#enough overthinking time to hit post

[chahnniesroom]

too close to home

pairing: none (platonic ot8 & female reader)

summary: as the only female of stray kids, you've always felt a little out of place. this comeback, the comments and criticism seem to hit a little too close to home and you start to think that maybe the group is better off without you.

word count: 8.5k

tags/warnings: 9th member au, hurt/comfort, angst, mean fans, anxious thinking, insecurities, overthinking

a/n: this is my first fic for my appreciation event! big thank you to everyone who has supported me and sorry this took so long to post.

special shoutout to @kangaracha who is basically the only reason i was able to finish this fic! she was my biggest cheerleader throughout my writing and if you would like to read an amazing 9th member fic, please please go read queenmaker.

where the heart is collection | read it on ao3 | masterlist

You had known from the start that it would be difficult being in a co-ed group. It was rare, especially in K-pop. But being outnumbered eight to one? It was unheard of.

You had been just as surprised all those years ago, when the company had pulled you into a room and offered you a position in the boy group that they were about to debut.

You had heard about the team that Chan had put together, every trainee had gossiped about how JYPE was trying something new with a self-formed team. You hadn't paid too much attention to it, you were busy enough with preparing for your own evaluations and the possibility of being included in what everybody had thought was a boys group hadn't even crossed your mind.

You had accepted the position almost immediately.

At that point, you had been a trainee for almost three years, but had only been considered for debut less than a handful of times. You knew with each line-up that hadn't worked out, you were closer to being forced to give up on the idea of becoming an idol. If you rejected the offer this time, you might not get another and you had been ready to do anything to achieve your dream. 

Plus, you knew there was a high chance that they'd drop you from the group anyway. The position brought a lot of interest to the group, but you knew the company would be watching closely to determine whether it was worth the risk or not. 

It had been a bit of a rocky start, but now the nine of you were close, you had to be when you spent most of your waking time together. You considered the boys to be your second family and you knew that they felt the same way. 

It was just that there was clearly a difference in the dynamic when you were and weren’t with the group. It wasn’t necessarily bad just… different. The boys never excluded you or made you feel like you weren’t part of the group and you had great individual relationships with each of the members. 

It was inevitable though, you had never shared a dorm with the group, especially earlier in your career when you were less familiar and it would have been entirely unacceptable. You knew that this was the main reason you didn’t feel quite as part of the group, there was just a level of closeness that was formed when you actually lived with someone.

Well, it was that and the nagging guilt because you knew that Chan had hand-picked every member of Stray Kids himself.

Every member except you.

While the members had promised that they were the ones who had the final say, you knew it wasn't quite what they had expected. All of you had been desperate to debut though and even if it wasn't ideal, nobody was going to say anything that might jeopardize this chance.

Still, you could tell that the boys did their best to include you and for the most part, they succeeded. Even early on when things had been a little bit awkward between you, they were fiercely protective. In interviews, they insisted over and over that they wanted you in the group and it had been nice to hear, even if you knew they were just saying it for the cameras. 

They frequently invited you over for dinner or just to hang out, but you couldn't help feeling jealous when it was time for you to leave at the end of each night. It wasn't anything you could change though, so you just tried to appreciate their company while you had it.

So when the company brings up the idea of new dorm arrangements, you're surprised and a bit confused when they don't immediately inform you of where you'll be staying and kick you out of the meeting room. You've never participated in the discussions that the boys have regarding roommates, there has never been any reason to. 

You're shocked by how easily things fall into place, even more so when Chan approaches you, asking if you'd feel comfortable living with him and Jeongin. They assure you that any of the pairings would be happy to have you stay with them though, and that they'd also understand if you preferred to live on your own.

You were hesitant at first. It had been out of the question when you had first debuted. Even if you and the boys had been comfortable with it, which you weren’t, the company would have totally rejected the idea of one girl living with eight boys.

Instead, their solution had been to force you to remain in the trainee dorm even after your debut which meant constantly listening to jealous girls criticize anything and everything about you. It had been exhausting, partly because you were getting used to balancing schedules with practice, but also because you couldn’t find it in yourself to be mad at them. You were all too familiar with the disappointment and frustration that came with watching the people around you succeeding.

You had briefly considered asking about sharing with the boys when the dorms had split in half because you knew you needed to get out of the toxic environment the other girls were creating, but then the company had offered you an apartment to yourself. It had been one of the easiest decisions you had ever made. 

It had been too good to be true, though. The apartment had given you the privacy that you had craved, there were a multitude of issues that almost made you miss being in the trainee dorms. Whether you moved to a new apartment on your own or into one of the dorms with the boys, you knew that it would be an improvement.

You’re curious what living with the boys would be like and honestly, you’re a bit lonely in your current apartment. It only takes a day or two of thinking before you confirm that you’d like to join them.

