hellooooo!! i just saw your post asking for requests and stuff, so uh

here i aaaaam :3

i was wondering if you can do sub! lucifer or barbatos :p

you can do like literally whatever but i am STARVED for sub composed men that eventually are not-so-composed (i wanna see grown men cry)

"Shh... Don't think that water will save us from others."

#a.n. : I'M SO FERAL ABOUT THIS ONE SHOWER CARD OMG.... So shower sex with Luci where you drive him crazy lol.

!!Warnings: Top!Dom!Male!Reader, Sub!Bottom!Lucifer, fingering, finger sucking, shower sex obviously, praise, teasing, a little crying, overstimulation (this is not mentioned but implied), no penetration, Reader is MC, this all take place after the events of the card with skateboards, open final.

The sound of groans and slight squelching sounds was heard in the bathroom. But everything is easily hidden from others outside this room by the sounds of water and a spell cast on the walls.

Your fingers have been moving inside Lucifer for God knows how long, and you made no attempt to stop. Not that Lucifer minded; the stamina of demons is much higher than that of humans, but damn, this was getting too good.

How many times did he cum? He doesn’t remember anymore, and you didn’t count either. Just the fact that you finally managed to convince him to take a break after he worked so wonderfully on creating the best skateboard is already a miracle. But Lucifer himself understood that he deserved it... And how could he disagree when you were so sensitive to making sure he took breaks while working earlier?

"M-MC...Are you ever going to stop?" He asks, still being able to somehow spit out a complete sentence without almost stumbling over the letters.

"Mmm... No, I guess. You're not even at your limit yet, why should I stop?" A rhetorical question comes from your lips, which makes Lucifer’s legs tremble with excitement.

He is clearly not at the limit of his strength, far from it. But you will spend a very long time here if you want to bring him to this line, which is what you actually wanted. You just wanted him to break, in the nicest sense of the word.

Your fingers slid so perfectly inside his already soaking wet walls, each time pressing on a tiny spot that made him moan with pleasure. His dick was constantly rubbing against the shower wall, smearing his cum from several orgasms all over the wall. Lucifer’s palms lay lazily on the wall, and he rested his forehead on them to hide his red little face, which of course you didn’t want, but you didn’t really mind.

"Are you already brought to a complete state of bliss, if you understand what I'm hinting at, Luci?" The only answer to your question was a shake of the head.

But little did you know that it was a lie.

Lucifer felt like he was ready to dissolve, turn into a puddle from the movement of your fingers in him. He felt his entire being being torn apart in the most pleasant sense of the word. He felt like his whole brain was ceasing to function, because he had not been aware of it for a long time.

He's not even sure he can control his own body. A rare moment of vulnerability for him.

Lucifer realizes that his mask will soon crack. It will break like a crack in glass that will break it sooner or later. His self-control will burst.

Or rather, it has already done it.

“Are you crying, precious? Very good, relax, no one will hurt you here...” You whisper when you see tears running down the part of his downward-leaning face that you can see.

He groans when he realizes your fingers are playing with his tongue, making him whine. Such a humiliating sound for him, the Avatar of Pride himself. He shouldn't make sounds like that, but honestly? Fuck it all.

His head leans back, resting on your shoulder. His back collides with your torso. His hips try to match the movement and rhythm of your fingers, moving with them. And his mouth sucks your fingers, as if his life depended on it... Although he will obviously remember this for a long time later.

“Come on, let go,” You whisper in his ear, kissing his cheek, feeling the salty taste of his tears and looking down, slightly surprised that he came at that very second, but absolutely satisfied.

Lucifer hums around your fingers in mock displeasure when you don't slow down your movements even for a moment. He understands that he will regret this.

But it feels so fucking good.

“MC... You... will break me...” He whispers, muffled by your fingers, barely able to form a simple sentence as he feels your fingers deliberately aiming specifically for his prostate.

“Hush, baby,” You coo, he wants to drown in your voice, he realizes that he can’t even hear the sound of water. "Just relax, I won't eat you, you're so fucking good."

He nods. The movement is convulsive, clearly not smooth, and so unusual for Lucifer. You just smirk at this, kissing his neck, making him whimper, wiping away his tears.

After all... Maybe he won't regret this experience as much as he thought.

#seme male reader #top male reader #dom male reader #a!writes.#sub character #obey me smut #obey me x reader #sub obey me #obey me x male reader #sub lucifer #lucifer x reader #lucifer smut #lucifer x male reader

1K notes · View notes

gumilac · 21 days ago

Text

pairings. barista megumi × gn! student council reader

genre. barista/cafe and college au, fushiguro megumi’s POV

word count. 3.2k

aki's notes. yes, a megumi fic, of course it is. it's all i write, why are you surprised? 🤨 ALL JOKES ASIDE @l1v1ngzomb1e your wish is my command for a college megumi au, so here you go 😌 eeee!!! i hope you'll like it + depending on how this fic does, i might consider making it a series—maybe a potential, reader POV??? 👀 let me know! mwa

—; next | mlist.

“the university of tokyo…” he mutters, before looking down at the brochure he’s holding.

deep breaths. a new school means new friends—and new friends means… talking to people.

megumi lets out a sigh, finding it seemingly hard to understand why he couldn’t just stay at tokyo jujustu high. at least there, everyone knew to stay out of his way. but in a new school, he had to—one, stay out of trouble for tsumiki. and two, find a way to make people “fear” him without using force.

yet, number two seems to be working already with how everyone steps aside as he walks down the hallway towards the student’s affair office. his bag strap hangs on one shoulder, slipping with every stride he takes, making megumi reposition it so often that he ultimately decides to just hold it in place.

as he reaches the office, he uses the hand that currently holds the brochure to open the door, slightly crumpling the paper from the action. megumi takes one deep breath and exhales for three; before finally letting the door behind him close.

“hey!” a voice greets and from where he stands, and it only takes about two strides for him to reach the table where a student was sitting at. what people don’t know about him is that it takes a lot for megumi to seem as composed as he is—consciously using one step to gather up the courage to say:

“hi,” the second step, another deep breath. and megumi successfully gets his message across, “i’m here to pass my forms?”

the student stands up and smiles, reaching out a hand to take them, “oh! okay. can i have a look, please?”

to which megumi obeys, finally ridding the burden of these papers off of his chest. as he passes them over to the student, he is highly aware of his posture, keeping it straight as much as possible. a minute passes, then three and it makes him wonder…

did he fill these out right?

after five scrutinizing minutes, the student finally looked up. settling the papers nicely in their necessary bins for better organization.

“you’re new here?”

“yeah,” and megumi nods, repositioning the falling bag strap again. at his response, the student smiles warmly and he finds it so contagious.

“oh, that’s great! welcome to the university of tokyo,” megumi starts to shift on his feet and manages to give back a small smile, albeit forced.

“i’m the student government president, from class 4. but you can just call me by my name. no need for formalities.”

student government president from class 4, huh? seems like he’ll have no choice but to remember your name…

classmate.

he bows a little, standing up to his full height as he introduces himself, “fushiguro megumi.”

you’re still smiling and he wonders, how does one do that? he can’t even hold a proper conversation, let alone smile for a long time—your voice cuts him from his trail of thought, capturing his attention.

“i tend to facilitate newcomers’ information and i can’t help but notice that you’re here on a scholarship grant?” you inquire, a curious look in your face. “you’re a smart guy!”

with your remark, megumi fights the urge to roll his eyes because he always hears this phrase, to the point that it gets irritating. he wants to be known for more than his intelligence but, how?

how, when he instantly contradicts himself by being introverted?

but, for some reason unbeknownst to him, you—you were able to make his heart skip a tiny beat. it was like you were almost able to bring back the euphoria of him being called the “smart guy.”

well, almost but not quite. it is still a bit annoying.

“yeah,” he forces a smile, running a hand through his hair, “it’s just my sister and i. so, i need all the financial help i can get.”

well— there goes keeping a low profile.

he internally chastises himself, ready to end this conversation. praying that you won’t pry even deeper. because this whole, transferring to a new school and passing of forms has already taken a toll on his social battery and he wants out.

“oh! i didn’t know…” you softly say.

maybe for another day it would be fine, but he really can’t handle long conversations. it’s too overwhelming that his internal monologue goes haywire.

don’t ask. don’t ask. don’t as—

“well, if you ever need anything i’m here.”

thank god.

with that megumi presses his lips in a thin line, forgetting the decency to say thank you and opts to bow his head instead. turning to walk out the doors of the office, megumi hastens his steps and gets to his first class.

~; 5 months later

when he said keep a low profile, he didn’t mean being: top 1 in his class and the representative of class 4 at interschool events.

he seriously just had to be smart, did he?

well, he was always an excellent student, even when he was at tokyo jujutsu high. it was just because he got into so much trouble that he stood out in an intimidating way, that no one even dared to mention his name. but here, since he was naturally adept at academics, he finds himself—much to his dismay—in quiz bees, math leagues and writing contests. to the point that everything and anything acad-related in between.

he. was. there.

yet, interestingly. you were also there where he was. but he seriously can’t think any of it, because before he came around, you were always the top student in class 4. although, since he saw you so often, he found himself subconsciously? he honestly doesn’t know at this point—but he would find himself in areas where he knew he’d find you on campus. and in the rare events that you’d meet his eyes, megumi would give you a small smile.

during interschool events he’d find a way to watch you compete after he’s done with his. always consistent with the way he’s there to applaud for you whether you make it or not.

and it’s weird.

not because he's a stalker, no. but because new things, experiences and feelings give him the creeps. and yet, he finds himself drawn to go deeper than he already is in this little rabbit hole of distantly being there for all your achievements. and as a logical, rational person who always uses his brain for everything, he rarely gets caught in a tangled web of fuzzy feelings—though this one. this one feels different.

ring. ring.

“hi. welcome to—” he looks up and stops wiping the counter mid-way. he feels giddy? is that the right term for the way his heart is beating? or is it bordering on arrhythmi—

“fushiguro, hi!” your voice catches him before he falls into a spiral. seriously, you just knew how to. “you work here?”

he neatly folds the towel he was using and sets it aside, all the while maintaining eye contact with you, “yeah, i started last week.”

“really?” scanning the menu board, megumi watches you intently, patiently waiting for you to pick a drink he’ll whip up, “i always see you around … it’s nice.”

you finally look at him again smiling and it takes everything in him not to falter from the way you’re looking at him.

“ahh … yeah?” he softly laughs, “i mean we are classmates and class 4 representatives.”

“haha, yeah! makes sense…” he starts to rest his hand on the register, shifting his weight on one foot. the cafe’s empty and he’s kind of glad. glad that he can stare at you unabashedly without the pressure of having to tend to customers. after a few more minutes you speak up again, “hmm, can i just have a latte?”

megumi nods and turns around to start prepping what he needs for your drink. he moves swiftly but deliberately. fully aware that you’re watching him and it makes things harder. because the more conscious he is, he is more likely to make mistakes and when he thinks about making a mistake, he has to think harder to make the drin— well, instead of unconsciously making drinks, megumi's consciously repeating a mantra in his head.

do not mess up. do not mess up. do not mess u—

“last week, huh?”

and, you’ve done it again.

he relaxes. visibly? he’s not sure. but he’s thankful that the nerves have now left his body just from you saying those three words.

“mhm,” is all he manages as he finally looks at you; finished drink in hand. megumi realizes that he’s going a little non-verbal and softly coughs, chastising himself.

yeah, megumi. cough out the nerves. great going.

“last week. i started last week,” he hands you the finished drink in hand and he rings it up on the register… remembering that he should have done that before he made your drink.

c’mon, megumi get it together.

“your total is 250 yen,” he says, aware of the blush that dares to place itself on his cheeks, but he ignores it—he can say it's from the cold for all he cares. but, what he does care about, is the way you smiled widely at the little latte art he did.

he made a heart. hoping it’ll reach you the right way.

“aww, a heart!” you tease, “for me?” handing over your payment, megumi tenses up; even more so than before. his hands find themselves in the pocket of his apron, hiding the way it shakes to the best of his abilities.