The moving process is quick too, at least for you. The boys offered to help you move, but you adamantly refused. Your place had been so tiny that you didn't have the space to store many things and you didn't like shopping that much anyway so all of your clothes fit into the couple of large suitcases that you kept under your bed. Since most of the furniture had come with the room, you were able to bring everything over to the new dorm before the boys had even finished packing.

It's hard to settle in at first. You don't have any siblings and have never had to live with boys so it takes some getting used to. Luckily both Chan and Jeongin are quite careful about being respectful of your space. 

It's also a relief that you get to divide up some of the housework that you used to have to do all on your own. Even though it's not too much, it's nice to have more time in your day for other things and the three of you have developed a system that works well and feels natural.

Chan is meticulously clean and although you don't think you're that messy, you’re more careful to keep things in the right place. The worst part is that you know Chan won't complain or nag you if you leave your things around, he just quietly cleans up your messes which makes you feel both touched and a bit guilty.

You have no regrets about moving in with them, especially when you start to get more busy. It's nice to be living with people who have the same or similar schedules to you so you don't have to worry about losing track of time and being late to things. 

Not only that, but you feel like you have more support. Jeongin reminds you to eat regular meals and Chan checks in when he notices that you're up later than usual. The three of you chat more than you did before and now have a number of different inside jokes.

You're especially grateful because you can already sense that this comeback is going to be hard on you. It's not the songs that have you concerned, all the recording finished smoothly and you're more than happy with how your parts turned out. You also really like the concept that's being proposed for the cover art and all the music videos.

It's the dance that's the problem.

As a trainee, you had always excelled in dancing and had actually had been assigned the role of main dancer in some of the girl groups that you were considered for. It made it especially hard to come to terms with the fact that when you had joined Stray Kids, you weren't even included in the dance line. You knew that your singing was nice and your voice added diversity to the group, but it had never been what you were most confident in and you felt inadequate compared to Seungmin and Jeongin.

But when it comes to this title track, it's especially obvious why you're not considered as one of the lead dancers. By lunchtime, everyone has memorized the moves, you included, but the choreography is definitely more suited for male dancers. No matter how much you focus on trying to match the style of everyone else, you're sticking out like a sore thumb. 

Most of the members take a short break for lunch, but you're determined to keep practicing and Minho is willing to coach you through the parts that you're struggling with the most. On a technical level, you're hitting most of the moves, but you still haven't been able to do a runthrough that doesn't elicit at least a few corrections. You can tell that Minho is running out of patience and you're even more frustrated than he is.

Luckily the rest of practice is working on the different formations and angles for filming the music video, dance practice, and future performances. The details are less important and everyone is mainly focused on not crashing into each other.

You try to sneak in as many solo practice sessions as you can, but by the time filming for the dance practice rolls around, you’re still not feeling confident. In fact, you’ve been dreading the schedule for days and you feel a little queasy every time you think about it. It's far from your first dance practice filming, but something about this one just feels more daunting.

The morning of filming, you force yourself to eat a decent breakfast, knowing that skipping it would just make dancing more difficult for yourself. Chan had woken up early to prepare a simple meal while you and Jeongin had helped set the table and clean up afterwards. You're a bit more jittery than usual and you're pretty sure both of the boys have noticed, but they don't comment which you appreciate.

Everyone goes through hair and makeup fairly quickly, there's no elaborate outfits and crazy makeup for a more casual video like this. Your bad feeling for today just worsens when you see that while the rest of the boys are in their usual loose fitting sweats and shirts, you've been given a tight fitting outfit that reveals a bit more of your midriff than you usually like to show off. Even though you can't deny that it's a flattering look, it just makes you self conscious, feeling like you stood out even more than you usually did standing beside the guys.

Determined to power through filming, you warm up as quickly as you can so that you can spend as much time as possible reviewing the moves with the rest of the boys before the crew finishes setting up.

Your stomach is a flurry of butterflies as you get in position to start filming, even though you know that usually the first try is a throwaway. Not only is this the first time filming for the day, but the group hasn't actually done a performance of your new single, only practices.

You monitor the recording carefully. There's a few things to improve with the camera angles and position, that was to be expected, but you still have the nagging feeling that something about your dancing doesn't match the rest of the group.

You try to make your movements bigger in the next run through, while still looking natural and staying in time with the music. It's not quite right though and each time you try again, there's more and more things that you're unhappy with.

You can tell the rest of the group isn't pleased with how things are going either. You've been doing this long enough that these dance practices usually only take a couple hours to record, but now it's been at least three and none of the takes have even been considered as a keeper. A few times you haven't even been able to make it to the end of the song before someone messes up.

Your choreographer is in the back of the room and although he hasn't explicitly called you out, you can feel his gaze on you the longer this takes. 

“Come on guys,” Minho complains after a short break. “Focus! Let's get it done this time.” You watch as his eyes flicker towards where you're standing for the faintest of moments as he says it. It feels like a blow to the stomach.

You hate disappointing people, you're only human after all, but something feels even worse when you know it's the other members that you're letting down. Especially when it comes to dance, because you've always wanted to impress Minho and his notoriously high standards. The guilt sits heavy in your stomach as you push through your growing fatigue and take your position in front of the camera again.

As soon as both the director and choreographer announce that you're finished for the day, almost everybody collapses on the spot. One-takes are always the most exhausting and everybody has to focus on keeping their movements sharp because it's extremely obvious when you aren't in sync.

You, on the other hand, make your way to the screens where they're showing the playback. Sweat is dripping from your neck and forehead and you absent-mindedly swipe it away as you watch. Someone drapes a small towel over your head and you look over to see that Minho and Hyunjin have crowded behind you to take a look.

“It's good,” one of the managers comments.

Instead of agreeing, Minho hums noncommittally. You feel yourself tense up.

“What?” the manager asks. “Don't tell me you want to do it again.”

“No, no, it's fine.” Minho says mildly. 

“We can do another take,” the director offers. From behind him, one of the camera people groans quietly. You try not to wince at the sound and only partially succeed.

“I think this is the best we're going to get,” Minho replies, before he turns and walks back to where his things are, effectively ending the discussion.

“Sorry for making everyone stay late,” you say quietly, bowing quickly before trailing after Minho. Hyunjin eyes you weirdly as he keeps pace.

“Why'd you say that?” he asks as he packs his bag.

“I felt bad that they had to stay so long,” you say, confused. “We normally tell them that if filming goes over.”

“No.” Hyunjin pauses his movement to study you. You can't help but shrink away, feeling a bit like a bug under a microscope “We normally thank them for their hard work. You made it sound like it was your fault.”

“It's just been a long morning,” you deflect. “Are you heading back to the dorms now?”

“Yeah.” He runs a hand through his wet hair, flicking sweat everywhere. “Have to shower and I have a bit of time before my vocal lesson. Want to head back together?”

“You go ahead first,” you reassure him. “I have a couple things left to do at the company so I'll stick around for a bit longer.”

“Sure. If you're finished early, feel free to drop by. We can have dinner or something together,” Hyunjin offers.

“Sounds good! I don't know if I'll have time, but I'll definitely see I can join,” you promise.

Lying always leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, but you know there's no way you're going to sacrifice time that you could be using to improve the dance just to hang out.

You stay late in the studio that night. Your only other schedule for the day is fittings for the music video and all the music shows, which finishes pretty quickly. Since you don't have much of an appetite anyway, you choose to skip Hyunjin’s dinner offer to continue practicing more. You had asked one of the managers to send you a copy of the dance practice and each time you replay it, the pit in your stomach seems to grow.

You lose track of time, picking apart each and every move to try and figure out what you're doing wrong. It's not until Minho knocks on the door and enters, startling you in the middle of yet another runthrough, that you realise how long you've been practicing.

“You still have so much energy?” Minho calls out as he walks closer to you.

“Just had a few things I wanted to fix up before I went home,” you explain in between breaths. 

“And?”

“And what?” you ask.

“Did you fix them?” he replies, raising an eyebrow as he scans your sweaty form and the empty room. “Have you been practicing this whole time? You've been here so long that even Channie-hyung went home. He asked me if you were at our place.”

“What? I-”

“It's almost 2am,” he says gently. “It's time to go home.”

“Can I do one more run through?” you ask sheepishly. “Actually, it’s good that you’re here, I just want to make sure-”

“You've been practicing long enough.” Minho's voice turns stern and he grabs your hand to lead you to the couch to sit. “Did you even eat?”

“I wasn't hungry,” you say quietly.

“Y/n-ah,” Minho scolds you. “You need to fuel your body if you're going to work it so hard, you know we've talked about this.”

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to practice more,” you say, staring down at your hands. You’re not allowed to pick at your nails since you just got them done, so you settle for fidgeting with one of the rings that you’re wearing. The sharp edges of the gemstones prick at your fingers but you can’t get yourself to stop. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I just couldn’t get the dance right today. We had to film it so many times.”

“What are you talking about, Y/n-ah?” Minho asks, bewildered. “We weren’t- you weren’t the reason we had to redo the dance so many times.”

You look up at him finally and don’t see any of the annoyance that you were expecting. The concern and genuine confusion that you find instead catches you off guard.

“What? But- On our fourth take during the second chorus, my legwork was so sloppy compared-”

“Hannie literally forgot which direction we were supposed to move and he almost knocked into me,” Minho interrupts. “There was no way we were going to be able to use the footage, that’s why we stopped early.”

“Oh, I didn’t notice.”

Minho taps a finger to his lips, deep in thought.

“Fifth take, well that was my fault, so we're not going to talk about that. Sixth try, Yongbokkie and Innie both missed a cue and crouched later than everybody else, that one made me want to pull out my hair.” He shakes his head.

“That’s when we took a break,” you realise.

“Yeah, we were hoping it would help us have a clean run. Jinnie had sweated through his makeup and needed touch-ups anyway.”