“it’s the only thing i can do right now.”

that’s a lie—he’s mastered almost all the common latte arts the minute he worked here.

“that’s so cute,” your eyes meet with his and he smiles. like actually smiles. not that half-assed, i’m just being nice, forced smile, but a genuine smile that came from his heart.

and things rarely come from his heart.

smiling up at him, you take the drink and wave goodbye, “thanks again, fushiguro.”

for a phrase he constantly says to all customers, it holds no meaning. but this time, he found himself wanting you to actually, “come back again.”

and with that, he manages to give you a small wave—watching as your figure moves further and further away from him.

~; 1 year later

megumi was only able to do one of the things he swore when he transferred here. and that’s staying out of trouble for tsumiki. number two? well, let’s just say everyone seemed to like him. as he enters the classroom, he nicely acknowledges those who waved him over, but megumi just continues to walk over to where you were seated.

math test results were released yesterday and he knows it wasn’t your best performance. seated by the window, your head was propped up by your hand, a distant look in your eyes. as megumi places his bag down at his assigned seat, the one in front of you, he carefully places your regular order of a latte on top of your desk. just the way you like it.

he sits on the chair sideways and with his arm resting on the backrest, he gently taps your desk; effectively pulling you out from your daze. megumi nods over at the latte he brought and you look at the drink for a few seconds, before looking at him with the cutest, poutiest frown ever.

“fushiguro,” you’re touched, that much he knows with the way you’ve drawn out his name, “how’d you know?”

“it’s all you order,” he says, managing to make you laugh. and at the sound of it, megumi feels his heart feel funny again—he gives you a comforting smile and a small, “cheer up.”

you grab the drink with both your hands and you furrow your brows, a tender look on your face, yet there are still remnants of sorrow. and megumi— well, megumi isn’t the best person to talk to when it comes to providing solace because emotions make him uncomfortable sometimes. so, he does the next best thing he can offer, which is logic.

“i’ll tutor you later, okay?” he suggests, second-guessing himself whether or not he’s doing this right. but he tries, “come by the cafe.”

you’re quiet, still looking at the drink, and he wonders if he messed up. so, he sits there uncomfortably, shifting in his seat; waiting for any recognition you’d provide to his “logical” solution.

maybe that isn’t what you need, he thinks.

for megumi, the silence feels like eternity, but he knows it really only took you about a few seconds to finally respond in the smallest voice.

“okay… thank you.”

“you’re welcome,” he smiles, doing the best he can to ease your mind off the test result. “drink up. you’ll feel better.”

~; 5:30pm, at the cafe.

“okay, when looking for a point in a hyperbola,” tapping his pen at his notes, “what do we need to use?”

“the standard formula of a hyperbola?” the two of you have been at it for a good hour and a half, and he’s really impressed with how fast you’re able to pick up concepts.

“good job,” he says, following up with another question, “but how do you know if it’s a vertical one?”

you furrow your brows and he watches the way you nibble at your bottom lip, making his heart rate pick up. and as if that view wasn’t enough, the two of you are secluded, seated at the furthest corner of the cafe, sharing a small table. the close proximity and the subtle brushes of your arms makes his breath hitch, yet he perseveres.

as you contemplate, megumi hooks a finger up to his collar and pulls on it a bit, hoping it’ll release some tension in his body right now. but really, it doesn’t help, so he’s just thankful that you’re too preoccupied and adjusts the way he was seated instead—resting both of his arms on the table, with sleeves rolled up, he slightly leans forward.

“when the traverse axis is vertical…”

okay, correct.

“and…” you pause and he watches as your face slowly remembers what he taught you, “and when– when–!”

almost there.

“when the y-term is positive and comes first in the equation!”

there you go. megumi smiles and nods his head, genuinely proud that you’ve finally got it. you squeal and everything seems to happen so fast because he said great job and suddenly— you were gone?

what?

so, he backtracks.

“great job,” he says in a pleased tone and you look up at him, squealing, noses almost brushing with the way he’s leaning forward. he then softly laughs and is surprised at the sudden attack of a hug from you. but he didn’t have time to reciprocate the action.

because by the time he decides to place a hand at the small of your back, your hands fly to cup his cheeks—pulling him in for a kiss.

you pulled him in for a kiss.

oh.

megumi sits there dumbfounded, staring at the door that’s now swaying back and forth from the impact of your escape and it takes him a good few minutes before he realizes that you left all your stuff.

your bag, your notebook, your pens—everything.

~; one week later.

it has now been one week since the incident—though he wouldn’t really call it something negative. the only downside is that you have constantly been avoiding him.

you weren’t very good at it.

because he had to watch you bump into a wall and then a student for turning so quickly when you saw him walking towards you. while avoiding him in school is fine, what he doesn’t like is that you haven’t been to the cafe—and you were there almost everyday, ordering a drink or not.

does it make him upset? yes, he won’t deny it. so when he hears the bells of the cafe door ringing, and looks up to see you standing there? he’s reeling in all his happiness.

“hey,” he softly calls out, a small lopsided smile on his face. he watches as you take a step, then another, and another, before finally reaching the counter. and he finds it so nostalgic—reminding him of the time that he also took calculated steps when he approached you back then at the student’s affairs office.

“hi,” your voice is soft, almost like a whisper; if he hadn’t been waiting for this moment, he would’ve missed it, but he’s wanted for so long to hear your voice again that megumi smiles a bit bigger, relishing the way your cheeks look flushed.

it’s cute.

“latte?” he asks and you meekly nod. but, before he turns over to make your drink, he reaches down the counter and pulls out your bag—completely aware that your eyes shoot wide open. it takes a lot in him not to laugh at you during this moment and just opts to gently place it in front of you. as he sets it down, his hands barely have pulled away when you quickly snatched it off the counter. your reaction makes him let out a little snort before turning around to make your drink.

megumi does it in record time and as he looks back at you to hand it over, your payment is already placed nicely on the counter. once he rings it up on the register, he looks at you expectantly. it’s silent for a few minutes before realizing that he’s missed something.

"ah, right," he shuffles awkwardly, turning his back to you to grab tissues and—"here you go."

“thank you,” you fidget with the napkins he handed over and he watches as a myriad of emotions flow over your face. when you finally looked up at him, he perks up.

“thanks for my stuff and my coffee…” you pause, closing your eyes, “look, i’m sorry about last week—”

before you could react, megumi leans over the counter to give you a chaste kiss. letting his lips linger on yours for a few moments and he smiles when you finally reciprocate. as your mouth moves with his, it gives megumi the courage to keep going.

hoping that you’ll finally get that the feeling was mutual all along.

he’d continue to kiss you but, for workplace etiquette, he has to pull away. and so he does. he pulls away just enough for your noses to still be touching. as he slowly opens his eyes, they meet yours and he feels drunk on the feeling—the high he got from your lips on his.

“don’t be,” he whispers, breaking whatever tension was holding you two back and hoping that this will be enough to reassure you. “come by again everyday, yeah?”

he subconsciously licks his lips and megumi watches as your resolve falters.

“yeah…“ you finally managed to say and he smiles, sneaking in one more kiss.

“and stop avoiding me, okay?”

you nod but he isn’t satisfied, he needs to hear your voice—that and because he enjoys watching the confident student government president lose the ability to speak in front of him. so, one more kiss and to hell with it if his boss sees.

“okay?” he teases.

“okay…” you whisper, cupping your face with your hands; he smiles, finally satisfied. you furrow your brows at him, biting back a smile to which you fail miserably. megumi loves the way it brightens up his day as he watches your smile get bigger.

you both quietly laugh at the whole ordeal and megumi brushes his nose against yours before finally pulling away to stand up to his full height. grabbing your drink, he watches you walk towards a table—taking a seat, you scrunch up your nose when you look at him and he understands.

i’ll be here until your shift is over.

#✑ commissions #fushiguro megumi x you #fushigro megumi x reader #megumi x reader #megumi x you #megumi fushiguro #megumi #fushiguro #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk megumi

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livelaughlovesubs · 7 months ago

Note

Straight up torturing Dazai by only making him cum untouched

I have this problem while writing smut that I forget the character has a dick cuz I over-focus on something else, so most of my fics start out as cumming untouched and I change it later on lol thanks for saving me the trouble

Dom!reader x sub!dazai - reader is gn

Warning: semi public (in an alley), teasing, degrading, marking, hair pulling, choking, sub-space, dacryphilia, nipple play

Edit: does this fic even make sense?

Now he’s done it, fuck, what to do- he didn’t think you’d be this angry.

Normally you weren’t up for doing stuff in public, which is why he used that chance to annoy you to his hearts content. Whenever you two were going home from a mission, wandering down the streets of Yokohama, he’d start being all unbearable and flirty, and the next second he’d run off to god-knows-where to chase after another pretty woman. You were done with all these stunts he pulled, and sadly for him you weren’t as nice as kunikida.

Which is what got him into his current situation. Pinned to the wall in some random alley, you staring at him with an obviously angry expression and the buzzing noises of unaware passengers missing out this spectacle. “Ah fuck…” dazai didn’t know what you were planning on doing, but he had a precognition that it wouldn’t end well for him, so he tried to use his silver tongue to talk you out of it, “heyyyy, y/n~ What’s got you so mad? Don’t frown— come on, how about we take a break and fill our stomachs? I know a good pla-”

You grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked on them, causing him to arch his back off the wall. It was so sudden that he had no time to prepare himself, and accidentally mewled, “ahh, god, y/n, don’t be so forceful with me.” He almost sang the last part, still bearing that annoying smile on his face. “You should have thought twice before acting up.” The grip you had on his locks tightened, making him bend forward to meet your eyes, “just because we are in public it doesn’t mean you are safe.”

That was a threat, right? That was definitely a threat. And yet- he was grinning from ear to ear, unable to stop himself from clenching his thighs together. “Whaaaat? Of course I’m safe, where is the threat huh?” The brunette chirped, and you clasped your hand over your face. “You really want this, don’t you?” You asked, glaring at him from between your fingers. He shrugged, playing dumb.

You stepped closer to him, bodies pressing against each other. “Will you behave after I punish you?” After these words left your mouth, a shiver ran down his back, and he fumbled with your clothing, “it all depends on you.” You smirked, not planning on backing down from such a challenge. And so you let go of his hair, roughly unbuttoning his blazer and shirt, but not pulling it completely off. Then you placed your hands on his hips, lips pressing against his collarbone.

Dazai grabbed a fistful of your clothes from your back and ran his other hand through his hair, panting softly while watching you trying to work him up. He felt you nibbling at his skin, leaving red bruise marks behind. “Haa-ah, haha… you are being too gentle dear.” His breathing hitched when he spoke, though otherwise he was still pretty composed. You payed him no mind, instead you moved lower to toy with a more sensitive part.

Pinching and flicking his pink buds while sucking on the other one, eating him up, watching his face flush so deliciously. “Ngh- not gonna answer me?” He teased, pulling at your hair to get your attention. You bit down as a result, to tell him to stop, yet he gripped down harder as he groaned, “mhhhm-aaahh~ fuuck.” What a nice reaction, you had to remember this. Slowly you managed to get him hard, seeing the bulge in his pants grow larger and larger. When you finally pulled back and stood straight, he was already sweating, all eager as he cursed at how long you took.

One look and you could tell he was needy, and pretty on edge. His flushed face was actually pretty cute, and his disheveled clothes hung from his shoulders like he was trying to appeal to you. Your hands didn’t stop exploring his body, like they have a mind of their own. Groping and touching his torso. “Look at you dazai, you look like a slut.” You mumbled with a smile, and his body twitched at that statement. “You are so mean y/n, in what world do I look like one?”

While saying that, he pushed his hips out and slipped his clothed further down his arm. “In every,” you answered and kissed his neck. He raised his chin to grunt and pant at the feels, head and back leaned back against the stoney wall with both hands on your shoulder. How annoying, you were still only doing the foreplay, isn’t it time to get past it? And when you sucked on a specific spot that drove him crazy, he was at his limit.