“I thought you guys were annoyed at me,” you say in a small voice. “You didn't seem happy with the final video.”

“It wasn't my best take,” Minho admits. “I kind of wanted to do it again, but I didn't want you guys to have to stay even later.”

“Did you even see yourself?” You reach for your phone and unlock it to show the paused dance practice video. “Look, I've been trying to copy how fluid you moved in this part. See there? I looked so stiff compared to you, it's awful.”

“Y/n-ah,” Minho says carefully. 

“And look at this move,” you say, skipping ahead a couple seconds. “I couldn't quite-”

You cut yourself off mid-sentence when Minho leans forward to pluck your phone our of your hands and throw it off to the side. You don't even fight him, just stare with wide eyes, scared of what he's going to say next. 

“You were fine, you did well. But even if you did mess up, it's okay. This dance is tiring, it's challenging. We all have bad days and it's okay to make mistakes.”

When you don’t say anything in response, he slowly moves closer and envelops you in a tight hug. You sniffle a little bit and when he starts to rub slow but firm circles onto your back, you can't stop the few tears that escape.

“Hey, what's going through your mind, huh?” he asks in a low voice. “Why are you being so hard on yourself?”

“I just don't want to let you guys down,” you say.

“Y/n-ah, you're not letting us down if we have to do a few more takes on a dance practice,” Minho says incredulously. “Is that all that's been worrying you?”

“Yeah,” you lie. “I was just nervous about filming the dance and disappointed when it didn't go like I wanted it to.”

“Silly girl,” Minho says, ruffling your hair affectionately. “You're doing just fine. It's okay to be nervous, but you don't have to be pushing yourself so hard. Come on, it's time to go home, we have an early schedule tomorrow.”

You follow him meekly as he leads you out of the building and to where a driver is waiting to take you back to your dorm. Even though you feel a bit better knowing that you weren't the cause of the schedule overruns, you're still not satisfied with how you're dancing, but you know that it's pointless to pick a fight. Not only is Minho just as stubborn as you, he's not afraid to bring in reinforcements and you'd hate for the rest of the group to catch on to how you've been spending most of your free time. They already have enough to worry about, the last thing you want is to add to that.

Moving forward, you don't stop practicing, but you do take more care to try and pretend that it's not eating up all your free time. You stop using your favourite studio, you know the dance so well that most of the time you don't even have music playing, and you make sure not to stay out late enough that it's noticeable.

You start to feel a little silly with how much time you've devoted to this, significantly more than the rest of the members, especially when the music video filming goes by without a hitch. By the time the Studio Choom video is filmed, you're a lot more confident about the performance and even starting to enjoy yourself.

The rest of the preparations for the comeback start to fly by, especially after the album announcement goes live. There's not a day that goes by that's not filled with different photoshoots or interviews.

Before you know it, the album is released and even though your schedule is absolutely packed, you spend all your free time reading through comments and reactions. Maybe it was cliche to say, but you really did treasure hearing from Stays and comebacks were always when you felt closest to them.  You especially liked being able to interact with them on a more personal level.

You were almost certain that you were the most active member on Bubble, you liked to send daily updates on what you were doing and reminders to Stay about maintaining their health. It did sting that you were also pretty certain that you had the least subscriptions and likely some of them only stuck around because you thought it was funny to send candid photos of the boys every so often.

You had always looked forward to fan signs the most though. Before you had debuted, you had loved seeing footage of the cute accessories, silly pick-up lines, and heartfelt messages from the fans. Not only that, but it was the only chance to speak to fans in person, even if it was only for a minute or two.

You were immensely grateful for everyone that supported you, but maybe it was your eager anticipation for fan signs that left you feeling so disappointed and empty. You had slowly grown used to Stays ignoring you for the boys, for always being the one that didn't receive any gifts to play with, for having the smallest stack of letters at the end of each event. But somehow you were always hopeful that the next time would be different.

Of course, it wasn't like you resented everybody else in the group. In fact, you were genuinely glad that they were enjoying themselves because they deserved it. They worked hard, were amazing performers and talented at creating music, and as a result, the fans loved them.

You, on the other hand, were just missing something, and it seemed that nothing you could do would change that. You had bounced through different positions, focused on vocals, dance, rap, music production, writing lyrics, and had enjoyed yourself thoroughly the whole time. If only the fans had liked it as much as you.

At least with fan calls, it wasn't as blatantly obvious that you were the least popular, least favourite member of the group. In fact, sometimes you were glad because you knew the boys often had crazy fans who had absurd or cringy requests while most of the time you spoke with someone who was politely feigning their interest.

It's almost funnier when the company sits you all down in the same room for the calls like they do today because you get to witness and subsequently tease the boys for the aegyo and silly poses they're forced to do. It's not like any of you can refuse anything the fans ask you to do, not with the staff breathing down your neck the whole time.

As expected, most of your calls are fairly generic and you're grateful for it. You have easy conversations about the album, which dances are your favourite, and you get to share some stories from the tour that you recently finished. You're maybe halfway through the calls when things start to take a turn for the worst.

“I even think that you would have done great as a solo artist! Are you thinking of releasing any solo music soon?” the girl that you're talking to asks excitedly.

“Oh, thank you.” You smile back even though the innocent question makes your chest ache for some reason. “I- well, solo music-” You take a deep breath to gather your thoughts. “I don't know about the future, but right now I really can't imagine releasing anything other than music as a part of Stray Kids. I love working and performing with the rest of the members and I wouldn't want to change anything.”

It's how you actually feel, but you can't help the way that your eyes dart over to check on the staff member that's supervising your call. You feel a bit better when you see their nod of approval and try to focus on the fan to finish the rest of the conversation.

Thankfully you get a quick break before the next call. You know the fan was probably trying to be encouraging, she had started off the call praising your skills and was probably just curious. Still, there's a voice in your mind that tells you that she'd prefer it if you weren't a member of Stray Kids. Or rather, she'd prefer that Stray Kids didn't have you in it.

You try to bring a positive mindset into your next call, but it's with a Stay that’s decidedly less interested in talking to you. You exchange greetings and make small talk until she seems to get an idea that makes her sit up straight all of a sudden.

“I have a question for you,” she says, eyes glinting in a way that makes you a little nervous, even though you're not sure why.

“Go ahead,” you encourage her because you're mostly feeling a bit relieved that she's finally showing some emotion other than boredom.

“Which of the boys would you say is best in bed?” she asks slyly.

You stare at her dumbly, thinking that you must have misheard her.

“Sorry,” you say, laughing uncomfortably. “I don't- I don't think I understand your question.”

“You heard me,” she scoffs. “What's the point in having you in the group if you're not sleeping with at least some, if not all of them?”

“No, I- It's not like that, I don't-” Flustered, you stare desperately at the staff, hoping they'll step in and end the call. Instead they just motion for you to continue. “I mean, we're close, but not-”

“If you want, you can just tell me your favourites,” she giggles, as if she's just asked you what songs on the album you liked. “It must be either Chan or Jeongin, if you decided to live with them.”

“No!” you exclaim.

“So it's not either of them?” she says, tapping a finger against her lip in thought.

“That's not the kind of relationship we have.”

Mortified, you find that you're tearing up a bit. You've heard the theories before, know that there's a lot of gossip and rumours because you're in a group of men, but you've never been outright accused to your face like this.

From the corner of your blurry field of vision, you see Seungmin wave bye to whoever he's talking to. He must hear the distress in your voice because he glances over, then does a double-take when he sees just how bad you're doing.

“What's going on?” he demands, stalking over. Before the staff can do anything to stop him, he leans forward and disconnects the call without a warning. “Why didn't you do anything, isn't it obvious that something’s wrong?”

“Y/n-ssi was handling it,” the staff member says. “It’s not fair to the fans if you cut a call short without reason.”

“No reason? Do you have eyes?!” Seungmin motions to where you're surreptitiously trying to blot away the tears without smudging your makeup. He's gotten the attention of everyone in the room now, even the members who are still in calls and have to pretend nothing is happening in the background. You can only hope that the phones aren't able to pick up anything being said.

“Min,” you say, voice barely above a whisper as you tug on his sleeve lightly. He glances back at you, eyes softening slightly. “It's okay, I'm fine.”

You're grateful that he's stood up for you, but all the scrutiny is getting a bit overwhelming. You just want to move on and pretend nothing happened because the last thing that you want is for the company to think you're a liability who can't even handle a nosy fan.

Seungmin crouches in front of you and studies you carefully. You're still clutching onto the sleeve of his sweater. You take a deep breath to compose yourself, then give him a watery smile.

“I was just being really sensitive today, I promise,” you plead. “Just let it go.”

He starts to say something, then cuts himself off, eyes watching something happening over your shoulder.

“Let's just take a quick break from the calls,” Chan says evenly. You didn't even notice that he came up being you and is standing behind you protectively. “We'll be back in 10 minutes.”

It's a command, not a suggestion, something that the staff would normally push back against, but for some reason they stay quiet, allowing the nine of you to filter out of the room unimpeded.

Nobody says anything until you find an unoccupied dance studio. Minho is quick to lock the door after you all pile in.

“Hey,” Seungmin says softly from where he's been stuck to your side. “You holding up okay?”

“Yeah, I don't know what happened. I'm fine now,” you say.

“Are you sure?” Felix asks from where he's sitting on your other side.

“Really, it was nothing,” you assure him.

“If you were upset, then it's something,” Seungmin insists. “We promise we won't think it's silly or anything. It's probably something we've all heard before anyway.”

You have to turn away from the way that he's looking at you with his huge, pleading eyes. But the rest of the group is also gathered around, concern lining their faces.

“She implied that the only reason I'm in the group is because I'm sleeping with all you,” you say stiffly, regretting it immediately when you feel both Seungmin and Felix freeze in place. “Which obviously is not true, so it's not a big deal.”