“F-fine, I guess I am a whore,” small break before he continued, “for you. So, touch me more, please?” The boy begged, looking a little embarrassed as he avoided your gaze. “I’ll think about it.” Was all you said in response, before you went back to meekly caressing him. “Uhhh.. y/n, that won’t cut it.” He tried to explain through his gasps and whines, and said, “I need more, something more extreme and lewd.”

“Hmm~? I dont know what you mean.” Using his own Methode against himself, how petty of you. He took your hand and guide you lower, muttering, “then I’ll show you how it’s done.” You shook his hand off and hummed, “I’m good, I’ll do it at my pace.” How devastated he looked, it seems he has finally realised what kind of mess he got himself into. He pouted as he slumped back, defeated, hiding his whimpers behind his palm as he kept on complaining, “how could this ever count as punishment?”

“You will see.”

He could swear he caught a glimpse of you smirking all mischievously, but before he knew it, he had been slammed further into the wall behind him. Followed by your hands squeezing around his neck. “Ah- y-y/n..?” “You are the one who wanted this.” Squeeze. With that you started applying more pressure to his neck. “HnnGh..! Ha-arghh..” He choked, eyes half lidded as he weakly pulled at your firm grip around him. A dumb grin spread across his face as his drool rolled down to his chin.

“Fu- urgh! Fuck, y/n~..!!” A wet spot formed on his pants, and his face twisted into one of raw pleasure. Tongue hanging out, eyes watery with heart shaped pupils and legs shaking, struggling to hold his own weight. “You didn’t see this coming, did you?” Then more strength was applied, then you whispered close to his face, “can you feel how your air is being cut off, and how your body is desperately trying to squirm free?” And you squeezed down even more, making him gag and choke again. “Haaa-nghhh..! K- kill me, guuUh, I dare you.”

He was still looking all competitive, though he won’t be able to hold out much longer. You pushed your body into his, leg slightly rubbing against his leaking bulge, stealing a loud groan from him. Followed by small whines of bliss, “MmnHhh..! Ah- hngG, uh-urgh.!” Such a naughty boy, enjoying all this. Your hands didn’t leave him alone while you kissed his tears away, the contrast of gentleness and ruthlessness made his head spinn. Poor little dazai was trembling so much, twitching and spasming all over.

“Are you turned on because I’m choking you, or because you want to die?” You mumbled against his skin, the vibrations of your voice tickling him, a small addition to the immense sensations he was already feeling. “Mhhff… haha- both?” He answered cheekily, his own strength leaving his body as his instinctive try to push you away failed. “I see~ well it’s time for the last course isn’t it?”

As the icing on top, you pressed down one last time, watching his eyes roll back as his consciousness slowly left him. His head was thrown back while his eyes slowly closed shut. That’s when you whispered into his ear, “cum for me, dazai.” And like a command he couldn’t disobey, his body shook heavily before a white fluid seeped through his pants, dirtying your leg, making it all sticky.

Right as he wanted to scream his lungs out, you clasped a hand over his swollen lips, reminding him how you two were still in public. He ripped his eyes open for a split second, then tightly shut them, and moaning into your forceful palm, “mnghMm, nghhmmmf…!♡♥︎♡”

Without giving him any time to calm down from his high, you pulled away, causing him to drop onto the floor. The only reason why he hadn’t fallen yet was because you were holding and pushing him up. But now his legs have finally given up. He was still unresponsive as you wiped your dirty hands on his clothes. After you were done, you took a last glance at his kneeling form, leaning against the rough wall for support. Some of his cum dripped onto the ground and he was still panting heavily.

These once fierce eyes were reduced to a melting one, full of desire and need. He wasn’t full yet huh. His clothes got dirty at the tips, and his body was marked from the top to the bottom, especially his neck bore a dark crimson ring of bruises. Some tears and other fluids were still flowing across his features, but it seems he was too tired to care right now. Judging by the state he was in, it’ll take a while before he can stand up and go home.

Though that was none of your business anymore, since this was going to be his punishment. You laughed a little before saying, “you better clean yourself up, osamu. I’ll get going first~”

All he could squeak out was a weak, soft whimper.

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astrobiscuits · 1 year ago

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Astrocartography notes

🌍 Do you want to study abroad? Work abroad? Your MC lines show what domain to pursue:

Sun MC: photographer, actor; check the planet ruling your Sun's zodiac sign for more details

Moon MC: nurse, preschool/elementary teacher, childcare worker/nanny, doula, housekeeper

Mercury MC: librarian, language teacher, speech language pathologist, translator, working in academia, journalist, PR agent, receptionist, secretary, architect, economist, comedian

Venus MC: modelling, artist, fashion designer, hairstylist, makeup artist, art director, interior designer, garden designer, florist, wedding planner

Mars MC: surgeon, firefighter, working at the police, sportsman (the type of sport depends on the zodiac sign Mars is in your birth chart, for ex. Mars in Pisces = football, swimming; Mars in Libra = gymnastics); fitness instructor

Jupiter MC: international driver (driving to your Jupiter MC line brings bonusess💰💰), flight attendant, hotel manager, tour guide, philosopher

Saturn MC: general practitioner, dentist, law, working in the Parliament, working in public institutions, business (CEO), historian, construction worker

Uranus MC: STEM (engineering, ecology sciences, biology), electrician, weather presenter, astronomer/astrophysicist, astrologer, sociology, social worker, advocate for human rights/activist

Neptune MC: choreographer, scenographer, film/theater director, actor, ballet dancer, music composer, rehabilitation worker, bartender, yoga instructor, meditation teacher, reiki practitioner

Pluto MC: adult actor, therapist, psychiatrist, any job regarding forensics (detective, toxicologist, forensic accountant etc.), embalmer, funeral director, loan officer, research analyst

🌍 If you have no astrocartography lines passing through the country you lived for most of your life, you probably don't feel at home in that country and have always wanted to relocate to another country

🌍 When you have atleast 2 lines "conjuncting" each other through a certain country, the planet that is more dominant in your birth chart will have a higher effect in astrocartography

🌍 Mercury IC line can show where one of your siblings or cousins relocate at some point during their life

🌍 If you're a girl and you have daddy issues (hey, we don't judge here!!), travelling to Saturn DSC line will likely bring you lots of opportunities of meeting your perfect partner, but also harsh lessons regarding control in a relationship (this is a good line for you to heal your daddy issues)

🌍 If you want to meet your future spouse and you (personally) find international guys attractive, travelling to Jupiter DSC line is a very good idea. Your future spouse might also be a foreigner in that country, just like you :)

🌍 Sun ASC line shows you where you can find your life's purpose. Also your depression:📉📉 0%, while your happiness:📈📈 100% (unless your Sun is in your 8th or 12th house, then the mental health effect is the complete opposite)

🌍 You could give birth on your Moon IC line😳 or your mom could have given birth to you on that line

🌍 Venus ASC line shows you where you could take lots of pictures (of yourself, of the sightseeings). Also, where you could get diabetes where you will want to try every type of sweets you find there

🌍 You will either get very drunk, consume drugs or smoke some weird shit on your Neptune ASC line (pls take care of your health)

🌍 You could randomly meet an ex or someone who resembles your ex while travelling to your Chiron DSC line

#astro #astro community #astrology #astro placements #astro observations #astro posts #astroblr #astro blog #astro notes #astrocartography #zodiac

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igibbydotcom · 2 months ago

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Now that SOTR exposed a huge discrepancy between Victors games and their portrayals to the public, there seems to be a pattern. And following this pattern, we can safely assume that a vast majority of Victors are forced to go against everything they stand for. Which I know, duh. But this shows that they’ve already given us the blueprints of who they used to be.

Katniss is forced to be a lovestruck teenaged girl, eager to marry and have kids. But we know Katniss was fiercely independent and down-to-earth and was blatantly against having children because she couldn’t subject them to her cruel world.

Haymitch is a raging alcoholic, who used to be quite the rascal but is now a shell of a man and accepts that death is inevitable. But we know Haymitch was full of love and full of life, he didn’t like drinking and he didn’t just dream of a hopeful future, he fought for it.

Wiress is twitchy and neurotic and often can’t finish her own sentences. But we know she was very well-composed and an intellectual genius, who managed to go an entire games without killing because she outwitted the arena.

Finnick is a deviously charming playboy, infamous sweetheart of the Capitol that only cares for himself. But we know he’s warm and friendly and down to earth, he’s funny and can be trusted with anything.

Peeta managed to get through the games without sabotaging his personality in the process. But then he gets kidnapped and tortured. And then Peeta is angry and overemotional, he’s hateful and scared and doesn’t know what’s real anymore. But we know Peeta is kind and genuine, he’s gentle and he never wanted to be just another piece in their games.

The Johanna we know is angry and loud. She threatens the Capitol with no fear of retaliation and hasn’t loved anyone openly since her games. But we also know she still misses home and depends on drugs to escape reality— she doesn’t search for it like many characters. We hear that she pretended to be weak to win her games via surprise talent. What if she wasn’t pretending, and she really was a scared, emotional kid? What if she faltered once on camera and had to stick to the persona? Maybe she was just another kid the rebellion used. Maybe she was trusting and loving and quiet, and she lost all of that to the Capitol.

Annie is twitchy and anxious and overemotional, to the point that she can’t be trusted with secrets. They all said she lost her mind when her district partner was beheaded. She plays “real or not real” before Peeta does. I wonder if she used to be self-assured and brave and maybe reckless. Maybe the Capitol was taking away her signature ability to see how the world really worked and be someone people relied on.

I’ve seen people speculate that Enobaria filed her teeth into fangs to make herself less appealing, not just because it’s a mark of her signature kill. She voted yes for the games including Capitol children and we never get a read on her character except for her spite. Before the games, was she perhaps an approachable person, someone with empathy and a face that was easily read by others? A teeth-to-throat kill is a terrified, losing animal kill. Maybe she had to throw away all her humanity to survive her games and could never find herself again.

And what about the Victors with Morphling addictions? They were nameless and their identities were stolen entirely by their addictions. But in the girl’s final moments before death, she paints on Peeta’s arm. I wonder if she was an artist, full of wonder and deeply aware of the system she was trapped in. Maybe she loved life and went into her games unwilling to let people make her into a faceless dead tribute but she lost herself by winning.

How much was a cover up? How many Victors lost their lives long before they died? Probably all of them.

#sotr spoilers #the hunger games #katniss everdeen #haymitch abernathy #peeta mellark #johanna mason #finnick odair #wiress #annie cresta #the morphlings #enobaria #75th hunger games

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alistorz · 2 months ago

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FRAGMENT OF US

(Aespa x Male Reader Fanfiction)

Chapter 2 - Hope, Not Lies

11821 words

~ “It’s strange how quiet the world feels when you’re waiting for something to change.” ~

A.N - First of all, huge sorry. Its been like more then a month. And this chapter, is a kind of a mess since it was rush. More notes at the end. Thank you.

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

They say time heals everything.

But what if time only makes things worse?

What if, the longer it stretches, the deeper the wounds become?

There’s no alarm sound. Nothing but silence.

Soft raindrops tapped against the window, their rhythmic patterning the only sound in the silent dorm room. Gray light seeped through the half-open blinds, casting a dull, lifeless glow over the space. The air was cold, damp, carrying the scent of rain-soaked concrete from outside.

Y/N lay on his thin mattress, staring at the ceiling, unmoving. His body felt heavy, his limbs sinking into the stiff fabric of his sheets. His mind was awake, yet he lacked the will to move. He didn't know how long he'd been like this—minutes, maybe hours. Not that it mattered.

He wasn't avoiding sleep. Sleep had long abandoned him. His eyes burned from exhaustion, but every time he closed them, he heard it again.

"It’s getting worse… Surgery is the only option now."

His mother’s voice, strained yet trying to remain composed, echoed in his skull.

"It’s expensive, sweetheart… We don’t know what to do."

Neither did he.