“Y/n, you know that's unacceptable, right?” Chan says slowly, through what sounds like gritted teeth. You finally tear your eyes away from where you've been staring at the patterns that you can see in the grain of the wooden flooring, to see that his jaw is clenched, neck muscles pulled tight. 

“Fans say inappropriate things all the time, it's not like I haven't read things like that before. It comes with the job.” You shrug.

“That doesn't make it okay. This is serious. You shouldn't have to-” Chan cuts himself off when he notices that he's started to raise his voice and just pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Listen, I know. I just- I don't want this to be a big commotion. It sucks, I didn't respond well, whatever, let's move on,” you say. “She's going to post about it online, but in a few days, nobody is going to remember anyway.”

“Hyung, can't we just end the call if they do anything inappropriate?” Changbin complains.

“You know that we can't,” you remind him before anybody else can say anything. “It's part of our contract.”

“I hate these stupid fan calls!” Hyunjin passionately declares from where he's sprawled out on the floor. “Channie-hyung, can we just cancel the rest of them?”

“Don't say that,” you scold him mildly. “You love fan calls the most out of all of us.”

“I love some of them,” he argues back. “But not if that's the way you're going to be treated during them. Plus, if another person asks me to call them mommy then I'm actually going to quit being an idol.”

“Ew, your fans are weird.” Jisung wrinkles his nose in disgust.

“They're your fans too!” Hyunjin shoots back.

“Okay,” Chan claps his hands together a couple times before things devolve further. “Unfortunately, we do have to continue with the rest of the calls and we can't delay things too much. It's time to head back.”

There's a bit of casual chatter as everybody heads back, but you can tell everyone is still feeling a bit tense. Seungmin only releases your hand when he absolutely has to and you squeeze a couple times before you let go to try and reassure him that you're going to be fine.

The second you sit down, a makeup artist descends on you, tutting her tongue when she sees that you've accidentally wiped away some of your eyeshadow. You obediently stay still, watching as Chan approaches your table too, stopping to lean down and say something in the ear of the staff member that has been monitoring you. The blood slowly drains from her face and she nods rapidly in agreement with whatever he tells her. He claps a hand on her shoulder and even though it's a light and friendly gesture, you can see the way she flinches slightly.

You raise an eyebrow when he looks your way and he just smiles innocently in return and makes his way back to his seat. You don't comment, not even when you notice that the staff's fingers are trembling so hard that it takes her a couple tries to connect you to the next call. You know that it's not her fault, she's just following instructions from the company after all, but you're not feeling very sympathetic at the moment.

Instead, you just try to focus and take on an upbeat persona in the hopes that nobody realises how upset you truly feel. You're hurt and a bit wary of what the fans might do next, but you don't want to take it out on the people who haven’t done anything to you yet.

Fortunately, the rest of the calls are rather uneventful and you leave the company feeling drained, but not as terrible as you had expected.

You spend the rest of the day thinking about what you could have done differently, how you could have handled the call more gracefully, what kind of answer you should give if something similar ever happens again. But no matter what, you just get stuck pitifully thinking to yourself that it's not fair, you shouldn't have to deal with these kinds of questions in the first case. You're sure the company will give you a briefing and some scripted lines tomorrow anyway, so it's probably for the best that you just try to pretend nothing happened at all.

That evening, you try your best to avoid social media, but you knew that some of the other boys had seen videos based on the stormy expression on Jeongin's usually smiley face when you got home and the way that Chan comes back from the gym with more bruises than usual from his boxing session with Minho and Changbin.

They never say anything, but they have been extra careful around you. Chan has brought home your favourite takeout without you asking and Jeongin jumps up to clean up the second that everyone has finished eating. After you decline to watch a drama with them, you can hear one of them pacing past your bedroom every few minutes, pausing right outside your door before continuing on.

You have just decided to muster up the courage to actually watch the recording of the video, it was embarrassingly easy to find one, when Seungmin video calls you. You immediately click away from where your own stupid looking shocked face is paused on screen to answer because you know Seungmin knows that you prefer to text unless it's an emergency.

“Hey,” you greet him warily. “What's up?”

“Felix is trying to kill me,” Seungmin complains.

“What now?”

“Just look!”

Seungmin changes to his back camera to reveal their kitchen, which is littered with baking supplies and seems almost hazy for some reason.

“Is that smoke?” you ask, sitting up in bed.

“I said not to film!” Felix's voice comes from somewhere outside of the frame. Seungmin pans over dizzyingly fast to show where he's crouched in front of the oven, streaks of flour smudged on his clothes and in his hair.

“I'm not filming,” Seungmin comments, unbothered by the fact that Felix is pulling out a pan of what looks like they should be cookies but look alarmingly similar to lumps of coal. “I'm on a call. Show Y/nnie what you made,” he prompts.

“What?? Noooo,” Felix whines. “Y/n don't look!”