He clenched his jaw, pressing his forearm over his eyes as if to block out the memories. But they remained. "I’ll figure it out." It had been a promise, spoken without thought. A desperate attempt to assure her—to assure himself—that he would find a way. That he wouldn’t just sit here, useless, while his father’s life depended on money they didn’t have.

But what if that was all he was? Useless?

The rain outside grew heavier, drumming against the window. A distant rumble of thunder rolled through the sky. His cracked phone lay beside him, the dull screen reflecting his worn-out expression. He picked it up, swiping down to refresh his inbox.

No new emails. No job offers. No responses. Just silence.

Y/N exhaled sharply, sitting up. His body ached in protest, his muscles stiff from nights of tossing and turning. He ran a hand through his unkempt hair, fingers briefly stopping at his temple, where a dull headache pulsed. He needed to move. To do something. Because if he sat here any longer, he might drown in his own thoughts.

—-

At first, he had been hopeful. The moment he ended that call with his mother, he hadn’t wasted a second. He had jumped onto every job website he could find, filling out applications until his fingers ached from typing. Cafés, convenience stores, delivery services, tutoring gigs—if the job existed, he applied. It didn’t matter if he was qualified or not. He just needed something.

But reality was cruel.

Some places responded, only to reject him outright. Others simply ignored his applications, leaving them to rot in the void of job portals.

A week into his search, Y/N started looking physically—walking into stores, asking managers face-to-face if they needed help.

The first café he entered had been promising. The place was small, cozy, and not too busy. Maybe, just maybe, they needed an extra hand.

"Excuse me," he had asked, forcing a polite smile at the barista behind the counter. "Are you hiring by any chance?"

The worker barely glanced at him before calling out, "Boss?" A man in his late 30s appeared from the back, his expression tired before Y/N even said a word.

"I was wondering if you had any job openings," Y/N explained quickly. "I can work part-time, full-time—whatever you need. I learn fast, I won’t cause trouble—"

"Not hiring," the boss cut in, voice flat, uninterested. "Try somewhere else."

Y/N hesitated. "Are you sure? I can work any—"

"Listen, kid." The man sighed. "I already have too many employees. Adding another one? That’s just extra baggage."

Y/N swallowed the lump in his throat. "I… I understand. Thank you for your time."

He walked out feeling the sting of rejection, but he convinced himself it was just one failed attempt. But then came the second. And the third. And the tenth.

At a convenience store, the manager barely let him finish speaking before shaking his head. "We’re fully staffed. We don’t need another worker slowing us down."

At a delivery company, the receptionist didn’t even look up from her computer. "No foreigners, sorry."

A tutoring job at a local cram school? "We require a college degree."

He even tried a small diner run by an elderly couple. The old woman had been kind, but when he asked about work, she only gave him a sympathetic smile.

"I wish I could help, son, but times are hard. We’re barely making enough as it is."

It became a cycle. Wake up. Apply. Walk around. Ask. Get rejected. Repeat. Each day, his feet ached more. His motivation thinned. His savings shrank. Hope, once so determined, now felt like a candle struggling against the wind.

Y/N sighed, shaking himself from the memory. Outside, the rain still fell. The cold air seeped into the room, making his already drained body feel even heavier. His stomach grumbled in protest, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since last night. He ignored it.

He grabbed his phone and refreshed his inbox one more time.

Nothing.

How much longer could he keep going? Was there even a point in trying anymore?

Y/N clenched his fists, inhaling sharply. He couldn't let himself break. Not yet.

He had to keep going.

Because the moment he stopped trying… everything would fall apart.

By the time Y/N returned to his dorm, he was soaked down to his skin. Again. His shoes squelched with every step down the corridor, drawing a few annoyed looks from fellow students passing by. He didn’t care. He barely even noticed.

It has become a routine now. The same damn routine.

Grey skies. Cold rain. A silent walk home with nothing but wet shoes and a heavier heart. It was like living inside a loop, a bad scene playing over and over. Each time he walked the same road, stood at the same doors, and heard the same answers.

He didn’t even flinch when the hallway light flickered above him as he stepped into the dorm. Everything was predictable now—his rejections, the silence that followed, and the familiar ache in his chest when he realized nothing had changed

The worst were the ones who didn’t even bother to respond. No emails. No callbacks. Just silence.

Y/N had scrolled through dozens of listings, applied to every job that didn’t explicitly say Korean native only, and even some that did—out of sheer desperation. He handed out resumes in person, walking for hours to save the cost of public transport. But in the end, every effort led back here: to a damp room, to soggy clothes, to silence.

As he reached for his phone to check for new replies—anything—a notification flashed across the top of the screen.

[1 New Email] – Professor Seonghyun (Academic Supervisor)

His heart skipped.

For a second, he thought maybe—just maybe—someone had referred him to a position, or maybe his professor wanted to help. He opened the email, eyes scanning fast.

But his heart quickly dropped.

—

Subject: Concern Regarding Your Recent Academic Performance

Y/N,

I hope you're well. I've noticed a decline in your performance and attendance over the past two weeks. Your recent midterm score was well below your average, and I’m concerned.

If there's something going on, please don’t hesitate to reach out. That said, improvement is crucial. Continued decline could affect your scholarship status.

Best, Prof. Seonghyun

—

He stared at the screen.

Of course. Of course that would start falling apart too.

His jaw tightened. He turned the screen off and tossed the phone onto the bed.

Was there anything in his life that wasn’t slipping away?

His grades. His home back in his country. His father’s health. His future. All crumbling, slowly and then all at once.

And now the very thing that brought him here—his scholarship—was at risk, too.

For a moment, Y/N just sat there, unmoving, letting the silence crawl into his lungs like smoke. The cheap ticking of the clock above his desk was the only sound in the room. He didn’t know how long he sat like that.

But eventually, he stood up.

Not out of motivation. Not out of hope.

Just because he couldn’t sit still anymore.

He moved toward the tiny kitchenette to make something warm—ramyeon again, the last packet. As the water boiled, he stared at the steam rising from the pot, eyes unfocused. The heat fogged his glasses slightly, but he didn’t bother wiping them.

In a few more days, he might not even be able to afford the water bill.

—---

He didn’t know how long he had been lying there, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Minutes? Hours? Time has stopped meaning anything lately. At some point, his body moved on its own. Not because he had a plan or destination in mind—he just needed to get out. He grabbed his hoodie—still damp—and stepped outside.

The rain hadn’t stopped. It never did, not these days. The skies above Seoul felt like they were syncing with his mood—gray, weeping, and indifferent.

Y/N walked. Not to submit another job application. Not to hand out resumes. Not even to check his phone. He just walked.

He passed glowing cafés filled with warmth and noise. Laughter behind glass. Friends chatting over coffee. Couples huddled close beneath umbrellas. The world was moving forward—unbothered, uninterrupted—while he felt like he was drifting through it like a ghost, unseen and unneeded.

The city around him buzzed with life, but it only made the silence inside his chest louder.

Eventually, his feet brought him to a familiar bench by a quiet bus stop. He didn’t remember choosing to go there. He just did.

Sitting down, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head heavy. His hoodie clung to him, soaked and uncomfortable, like everything else he couldn’t shake off. He wasn’t crying. Not really. But his lips parted just enough to let something slip out—barely audible under the sound of the rain.

“…What else do I even have left?”

No answer came. No one around seemed to notice or care. The sky above offered nothing but more rain. The bench gave no warmth. He sat in it for a while longer, then eventually stood up and wandered back to his dorm, not because he felt better—just because there was nowhere else to go.

Once home, he changed into dry clothes. Not out of comfort. Just… routine. Then he sat at his desk, eyes blank, laptop closed, his textbooks untouched. He couldn’t bring himself to try anymore.

That’s when his phone buzzed.

He barely noticed it at first, assuming it was another push notification or a job site reminding him of all the places that weren’t hiring him. But it didn’t stop.

He reached for it lazily, ready to silence whatever it was—but froze when he saw the screen.

[UNKNOWN NUMBER]

No name. No label. Just a number.

He stared at it for a moment, thumb hovering over the screen. He didn’t want to pick it up. He had no energy left for another disappointment. But something—small, stubborn—kept him from letting it go.

The call was seconds from ending when he finally tapped the green button and raised the phone to his ear.

“…Hello?”

—----------------------------------------------------

The lights were blinding, the mics were off, and the final round of smiles had just been flashed to the cameras.

“Thank you for joining us, Aespa!” the host said brightly, their voice still riding the wave of on-air enthusiasm.

The girls waved back in unison — four polished smiles, picture-perfect.

Karina’s elegance led the curve of the moment, Winter’s quiet warmth followed behind it, Giselle’s smirk added the spark, and Ningning’s playful beam sealed the frame with energy.

The cameras cut. They bowed. And once they stepped away from the lights, out of frame and off the stage, the glow dulled.

Backstage was colder — both literally and metaphorically.

They entered the green room without a word, the heavy door clicking shut behind them. Staff still moved around them in a rush — producers, stylists, camera operators — voices echoing off the walls with directions and calls for final wrap-ups. But Aespa themselves were still.

A small junior group passed by just as the girls entered. Fresh faces, wide eyes, that stage-sweat glow of adrenaline still on them. One of them bowed quickly and stammered, “You were amazing, sunbaenim!”

“Thank you,” Ningning replied with a kind smile, her voice airy but distant.

Another junior glanced toward Karina and said something about having grown up watching their performances. Karina smiled, nodded, and offered a soft “That’s sweet of you.”

Winter gave a quiet quip — something teasing about how they’re not that old yet — and the rookies laughed awkwardly before continuing down the hall.

Once the green room door closed, the masks slid off effortlessly.

Karina lowered herself onto the couch, smoothing out her outfit as she sat. Across from her, Winter tilted her head back and closed her eyes, saying nothing. Giselle sank into the corner of the L-shaped couch, scrolling through her phone with slow, distracted swipes. Ningning leaned against the wall and stared at her own screen, her thumb idle against it.

On the table in front of them, a tray of food and drinks had been left by one of the staff — neatly prepared, clearly with care. Fruit cups, boxed meals, vitamin drinks, and iced teas. Not one of the girls touched it.

The room was neither loud nor quiet — just... muted. Like a TV with the volume turned too low.

Karina watched them from her seat. Her members. Her sisters.

Giselle, who once couldn’t go five minutes without bantering with her, hadn’t said more than three words since the stage.

Ningning, who used to share memes during their breaks and lean into her shoulder like a younger sibling craving warmth, had barely glanced up from her screen. There was no teasing, no playful jabs, no sparkle.

And Winter — the one she shared the closest bond with, the one she once exchanged ridiculous jokes and tongue-tied inside gags with — now sat in complete silence, lost in her own space.

Karina's gaze softened. When did we stop filling the room with noise?

Giselle’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, exhaled quietly, and locked the screen again.

“That guy again?” Karina asked gently, breaking the stillness.

Giselle shrugged, eyes fixed forward. “It’s nothing.”

Karina didn’t press. But she could tell it wasn’t nothing.

Ningning spoke up, almost to herself, “My mom called earlier. I didn’t answer.”

Karina turned slightly toward her. “Why not?”

“I couldn’t fake a smile today,” she said simply, eyes still on her screen.

No one responded. Not because they didn’t care, but because they understood.

The sound of the door clicking open didn’t stir much of a reaction.

Harin stepped in with a tablet clutched to her chest, her eyes briefly scanning the quiet room. The girls were scattered — Ningning sitting on the makeup chair scrolling her phone, Winter curled up on one end of the couch with her arms folded, Giselle with her legs pulled up, head resting back, eyes half-lidded. Karina sat near the corner, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, quiet and still.

“Hey,” Harin greeted softly, mindful of her tone. “You all did great out there. Seriously.”

Ningning gave a small smile without looking up. Giselle lifted a hand in a half-wave. Winter nodded, almost imperceptibly. Karina met her eyes for a brief second and offered a tired but polite nod.

There was something in the air that Harin recognized immediately — a weight she’d seen too often lately.

She looked around at the scene — quiet, drained, heavy. She didn’t say it out loud, but her eyes lingered for a moment too long. She noticed the untouched water bottles, the barely eaten snack trays, and the silence that had settled like dust on everything.

She exhaled, then walked over a few steps and lowered her voice. “I came to tell you something — a bit of a heads-up.”

She hesitated before continuing. “So, uh… I wanted to let you know that the company’s HR team is in the middle of recruiting again. They’re searching for a new probationary manager.”

Giselle’s thumb paused mid-scroll.

Winter slowly blinked but said nothing.

Ningning turned slightly from the mirror, brows lifting. “Another one?”

Karina’s gaze sharpened. “What happened to the last one?”

Harin’s lips pressed together for a second before giving the answer. “He accepted an offer from HYBE. Better pay. Less chaos.”

Giselle scoffed under her breath and muttered something in English too quiet to catch.

“Wasn’t he only around for… two months?” Karina asked, straightening up.

“Forty-seven days,” Harin replied dryly. “Not even enough time to memorize your coffee orders.”

“So, what’s this one like?” Winter asked. Her voice was quiet, tinged with her usual dry sarcasm, but her eyes remained fixed on the wall.

“Unknown,” Harin admitted, rolling her tablet gently against her fingertips. “We haven’t hired anyone yet. The process just started. Could be male, female — idol-savvy or completely green. I just thought it was better you heard it from me before someone randomly shows up mid-schedule like a surprise group assignment.”

Ningning let out a long breath, leaning back in her chair with a tired tilt of her head. “And we’re the test subjects again…”

Karina leaned back, expression unreadable. “Do we even have time to train someone?”

“Not really,” Harin admitted, with a hollow chuckle. “But if we don’t… you’ll keep getting shuffled between twenty different assistants who don’t know the difference between a live mic and a prop.”

That earned a faint snort from Winter. Giselle shook her head slowly, lips twitching without humor.

“No one’s asking you to love them,” Harin added, her voice softening now, carrying a thread of sincerity. “Just… give them a chance. Even if they’re clueless. You never know — they might surprise you.”

Karina didn’t answer right away. Her gaze drifted over her members, then toward the untouched food on the table, the damp tissues scattered near the makeup kits, the space around them that felt full and empty at once.

That’s what they said about the last five.

And still, none of them stayed. None of them saw them. Not really.

I hoped for honey once, she thought. But all I got was sugar water.

Harin looked like she wanted to say more — there was a small crease between her brows that hadn’t left since she entered — but her tablet buzzed with a new alert, flashing urgent.

“I’ll keep you updated,” she said, glancing at the door. “And if something feels off, don’t hesitate to tell me. I’ll do my best to make this one work.”

With a quiet wave, she stepped out of the room and disappeared into the hallway bustle.

The silence returned like a curtain falling. No one spoke for a while.

Winter leaned forward to grab her water bottle and unscrewed the cap slowly. “Forty-seven days,” she mumbled.

Giselle pulled her hoodie over her head. “That’s a record.”

Karina didn’t laugh. But a thought flickered through her mind — faint, fleeting.

What if this one’s different?

She didn’t say it aloud. She wouldn’t. Hope was dangerous like that.

But still… maybe this time, the sugar might not be so plain.

The dorm was silent when Jimin slipped out.

She left a quiet message in the group chat — just in case the others woke up and wondered. “Going for some air. Don’t wait up.”

No security. No staff. No assistant shadowing her every step.

Just her hoodie pulled low, her mask snug, and the weight of the day hanging off her shoulders like a wet coat she couldn’t shake.

The air outside wasn’t fresh. Seoul at midnight was thick with neon buzz and exhaust. But to her, it was still a relief — not the recycled chill of makeup rooms or the conditioned quiet of luxury vans. This was air that didn’t carry the scent of hairspray and pressure.

She walked aimlessly, letting her feet decide the direction. The city moved around her like a dream she wasn’t part of — couples sharing headphones, students lugging backpacks too big for their bodies, a man arguing softly on the phone, delivery scooters buzzing like flies. Life, raw and unfiltered, pulsed around her.

She paused near a small street stall — its striped tarp flapping in the breeze, steam curling from its tiny griddle. Karina’s steps slowed. The smell of tteokbokki — sweet and spicy — curled into her lungs. Her stomach gave the tiniest lurch.

A grandmother, no younger than her late 50s, waved at her like she’d been expecting her all night.

“Good evening, dear,” the woman said, her voice kind and familiar.

Jimin bowed slightly, her voice muffled through her mask. “A serving of tteokbokki, please.”

As the woman worked, the smell of gochujang sauce warmed the air around her. A few meters away, four students sat on plastic stools, laughing through mouthfuls of rice cakes, their chatter louder than the street noise. They looked barely twenty — probably still in high school. Carefree, still soft around the edges, not yet trimmed down by life. One of the girls spoke animatedly, arms flailing mid-story.

“I still think I’ll get into architecture,” one of them said.

“No way. You get stressed building IKEA shelves,” another teased.

“I’m serious! It’s either that or game design. I just want to make cool things.”

“I just want to live in a villa and wake up at noon.”

Karina’s lips tugged upward beneath her mask.

It reminded her — almost too much — of something she'd buried beneath all the comebacks and encores. Of her and Winter sneaking out late during trainee days. Pocket money in hand. Sitting just like that. Eating tteokbokki on a curb. Talking about dreams that still had blurry edges.

“Miss?”

She blinked, realizing the ajumma had called her more than once. She bowed quickly. “Ah, I’m sorry. Thank you.” She handed over the bills and accepted the warm tray in both hands.

Then, without thinking too hard about it, she stepped toward the group of students. They looked up, confused by her approach.

The four froze mid-bite, their expressions flickering with surprise. One girl blinked. “Uh… yeah?”

They hesitated — naturally. One of them even looked around as if checking for a hidden camera.

Then, with a breath of courage, she lowered her mask just enough for them to see.

“Mind if I join you for a minute?” Karina asked, amused by their confusion.

And four jaws hit the floor.

One gasped. “Oh my god.”

“No freaking way—”

“You’re—You’re Karina.”

“Are we being pranked right now?”

Karina laughed softly and waved a hand. “No prank. Just… saw you all talking, and it reminded me of someone I used to be. That’s all.”

Still dazed, they shuffled to make room on the curb. Karina sat, folding her legs beneath her.

One by one, they shared their dreams again — a teacher, a designer, a streamer, a nurse. Each story, sincere and raw and wrapped in the kind of hope Jimin hadn't heard in too long.

She sat with them for a few minutes longer, just listening. Laughing with them. Letting herself forget the things waiting for her back home.

When they asked for a photo, she didn’t hesitate. She took the pictures, signed their trays with a pen the vendor lent her, and waved them off as they bowed over and over in thanks.

Karina resumed her walk, biting into the soft, spicy rice cakes as she went. She passed an ad board flashing their comeback visuals — her own face blown up ten feet tall, polished and perfect. She didn’t look at it long. She turned her gaze away before it reminded her too much of the version of herself the world expected to see.

Further down, she spotted the flickering lights of a claw machine arcade.

She stepped inside.

The soft hum of whirring motors and cheap pop songs filled the space. Rows of claw machines gleamed under cool fluorescent lights, filled with pastel plushies, K-pop merch, and candy sets.

Karina lit up for the first time in hours.

She exchanged bills for coins and got to work — eyes narrowing with each grab attempt, mouth twitching when the claw slipped just a little too early. She cursed under her breath. Then laughed. Then tried again.

No cameras. No weight of expectations. Just her, a metal claw, and a helpless plush keychain caught in the middle.

It wasn’t much.

But it was hers.

Fourth try — success. The claw trembled, but it held.

She laughed softly as the plushie dropped into the chute — a round, squishy peach-colored bear with little angel wings. She picked it up, holding it close for a moment.

Then, without meaning to, she whispered, “The girls would love this.”

She imagined Yizhuo hugging it to sleep. Minjeong makes a dumb pun about its wings. Aeri trying to steal it with that smug little smirk. Ning pretended it was hers all along.

Even out here, even alone, they never left her heart.

For a few fleeting minutes, she felt real again.

Time passed — she didn’t know how much. When her last coin clinked inside the machine, she finally sighed, smiling as she pocketed her prize — a small bunny plush.

Sighing, she packed up the two plushies in a paper bag from the front desk and stepped back into the cool air.

On her way home, she passed a PC bang. Just as she neared it, the door slammed open without warning. She startled, jerking back a few steps.

A guy her age, maybe a little younger, rushed out. His hood was up, eyes tired, clearly in a rush — but he stopped the moment he noticed her.

“Oh— I’m so sorry, I didn’t see— are you okay?”

Jimin nodded quickly, waving both hands to reassure him. “It’s okay, I should’ve watched where I was walking.”

He waves a short, awkward bow before hurrying down the sidewalk.

She watched him go for a second. There was something about his rushed, slightly panicked energy that felt familiar.

But she didn’t dwell on it.

She kept walking.

As she approached the dorm entrance, the warmth from the plushie in her bag faded into the chill of the night. She thought about what Harin had said earlier — the new manager recruitment, the possibility of someone new popping up again.

She didn’t let herself get too curious. Didn’t wonder too hard.

After all, how different could one more new face be?

She stepped inside.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------

The soles of his socks had memorized every inch of the floor.

Back and forth.

Corner to desk. Desk to window. Window to bed. Then all over again.

Y/N’s steps were restless, each turn sharper than the last, like the air in his room was thinning and the only way to breathe was to keep moving. His fingers raked through his hair for what felt like the hundredth time that day, muttering words to himself that only made sense inside his own head.

“Strong multitasking ability… fast learner… dependable, even under pressure… favorite food? Kimchi stew—no, that’s too random. Or is that good? Shows personality?”

He stopped pacing and groaned, pressing both palms to his face as he flopped onto the edge of his bed. The cracked ceiling above stared back, unsympathetic.

This was the tenth time today. Or maybe the twelfth. He’d lost count somewhere between “Tell us about yourself” and “Why do you want this job?”

"Hello, my name is Y/N. I'm currently a university student majoring in…" He cut himself off halfway, voice trailing into nothing. "No, no, no. That sounds like I’m reading off a script."

He stood again. Rolled his shoulders. Forced himself to look at the window across the room — not for the view, but for the faint reflection of himself in the dark glass. A silhouette barely held together. Still, he gave it his best attempt.

Confident tone. Open expression. Words that didn’t sound like desperation leaking through a paper-thin smile.

The truth was, he didn’t have time to fall apart.

Not now.

Not after the call that changed everything. That one call that gave him hope and new light.

This was the first real shot he’d had in months — the first reply that hadn’t ghosted him or slapped a “not qualified” label before even hearing him out.

The first real interview since everything began. The first opening that didn’t come with a “sorry, but…” attached to it. A chance, however small, to climb out of the hole he’d been sinking into for months.

It was probably a small matter to others.

But to him, it was everything.

Y/N sat back down, picking up the small stack of crumpled papers scattered on his desk — notes he’d scribbled in every spare moment since the call. Practice answers. Traits he thought sounded impressive. A few jokes that maybe, if the interviewer had a sense of humor, could land just right.

His hand shook slightly as he gripped the edge of the desk.

It wasn’t a job offer. It wasn’t even a second-round confirmation.

But it was hope.

And when hope’s all you’ve got left, even the smallest thread can feel like a lifeline.

He stared at the notes, then at the small clock in the corner of his desk. Almost midnight. He hadn’t eaten dinner, hadn’t showered, hadn’t done anything except rehearse the same lines on loop like a man stuck in a maze with only one possible way out.

He swallowed.

It had to go well. For him. For his father. For everything that was slipping further out of reach.

“Okay,” he whispered, sitting a little straighter. “One more round.”

And then he started again.

It all started with that one call.

Just one.

It was late, well past the time he usually silenced his phone and forced himself to sleep—or at least pretend to. The cracked screen of his ancient phone lit up the darkness of his room with a soft, ghostly glow. A number he didn’t recognize. He stared at it. No movement. No answer. Not at first.

He didn’t have the strength for this. Not tonight.