“What are those supposed to be?” you laugh.

“I wanted to make something to cheer you up,” Felix says miserably. Seungmin cackles, moving the camera closer so that you first get a close-up of Felix's face, then a better look at the burnt baking sheet. You keel over, stomach starting to hurt from how hard you're laughing. “I was trying to clean up while they baked and didn't hear the timer go off.”

“Well I appreciate the thought,” you say, when you can finally catch a breath. “And you definitely succeeded in making me feel better. Didn't the fire alarm go off?”

“We just got it to stop,” Seungmin says, switching the camera so that you can see his face again. “It's freezing in here now, we had to open all the windows to air out the place.”

“You poor things,” you coo, leaning back onto your bed now that you aren't concerned that they're in immediate danger. “Do you want to come over to our place?”

“I want to, but someone has to make sure that sunshine over here doesn't burn anything else.” Seungmin rolls his eyes, making you laugh again. You hear Felix yell something in the background. “I just wanted a witness in case I don't make it to our schedule tomorrow. I think I gotta go.”

“Yeah, I think you'll be busy cleaning up the rest of the night. See you tomorrow!”

You end the call, plunging your room back into darkness. You lie on your bed for a few moments before unlocking your phone again.

Even though you knew that it wasn't wise, like clockwork you found yourself scrolling through social media after every comeback. It used to be worse, when you had been living alone and would spend countless hours curled up on your tiny bed, face only illuminated by your phone. 

The rest of the members all know that you had private social media accounts, they all had them too even though you technically weren't allowed to. What they didn't know was how many nights you had wasted away, watching funny compilations, reaction videos, and analysis of performances. Sometimes, it even felt like you were subconsciously searching for the negative comments, wanting to understand better the mindset of the haters.

It was an old, but bad habit, so you had tried your best to stop once you moved in with Chan and Jeongin. But tonight you just couldn't sleep. After wandering into the kitchen to get yourself a glass of water, you end up getting distracted by your Youtube recommendations.

You don't know what kind of strings the company pulled, but by some miracle, there's no clips of your disastrous fan call circulating any more, although there were still a lot of people talking about it.

There had been mixed comments. Some of the clips had excluded the terrible questions and people commented on how bad your media training must have been, but a majority of people were furious on your behalf and complained about how out of bounds the comment had been. 

You should be relieved that the videos have been taken down and you are to a certain extent, but just a couple days ago the dance practice that haunted you had been posted. Just one more thing to worry about. As you feared, while a majority of the comments were nice, there's already people picking apart your performance, comparing you to the boys. 

You click from one comment to another, then move onto fan made videos, inevitably falling down a rabbit hole of the many edits that exist where you had been cropped out or digitally removed. It was almost mesmerizing, watching videos of how well the group worked without you, how natural it looked to see what it would have looked like if it was just the eight of them. Some nights, you could almost forget that the edits were exactly that, edits and not the reality.

“Hey,” Chan interrupts. He is obviously trying his best not to scare you, but you were startled anyway, dropping your phone on the counter. “What are you up to so late?”

“It's nothing,” you said quickly, fumbling to lock your phone so that he can’t see the video that’s playing, but Chan had scooped it up before you had the chance to pick it back up.

“What's this-” You could see the moment that he pieced things together, the way that even in the dim lighting you could tell how his brow had furrowed and his hand had tightened around your phone. “How come you're not in these videos?”

“Hm?”

“You were definitely in this performance,” Chan says, studying the paused screen. “You're supposed to be… They removed you.” He finally realises with horror. “Why are you watching garbage like this?”

“I just want to know what Stay are thinking.” You shrug. “I saw this video and couldn't help but watch. It’s not a big deal, I was just curious.”

“They're not Stay if they're not supporting the whole group!” Chan startles you with the sharpness of his voice. He catches sight of your wide eyes and softens his tone. “Sorry, I just hate akgaes and seeing these kind of posts.”

“Oh come on,” you say. “You're telling me that you've never thought about what the group would be like if you weren't being dragged down by me?”

“Dragged down- Y/n-”

“Don't lie to me, oppa. I know you've seen what people are saying about the group, about me. Have you seen some of these edits? Stray Kids looks good as eight,” you admit.

“I’m not lying! None of us would want to be making music or performing without you,” Chan insists.

“You don't have to say that just to not make me feel bad.” You shake your head.

“We’ve been together from the start, why would I have chosen you to be a part of Stray Kids if I didn't actually want you to be on the team?” Chan asks, sounding frustrated, but also genuinely curious.

“Because the company added me to the team at the last minute?” you say, as if it's obvious. Because to you, and basically everybody else, it is. “I know I wasn't part of the group that you picked. It's okay-”

“What are you talking about? You know that I chose you too, right?” he asks slowly. 

“But the company-”

“They couldn’t have just added you to the group without our say.”