His thumb hovered over the reject button. But something—a feeling, a breath, a whisper only he could hear—told him to wait. To listen. A pull. Soft and strange, like the universe gently nudging him forward.

So he answered.

“Yeoboseyo?” a woman’s voice said on the other end, fluent and professional.

Y/N blinked, taken off guard by the Korean greeting. For a second, he didn’t know what to say. But his response came automatically, rusty but polite. “Annyeonghaseyo”

“Is this Mr. Y/N?” she asked, still in Korean.

His brow furrowed slightly. The uncertainty was already crawling up his spine, coiling in his chest. “…Yes,” he answered, keeping his tone simple, cautious.

“Thank you for confirming,” she said. “I’m calling from the HR department of SM Entertainment. We received a job application under your name recently, and I’d like to confirm—did you apply for a position with us?” She continued smoothly, asking whether he had submitted an application recently.

Silence.

Not on her end — she had just dropped the kind of news that usually makes people scream or gasp or break into a thousand thank-you’s. But Y/N was too stunned to respond. His mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out. It was like the words had been robbed from him, stolen by disbelief.

An interview? With an actual company? Not a scam email. Not a rejection notice. Not a robotic message thanking him for his interest followed by a cold “we regret to inform you…”

His mind didn’t know what to do with this information. After all the rejections he had received — after being turned down over and over again in recent weeks — he had built up a quiet wall inside himself, a defense mechanism that told him not to hope anymore. Hope hurt too much. Hope could turn into something cruel when it shattered.

So he said nothing.

The woman must’ve sensed his hesitation because she kept going with a kind, steady tone. “If you're still interested, I can send you the interview details by email shortly after this call. It will be a group interview session — we’ll be seeing multiple applicants that day.”

Y/N stayed quiet for a second longer. His heart wanted to leap. His body was already halfway out the door. But his mind clung to caution like a lifeline.

What if it was fake? A prank? Some kind of phishing scam? Technology was terrifyingly advanced these days — you could find someone’s email and name with minimal digging.

But then she said his name again. Gently. Pulling him out of the spiral.

And finally, Y/N gave a small nod, as if she could see it through the phone. “Yes… I’d like to attend.”

“Wonderful. May I confirm your email address?”

He confirmed it, repeating the awkwardly long handle he’d created years ago. The woman read it back to him with no hint of judgment.

“Do you have any questions?” she asked.

He wanted to ask a hundred things. A thousand. But everything in his chest tangled up on the way to his mouth. “No… I don’t think so.”

There was a beat.

Then, just as she began to thank him again, he spoke up. “Wait — sorry. One question.”

“Of course,” she said patiently.

“What… exactly is this job about?”

There was a brief pause, then a smile in her voice. “Ah, I thought you already knew. It’s a managerial position for one of our idol groups. You’ll receive more details at the interview.”

His lips parted again, but no new question came. That was enough.

“No more questions,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

The woman thanked him again, wished him luck, and the line went dead.

Silence filled the room once more.

Y/N lowered the phone slowly and just stared at it, at the cracks in the glass, at the faint reflection of himself on the screen. What had just happened? Was it real?

He stayed frozen like that for almost a minute.

Then, ping.

An email.

His heart skipped a beat.

His fingers trembled as he unlocked the screen, opened the mail app, and tapped on the new message.

His eyes scanned it quickly.

The logo. The address. The wording. Everything looked real. No broken grammar. No red flags. Just… legitimate instructions. A schedule. A dress code. A list of required documents.

The subject line read: Interview Invitation – Managerial Candidate

His vision blurred a little.

He couldn’t help it. A breathless, trembling smile broke across his face, spreading from ear to ear.

This was real.

This was really happening.

He was still cautious. Still not fully letting himself feel the relief. But some part of him—some deeper part—started to glow.

He stood up suddenly, his movements erratic, adrenaline flooding his system. Moments later he was suddenly at the dorm building. It almost seems like he is teleporting.

He practically flew down the hall, ignoring the judgmental stares of others in the dorm building as he sprinted up the stairs and threw open his door like a man possessed.

He dropped to his knees in front of the old laptop he’d borrowed from a classmate. He was supposed to return it by morning, but that could wait.

Fingers flew across the keys.

The company name.

Search.

Articles. Photos. Achievements. History. A global presence.

Y/N sat back in awe. Was this really the kind of company that had called him?

He smiled again, softer this time. There was something warm rising in his chest. Something he hadn’t felt in a long while.

And then his smile faltered slightly.

“Managerial job…” he whispered. “Why would they pick me for that?”

He had no celebrity experience. He wasn’t majoring in entertainment or business. Sure, he’d had some project work related to logistics and people management, but… that was it.

Still.

He looked down at the photo frame next to his bed. A slightly faded picture of him, his mom, and his dad, taken during better days. He picked it up gently, holding it like a precious gem.

“I got it, Mom. Dad…” he said, his voice barely above a breath. “I think this is it. I think this is the chance.”

He smiled again, this time through a slight sheen of tears.

“I just need you both to believe in me—from wherever you are.”

And the room, once filled with silence and darkness, now felt different. Warmer. Brighter.

Maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t walking in the dark anymore.

It was strange.

Y/N had always thought that receiving an interview offer from SM Entertainment—one of the most prestigious companies in the country—would bring relief. Joy, even. But all it did was make his stomach twist and his chest tighten.

He wasn’t ready. Not for this. Not for a job he knew almost nothing about, surrounded by people who were born and bred in this world. Managers, trainees, idols. All of them moving at a pace he barely understood, let alone could keep up with.

He read the email at least a dozen times, not out of excitement, but panic.

The words didn’t change.

We are pleased to invite you to the first-round interview...

Pleased? He wasn’t even sure if he had enough clothes to look “interview appropriate.” Was there a dress code? Would they ask him about K-pop? Artist schedules? The only thing he knew how to manage was stress—and barely that.

For the first time since arriving in Korea, he started to feel the weight of everything. Not just the job. Not just the expectations. But the gnawing sense that he was way out of his depth.

He stayed up that night staring at his cracked ceiling, repeating the same thought over and over again:

How am I supposed to do this?

He didn’t sleep much after that. For the next few days, his mind was split between anxiety and frantic attempts to prepare—except he barely knew where to start. Most online guides for manager jobs were vague at best or aimed at entertainment veterans. And asking someone? Not an option.

His only comfort in the mess of his thoughts was the small, worn-out smartphone resting by his side.

It was old—ancient, really—but it had history. A couple of scratches on the corner. A battery that barely lasted half a day. A hairline crack across the screen from when he dropped it during his move to Korea.

And yet he still kept it polished like it was something sacred. Because it was.

His father had bought it for him years ago—not from a store, but from a scrapyard seller who was about to toss it with the rest of the junk. Y/N could still remember the way his father had handed it to him, all smiles and proud eyes.

“It’s not much... but it works. I figured it might help you stay in touch while you’re far away.” He hadn’t even asked for a phone. But his father knew. Knew he’d feel alone. Knew he’d need a lifeline.

Y/N ran his fingers across the cracked screen that night, guilt and longing rising in equal measure.

Appa... if you saw me now, would you still be proud?

It had been raining on and off for the past two days. The sky remained a permanent shade of grey, casting a dull, heavy silence over the city. Everything felt slower—slower buses, slower people, slower thoughts. It was like the world was moving through water. And Y/N was drowning in it.

He had only one thing on his mind that afternoon: borrow a laptop.

The interview was getting closer, and he had nothing. No solid background in artist management, no professional guidance, and no reliable way to prepare. The borrowed laptop he’d been using had already been returned yesterday—because students were only allowed to borrow once a week. He knew the rules, but still, he had to try again. Maybe someone at the desk would understand. Maybe they'd bend the rules.

So he went. Even in the rain.

His umbrella was missing—probably left in a lecture hall two days ago—so he tugged his hoodie tighter around his head and jogged across the wet pavement toward the campus library.

Water clung to his jeans. His socks were already soaked through.

By the time he reached the library front desk, he looked more like someone who’d crawled out of a drain than a student preparing for a future. The student worker behind the counter barely spared him a glance before delivering the blow:

“Sorry, you’ve already borrowed this week. We can’t give out another one.”

“But I—I returned it yesterday. I just need a few more hours. Just today.”

“I’m sorry,” the worker repeated, tapping something on the screen. “The system won’t let us.”

Just like that, the conversation was over.

Y/N stood there for a moment, dripping quietly onto the carpet. He gave a tight nod, whispered thanks, and turned back toward the doors.

The rain was heavier now. He stepped outside and winced as the cold hit his skin again.

Defeated, he pulled his phone from his coat pocket to check the time and look up the nearest PC bang.

And then, just like that— it slipped.

Maybe his fingers were too numb. Maybe his sleeve snagged the edge. Maybe the universe just hated him today.

But the phone tumbled from his hand, hit the edge of the steps, and skittered across the concrete— before landing face-down in a wide, murky puddle at the edge of the walkway.

Splash.

Y/N’s heart dropped with it.

“No—no, no—”

He crouched instantly, fingers scraping through cold water and wet leaves as he fished the phone out of the puddle.

He wiped the screen with shaking hands, pressed the power button.

A dim flicker. Then nothing.

He pressed again. And again. Harder this time.

“Come on,” he whispered, chest tightening. “Please, not now…”

He pulled off his hoodie and used the driest part of the sleeve to wipe it again. Still nothing. The water had gotten in—deep.

He sank onto the wet steps, phone in both hands, staring at it like he could will it back to life.

It wasn’t just a phone.

It was the only way the company could contact him. It was the only thing connecting him to a world he was trying so hard to be part of. And more than that—

It was a gift from his father. The last one, given just before Y/N left for Korea.

This phone had traveled continents with him. It held every message, every call, every blurry photo and saved voicemail from home. It had survived his first semester, homesickness, cultural shocks, and lonely nights.

And now it was dead. Just like that.

He sat there in the rain, hood forgotten, head bowed. His legs ached. His hands were freezing. And his heart— his heart felt like it had cracked open quietly, the way glass does when pressure builds too slowly to notice.

This wasn’t just a bad day. This was the kind of day that made everything feel impossible.

He stared at the lifeless screen, chest still heaving with short, shallow breaths. Rain dripped from his eyelashes, his soaked hoodie clinging tightly to his arms. But the cold wasn’t what hurt the most.

His fingers traced the cracked edge of the phone, already chilled and starting to stiffen. A quiet ache spread through his chest—not just from the day’s misfortune, but from what the phone had meant to him.

His mind drifted, uninvited, to a night not too long ago. Back home. 2 days just before he left.

He was sitting on the edge of his old bed, luggage half-zipped beside him. The room was dim, only lit by the yellow glow of the hallway light seeping through the cracked door.

His father stepped in, hesitating for a second like he always did when emotions were involved. Then, wordlessly, he walked over and sat beside Y/N. For a long while, neither of them said anything.

Then his dad pulled something from his coat pocket and placed it in Y/N’s palm.

An old smartphone. The back was scratched, the screen slightly chipped in one corner.

“It’s a little beat up,” his dad said, voice gruff. “Bought it secondhand from a guy at the scrapyard.”

Y/N blinked, confused. “You don’t even use a smartphone.”

“I don’t,” his dad replied. “But you’ll need one. To call. To find your way around. To talk to us.”

He paused, then added more softly, “Just... don’t forget to call sometimes.”

Y/N had smiled and promised he would. He hadn’t realized it then, but that moment was his father’s version of saying I love you.

Now, sitting alone on a concrete step halfway across the world, Y/N felt like that promise had cracked with the phone screen.

He swallowed hard, wiping a hand across his face to brush off the water—or the tears. He couldn’t tell which anymore.

"I'm sorry, Dad..." he whispered.

He clutched the broken phone tightly in his palm, pressing it to his chest for a moment—like holding it close could bring something back.

Then he stood up, slowly, shakily, and looked out at the grey horizon.

He didn’t know how he'd get through the rest of the week without it. But he had no other choice.

Not anymore.

The PC bang wasn’t far, just tucked off a side street past a convenience store with flickering lights. When he pushed the door open, the blast of warm air, LED lights, and rapid keyboard clicking almost made him turn around. It was loud. Claustrophobic. Every seat was filled with people shouting into headsets, hunched over glossy screens with glowing energy drinks beside them.

Y/N hesitated at the counter, glancing up at the price list. He could barely afford two visits between now and the interview. He’d have to make them count.

After paying for a few hours, he quietly took a seat in the far back corner. He pulled out a worn notebook and the stub of a pencil, then logged in.

The screen lit up, and so did his brain.

He started researching everything—idol schedules, manager expectations, how SM Entertainment structured their artist support. He jotted down terms he didn’t understand to study later. His fingers trembled from exhaustion and cold, but he kept typing.

Around him, people shouted, laughed, and played. But he stayed quiet, steady, focused. He didn’t have a choice.

Time melted away.

Eventually, the screen blurred in his eyes. His shoulders ached from hunching over, and the notes in his notebook had become messier with each line. He rubbed his temple, finally admitting to himself that he was too tired to keep going.

He saved his work on a cloud platform, logged out, and packed his things in silence. As he approached the glass door near the exit, the night outside looked darker than before—colder, lonelier. He took a breath, gripped the door handle, and stepped forward.

But he pushed too fast.

The door swung open with a sharp motion—and nearly struck someone walking right past.

“Oh—!” Y/N froze mid-step, jolting back. “Sorry! I didn’t see you—!”

The girl in front of him had instinctively raised her arm to block the door. Her hoodie was pulled up beneath a black coat, casting her features in shadow, but her eyes were sharp and startled, lips parted in surprise.

“No, no—it’s fine,” she said, quickly regaining her balance. “I should’ve been looking ahead.”

Their eyes met—briefly. Just a second. But it was long enough to register the exhaustion on both ends.

Y/N bowed slightly again out of habit. “Still… sorry.”

The girl gave a small, polite nod in return. “It’s alright. Have a good night.”

“You too.”

And just like that, they passed each other.

He walked home in silence, eyes on the ground.

Tomorrow, he'll come back. He only had one more shot at this. One more night to prepare. And no matter how tired he was—no matter how small he felt—he would take it.

The alarm clock buzzed with a shrill, robotic ring, echoing through the dorm room like a countdown. Y/N’s eyes blinked open instantly, his body jolting upright before his mind could catch up. He stared at the dim ceiling for a second, heart pounding.

Today.

It took him a few seconds to remember why his stomach felt like a knot had been tied in it overnight. The interview. The only one he managed to land despite weeks of searching, the one shot that could change everything—and he was going to try to make it work after two full classes, with no phone, no safety net, no idea if he’d even make it on time.

He rubbed his face, let out a breath, and climbed out of bed.

The first class wasn’t difficult to sit through. The professor lectured with his usual slow, melodic tone, and Y/N managed to nod along and take some notes, even if his handwriting wobbled a little more than usual. Still, the class was bearable, the minutes ticking by at a steady pace.

But it was hard to focus.

Every time he glanced at the clock on the wall, he felt a rising pressure behind his ribcage. He double-checked his schedule, the company’s address, the bus routes—all from memory. He had nothing written down, nowhere to double-check except his mind.

And if his memory failed, that was it.

He left the class quickly once it ended, nearly bolting from his seat, muttering apologies when he bumped shoulders with someone on the way out. There wasn’t time to waste.

Then came the second class—and everything began to spiral.

It was a required seminar. He had no choice but to attend, or risk penalties. Worse, the professor was notoriously unpredictable, always veering off-syllabus, sometimes talking for twenty minutes longer than scheduled just to hammer home a single theory.

Y/N sat near the back, hoping the class would pass quickly.

But halfway through, the professor paused mid-lecture and frowned at the class. “Before we wrap today, let’s take a moment to reflect. I’d like each of you to write a short paragraph on today’s discussion and submit it before you leave.”

There was a collective groan.

Y/N’s throat tightened.

He scribbled something down, mind racing. It wasn’t good. It barely even made sense. But he handed it in and slipped out the door the moment the professor waved dismissal.

He checked the time on his watch.

He was already behind schedule.

The sky was overcast when he stepped outside, the cold air biting at his face. He jogged down the sidewalk, cursing under his breath, eyes darting toward the nearest bus stop. He had planned everything down to the minute: which bus to take, how long the transfer would take, the buffer he left in case of traffic.

But the moment he reached the stop, his heart sank.

The next bus wasn’t coming for another fifteen minutes.

He turned around, looking wildly for alternatives. There was no money for a taxi. Walking would take too long. And if he missed the interview completely—

No. He didn’t even want to imagine it.

The bus eventually arrived, and he got on with shaking hands, clutching the pole as if it were the only thing holding him together. Traffic crawled. He tried to stay calm. He tried to breathe. But every red light felt like a curse from the universe itself, every delay a cruel joke.

By the time the bus rolled into the nearest stop near SM Entertainment, the sun was already starting to dip low on the horizon.

He jumped off, heart hammering, and sprinted toward the company building.

Now standing in front of the towering glass structure, Y/N realized with sudden horror—

He didn’t know where to go next.

There was no front desk visible from outside. No clear signage. Just a few people loitering near the entrance, all of them looking too busy or too important to approach. His eyes darted from person to person until they landed on a trio of women near the glass doors. Two were chatting quietly while the third stood slightly off to the side, checking something on her phone.

Summoning the last of his courage, Y/N hurried over.

“E-Excuse me,” he said, voice slightly winded as he bowed. “I’m really sorry to bother you, but—” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket, the one where he had printed out the interview email in case he couldn’t access it digitally. “I have an interview today, but I… I got lost. I don’t know where I’m supposed to go.”

The woman—tall, sharply dressed, her lanyard catching the light—took the paper from him with a curious look.

Her eyes scanned the print. Her expression changed for the briefest moment—an almost imperceptible flicker of surprise—but she quickly masked it and glanced down at her watch.

“You’re running a bit late,” she said, voice calm. “But you might still make it. Come with me.”

Turning to the other two beside her, she gestured. “You two go ahead without me. I’ll catch up later.”

They nodded without question, continuing through the doors as she turned back to Y/N and motioned for him to follow.

They walked through the lobby in silence, her heels clicking lightly on the polished floor.

While they waited at the elevator, Y/N bowed again, this time more deeply. “Thank you so much. Seriously. I—I don’t even know what I would’ve done if I hadn’t run into you.”

His words came out quickly, almost stumbling over themselves, a little too earnest—but he didn’t care.

The woman gave him a brief sideways glance but offered a small smile. “It’s fine. Really. Not a big deal.”

“It is to me,” he murmured, almost to himself.

She looked ahead again, then extended a hand. “I’m Harin, by the way. One of the managers here.”

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh—! I’m Y/N. It’s really nice to meet you.”

“You too. You’ll do fine,” she said, just as the elevator chimed with a soft ding.

He wanted to ask more—something about the interview format, what they might ask, how many people were in the room—but the doors opened before he could speak, and Harin stepped in without pause.

They rode up in silence.

When the elevator opened again, she stepped out, turned to the left, and pointed down the hallway.

“That’s your floor. Take the first left and head all the way down. The interview room should still be open if you’re quick.”

He nodded rapidly, already half-walking backwards. “Thank you again. Really. I’ll do my best.”

Harin offered one last small smile. “Good luck.”

And with that, Y/N turned and ran.

At the end of the hallway, double doors stood wide open. The space inside looked like some kind of multipurpose conference room. But instead of a bustling group of candidates, he saw rows of chairs already pushed back into stacks, and a pair of staff members—janitors, maybe—were rolling up a carpet runner near the podium.

Too late.

His stomach dropped.

He stepped inside slowly, eyes sweeping across the half-lit room, heart pounding in his ears.

No reception table. No waiting candidates. Not even a visible sign with the SM Entertainment logo. Just leftovers. Like the party ended before he was even invited.

No… no, no. Please.

Before he could spiral, the door on the far side opened, and three people stepped out. Two men in suits, one woman in business-casual, still holding a clipboard.

Y/N’s legs moved before his brain could catch up.

“Excuse me!” he called out, voice cracking. “Excuse me—sorry, I… I know I’m late.”

They all turned to look at him.

He bowed deeply, nearly a full 90 degrees. “Please, just give me a minute—I’m here for the interview. I had class, the traffic, I got lost—” His words were a blur, his voice trembling. “I printed the email—I showed someone downstairs—I swear I tried everything to get here on time—”

One of the men looked at his watch with a tired sigh. The other glanced toward the cleaning staff, then exchanged a look with the woman. She didn’t look annoyed—more like wary. Cautious.

“I’m really sorry,” she said. “But we’ve already finished for the day.”

Y/N’s chest caved in.

No. He couldn’t let it end like this.

“Please,” he said again, stepping forward. “Just a chance. Five minutes. I… I know I don’t have experience like the others, but I prepared. I studied. I worked hard for this. Just one chance. That’s all I’m asking.”

They hesitated.

He could feel it—that thin line between rejection and possibility.

The woman tilted her head slightly, studying him. Her expression softened.

…

“Five minutes,” she finally said.

Y/N blinked.

“Just five,” she repeated. “We’re already over time.”

He nodded rapidly, bowing again with a flurry of thank-yous tumbling from his mouth.

They exchanged a few quiet murmurs among themselves, then the woman motioned for him to follow them back into the room.

The chairs were gone. The lights dimmed slightly. Just a long rectangular table at the front, with their papers still spread across it.

Y/N stood before them.

His palms were sweating. His shirt stuck to his back. He couldn’t tell if it was nerves or the sprint from the lobby—but either way, it was time.

The door closed behind him.

The interview had begun.

The room was still.

Three interviewers sat in a clean, intimidating semi-circle across from him. Not a single one looked particularly pleased to be there.

Their suits were sharp, their expressions sharper.

Y/N sat upright in his chair, trying to steady his breath. His hands—tucked into his lap—were slightly damp with sweat. But his posture didn’t waver.

The woman in the center, name tag reading Jinhee – HR, glanced up from his resume, her tone void of warmth.

“Why were you late?”

No greeting. No smile. Just that.

Y/N bowed from where he sat, low and respectfully.

“I’m very sorry,” he said. “There were... a few things that went wrong today. But none of them should be used as an excuse. I take full responsibility.”

A quiet scoff came from his right.

The man beside Jinhee—Mr. Nam, according to the nameplate—leaned back slightly in his chair, arms crossed.

“So, your first impression is this: irresponsible, late, and unprepared.” He stared at Y/N, deadpan. “Why are you even here?”

The words landed like a punch, but Y/N didn’t flinch. He paused, swallowing hard, then looked up and answered evenly.

“Because I believe I can contribute something of value here.”

Nam clicked his tongue. “You have no background in management. No experience. And you’re a student. What makes you think you’re better than the other twenty applicants we saw today?”

Y/N glanced down at his hands—open, trembling faintly—then back at the panel. His voice was low, but steady.

“I don’t think I’m better,” he said. “I think I’m different.”

That got their attention.

Jinhee blinked. Nam raised a brow, skeptical. The third interviewer—a younger man with soft features, Manager Seo—tilted his head slightly, more curious than annoyed.

“Different how?” he asked.

Y/N let a few seconds pass. He wasn’t here to bluff or sell a perfect image. So he didn’t.

“Most applicants probably came in with all the right skills, degrees, and training. I don’t have that.”

He met their eyes, each one of them in turn. “What I have is pressure. And a reason to keep going when things fall apart.”

Jinhee narrowed her eyes. “What exactly does that mean?”

Y/N hesitated, just a moment—then answered honestly.

“It means I’ve had to keep moving while everything in my life was falling apart. I’ve spent the last few months balancing school, part-time jobs, helping with family matters back home... all while living alone in a foreign country, with no safety net.”

He took a slow breath.

“I don’t have the ideal resume. But I know how to endure. I know how to take care of things under pressure. I’m used to being tired, behind, and afraid—and still pushing forward anyway.”

This time, the silence that followed wasn’t judgmental. It was thoughtful.

Y/N leaned forward—not desperate, but grounded in his truth.

“What I lack in credentials, I’ll work twice as hard to earn. What I don’t know, I’ll learn. But if what you need is someone who can stay grounded when things get chaotic, who won’t walk away when it gets hard… that’s me. Because I’m already living it.”

Nobody spoke for a moment.

And then the just moment moved on.

The woman on the left — the sharpest one so far — leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing.

"Let’s say you get the job," she began, her voice cool. "It’s been a rough week. The group’s schedule has been a mess, one of the members is having a breakdown backstage, and you're the only manager nearby. Fans are screaming outside, the stylists are late, and your head manager is unreachable. What do you do?"

Y/N blinked.

He didn’t respond right away. Not because he didn’t have something to say, but because he understood what this was. This wasn’t just a situational question — it was a trap. A test of composure. They were seeing if he would flinch.

He sat a little straighter, folding his hands on his lap.

“I think…” he began slowly, carefully, “…that the most important thing in a situation like that isn’t to fix everything all at once. It’s to decide who needs you most in that exact moment.”

There was a pause. The man on the right tapped a pen against his notepad, eyes not leaving Y/N’s face.

“You’d leave the rest of the problems alone?” the woman asked, skeptical.

“No,” Y/N said quickly, but still calm. “I’d prioritize. If a member’s having a breakdown, that’s a mental health crisis. That has to come first, no matter what. I’d get her somewhere quiet, stay close but not push. Just be a person in the room who isn’t panicking.”

“And what about the others?” the man pressed.

“I’d call backup while handling her. Or text whoever I could from the staff. After that, I’d start checking off whatever I can do. Stylists are late? I’d ask if we can prep the basics ourselves. Fans outside? I’d contact security or venue staff for help. But the key is not to freeze. Just… move. One step at a time. Let the member feel safe, and don’t let the rest fall apart while you’re at it.”

Another pause. It wasn’t heavy — it was quiet in a different way now. Even the pen stopped tapping.

The woman leaned back slowly. “You’ve never managed anyone before, right?”

Y/N nodded. “No, ma’am.”

“You speak like you have.”

“I just…” Y/N gave a small shrug. “People are people. You don’t need a title to treat someone like a human.”

One of the interviewers, the man who had been mostly quiet until now, finally looked up from his notes. He had a faint furrow in his brow as he leaned forward slightly.

"You speak well," he said, voice calm but edged. "And you clearly know how to navigate people. But…" He tapped his pen lightly on the table. “Don’t get your hopes up too high just because you can read people or say the right things under pressure.”

Y/N’s expression stiffened.

“This job isn’t built on kindness and instincts alone,” the man continued. “It’s logistics. Planning. Coordination. You’re expected to juggle scheduling conflicts, location changes, live broadcast windows, visa renewals, budget reports, vehicle routes, staff rosters, costume management, health reports, backup plans, emergency plans—sometimes all in the same hour. It’s high-speed, no-hand holding, no safety net.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “I understand. I know I don’t have all of that knowledge yet, but I’m willing to—”

“Yes, I know you’re willing to learn,” the man cut in, his voice even but firm. “But this isn’t a school.”

He leaned forward slightly, the table between them feeling thinner now.

“This isn’t a university class where someone teaches you from A to Z. We don’t have the time, or the luxury. It’s just work. Fast, chaotic, unforgiving work. You either pick it up as you go or you get left behind. And if you mess up…” He paused for a moment. “It’s not just your problem. It becomes the artists’ problem.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than anything so far.

Y/N didn’t have anything to say this time. He just bowed his head slightly, acknowledging the weight of the warning, letting it settle into his bones.

There was no silence this time — just a small, mutual stillness. One of the women let out a quiet exhale, almost like she’d been holding it in. The man nodded once, his gaze steady.

“Alright,” he said. “That’s all from us.”

Y/N stood quickly and bowed, deeper than necessary. “Thank you for your time. Thank you for letting me speak even when I was—”

“Go,” the woman on the left cut in, but not unkindly. “Before we all change our minds.”

He blinked. Then let out a quiet, shaky breath. “Yes, ma’am.”

Just as he turned to leave, Y/N paused and looked back at them.

“Ah—sorry, just one thing. My phone isn’t working right now, so… if there’s any update, could you please contact me through the email I applied with? I don’t have a backup at the moment.”

There was a beat of silence. The middle-aged man gave a small nod. “Noted.”

That was it. No smile, no comment—just a quiet acknowledgment.

Y/N gave a final bow again. “Thank you for your time.”

As he stepped out of the room, the hallway lights felt too bright, too white. He didn’t know what to make of what just happened. Didn’t know if he did well, or if he’d just embarrassed himself trying.

But he hadn’t backed down. He’d stayed honest. Said what he believed.

And as he walked away, unsure of what came next… that was the only thing he could hold on to.

As Y/N stepped out of the elevator and into the spacious lobby, his steps gradually slowed. The weight of the long day had started to settle into his shoulders, but something else tugged at his thoughts—something small, but persistent.

He hadn’t properly thanked her.

Turning around briefly, he glanced toward the hallway he came from, half-considering trying to find her again. But the place was a maze, and he didn’t even know where she had gone. With a quiet sigh, he made his way toward the front counter near the building’s entrance.

A woman sat behind the desk, typing something into her computer. She looked up as he approached.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“Uh… yeah, sorry.” He offered her a polite nod, adjusting his posture. “I know this might sound a bit odd, but… is there a staff member here named Harin?”

Her expression shifted into something between curiosity and caution. “And who are you?”

“My name’s Y/N. I had an interview just now, and… she helped me find the way. I was kind of a mess when I got here. I didn’t get the chance to thank her properly.”

The woman studied him for a moment, clearly debating whether this was some strange excuse or something sincere. After a beat, her expression eased.

“I think I remember. You two rushed through the lobby earlier, right?”

He nodded quickly. “Yeah. That was us.”

“What did you want exactly?”

“Nothing much, honestly,” he said. “I just… wanted to ask if you could pass along a message. Just to say thank you. For helping me, even when she didn’t have to.”

There was a moment of pause before she gave a small shrug. “Alright. I’ll let her know.”

Y/N let out a soft breath and bowed slightly. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

With that, he stepped back and headed toward the glass doors. The sky had dimmed outside, casting the street in early evening tones. And though the outcome of the day was still uncertain, there was a quiet sense of relief in knowing he had at least done this one thing right.

The moment Y/N stepped outside the building, it felt like the world finally gave him permission to breathe.

He tilted his head back slightly, took in a deep inhale, and let it out slow. The city was still buzzing around him—cars rolling past, conversations drifting in waves, horns and footsteps and life all moving on as if nothing in the world had changed. But something had shifted inside him.

That was when it hit him.

The exhaustion.

It came crashing down like a slow, heavy wave—no warning, no chance to brace for it. His legs felt heavier than they had a moment ago, his arms loose at his sides, and his mind buzzing with the dull hum of everything that had just happened. The sleepless nights, the rush to make it here, the stress, the ache in his feet from walking too far in shoes too thin—all of it had stacked up quietly behind his determination.

Now that he had nothing left to chase, the weight caught up to him.

He stood still for a long second, blinking at the sky. The clouds had deepened into a soft charcoal gray, swallowing what little daylight remained. People still hurried past him, brushing by with backpacks, coffee cups, business calls echoing from phone screens. But he felt… still. Like he didn’t quite belong in the motion anymore.

What now?

He didn’t know. He really didn’t. There was no sense of victory. No relief. But no defeat either. Just this strange, quiet blankness—the kind that came after giving everything you had and still not knowing whether it would be enough.

His fingers twitched slightly as he curled them into his palms. He looked one more time at the building behind him, then turned away.

He started walking—slowly, this time—blending back into the city’s rhythm, heading toward his dorm.

—-

By the time Harin reached the practice room, the sounds of idle conversation and warm-up stretches greeted her. The four members of Aespa were already inside, scattered around the room in their usual rhythm—Karina doing slow stretches by the mirror, Giselle sitting cross-legged and scrolling through her phone, Ningning humming as she adjusted her in-ears, and Winter, quietly tying her shoes by the wall.

Giselle looked up first when Harin entered. “Unnie, who was that guy you were with earlier?”

Ningning perked up at the mention, spinning around with interest. “Yeah, we saw you walking in with someone. Looked kinda rushed.”

Harin blinked, not surprised they caught it. “Oh, that? Just someone who asked for help. He was late for a manager interview.”

“For real?” Ningning tilted her head. “Was he Korean?”

“Not sure,” Harin replied as she stepped further into the room. “His Korean was decent, but his accent definitely sounded foreign.”

Karina, stretching her arms out, glanced over. “Was it for that opening you told us about? The one possibly for our team?”

“If I remember the paper he showed me right… yeah, I think so.”

Karina raised an eyebrow. “Can foreigners even join the management team?”

Harin shrugged as she opened her tablet. “It’s possible. Not common, but not impossible. That’s more HR’s call than mine.”

Giselle leaned forward slightly. “So the interview’s over?”

“Yeah,” Harin nodded. “All the candidates went in already. The team will evaluate everyone today or tomorrow.”

No one said anything after that. The room returned to its earlier calm as they each sank into their own space again. The quiet was filled only with the subtle scuff of sneakers on polished wood and the low hum of the speaker system booting up.

Harin settled into her usual spot near the wall, tapping through the schedule on her tablet.

Before she could focus, though, her eyes flicked to Winter.

The girl hadn’t said a word through the entire conversation. She wasn’t looking at anyone, wasn’t frowning or smiling—just calmly lacing up her shoes, almost detached. But Harin noticed. She always noticed.

She knew the reason why…. but chose not to hold onto it for long.

—-

A few days passed.

With each silent hour, the hope inside Y/N began to fade a little more. There had been no call, no email—nothing. And without a working phone, there wasn’t much else he could do but wait and wonder. Had they forgotten him? Or worse, had they already made their choice?

He told himself not to think about it. He had other things to focus on—classes, assignments, surviving day by day. So when the university’s computer lab finally reopened after maintenance, he slipped in quietly, found an empty seat, and logged in. The screen glowed to life.

First thing he did was check his email. Just another day, just another assignment waiting for him.

But then— His breath caught.

His eyes stuck on the screen.

An email. From SM Entertainment.

He froze. For a second, he just stared at it, heart pounding in his chest. A dozen thoughts rushed through his mind, each louder than the last. Then, with trembling fingers, he clicked it open.

Congratulations. After careful evaluation, we are pleased to inform you…

And there it was.

Words he had to reread. Once. Twice. Three times. Until they finally sank in.

He got it.

He got the job.

His chest caved in with a breath he didn’t know he was holding. A strangled laugh crawled out of his throat, mixed with something dangerously close to a sob. His hands flew to his face, clutching it like he could hold himself together just a second longer.

His shoulders shook. His vision blurred.

He wanted to scream. To cry. To collapse.

To run outside and yell it to the sky— That something finally went right.

After everything. After the sleepless nights, the empty stomachs, the quiet breakdowns, the way the world seemed like it was closing in on him—

He made it.

It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a maybe. It was real.

He whispered it to himself, over and over again, just to believe it.

“I got it… I really got it…”

For the first time in a long, long time— Hope didn’t feel like a lie.

…

To be continued... --

Notes,

Thank you once again for taking your time reading this story.

I just wanted to take a moment to sincerely apologize for how long it took to finally release this chapter. I know the wait has been long, and truthfully, this chapter didn’t turn out the way I hoped. It feels messy, a bit rushed, and far from my best work.

I’m also sorry for stepping away from this story for so long without any updates. Coming back after that break with a chapter that feels less than average is something I feel bad about—but I still wanted to share it, even if it’s imperfect.

Thank you so much for your patience, for reading, and for sticking with this story. I hope, despite everything, you still found something to enjoy in it.

More to come soon—hopefully better.

#aespa fanfiction #aespa x male reader #aespa x reader #giselle x male reader #karina x male reader #ningning x male reader #winter x male reader

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