“No, I know that you guys agreed it to, but-”

“Y/n-ah, we didn't just agree to it. They told me they wanted us to consider adding a female member to Stray Kids. We thought about it and said yes. I was the one who wanted that member to be you.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded. 

“What?”

“Why are you so surprised? I saw your evaluations, you were one of trainees strongest in dance, probably the only one that could keep up with us, your singing has always been stable, and I know that based on your personality and work ethic, you would get along well with the rest of us. It was the obvious choice.”

“Oh.” Is all you can say, mind racing.

“You really thought the company just added your name onto the roster and we went along with it?”

“I don't know, I guess so?” you say sheepishly. “I was just so grateful to debut, it didn't matter at the time. It felt so out of the blue.”

“You know that one of the reasons that JYP didn't have you on that many of the girl group line-ups was because he was considering making you a solo artist, right?”

“Huh? There's no way,” you immediately deny. “Nobody ever mentioned that-”

“He told me when I brought up your name to add to the group. I guess they never wanted to get your hopes up.”

“I thought they were going to drop me soon,” you admit, scratching at the back of your neck. “I uh, I thought maybe I would do at most one more year of training and then move back in with my family. I had even started filling out university applications to keep my options open.”

“Y/n, you were consistently having amazing evaluations, you were being praised so much by everyone. Why would you doubt yourself?”

“Three years as a trainee and nothing to show for it. You know what it was like, how hard it was to see people come and go. It didn't matter how great my evaluations were if I never got to debut.”

“But-”

“Don't tell me that you never thought about quitting. Oppa, I thought that you of all people would understand what it was like.” You hate the way that your voice cracks.

“I thought about it all the time,” Chan says. “Sorry, I didn't mean it like that.”

“It's fine,” you mumble.

“Y/n-ah,” Chan asks tentatively, like he's afraid to learn the answer. “All these years that we've been together, did you really think we didn't want you?”

“Yes? Well, not really. I didn't think you guys disliked having me in the group per se, I just always thought that maybe you would like it more if I wasn't? And I guess it didn't help that there are a lot of people who thought the same way.”

“I'm sorry we didn't reassure you more.” Chan runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “How did we not see that you felt this way?”

“Because I didn't want you to? It's not like it was your fault anyway, I was just overthinking.”

“You know we're going to have to make it up to you, right?” Chan says, looking a little mischievous. 

“Oh please no,” you say, backing away nervously thinking of how much coddling and smothering you're about to endure. You're pretty sure you're already one of the members that's doted on the most. “Things are good as they are.”

“Nope, I refuse.” Chan approaches you, reaching out and catching your wrist so that you can't get away. “We're going to give you so much love that you're not going to doubt yourself ever again.”

“No!” you squeal, trying to tug away from his grip. “I already-” 

The rest of your sentence gets cut off as Chan pulls you into an embrace and your face gets smashed against his shoulder. He squeezes you tightly and contrary to your words, you just relax into his hold.

“What are you guys doing? You're being so loud.”

Both you and Chan freeze, then turn to stare as Jeongin shuffles into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes with his hair all mussed up. You turn back to Chan for a second before he replies.

“Just having a bit of a heart to heart, Innie. Come here, join us,” he invites.

“Ugh, why would I want to hug either of you?” Jeongin complains, wrinkling his nose before immediately walking over and enveloping both of you in his arms.

Even though you know you're going to have to leave for a schedule in a matter of hours, with both Chan and Jeongin's arms wrapped tight around you, you feel lighter than you have in months. You feel secure, at ease, and finally, like you've found a home in these boys.

where the heart is collection | read it on ao3 | masterlist

[vibeswithdivs]

you dork - OP81

It had been over eight hours since the race ended.

You knew that because you’d rewatched the post-race interviews three times, counted two full cycles of the dryer, and checked your phone at least thirty-four times, give or take. You weren’t one to overthink — usually. But today felt different.

Oscar had won.

And not just won, but swept it. Controlled the race with the kind of quiet precision that always made your chest ache with pride. He’d been smiling on the podium, champagne soaking his fire suit, curls matted to his forehead. He’d looked calm. Steady. Golden under the lights.

But after that? Radio silence.

No post-race text. No selfie from the cooldown room. No “just landed, talk soon” message from the tarmac like he usually sent before flying out. Not even a little heart emoji.

You tried not to spiral. Maybe his phone died. Maybe his schedule was tighter than usual. Maybe he just crashed on the plane.

But that didn’t stop your mind from racing.

So here you were, long after midnight, folding laundry to stay busy, the hum of the dryer filling the quiet corners of your apartment. You wore one of his old hoodies — sleeves tugged past your hands, the fabric smelling faintly of cedarwood and the detergent he always used when you were back in his place. Your playlist was on shuffle, volume low. The air felt heavy with that nervous stillness only people in love understood — when nothing had technically gone wrong, but your gut whispered otherwise.

You picked up one of his t-shirts — the navy one he always wore under his race suit — and pressed it to your chest for a moment, your arms wrapped around yourself.

“I’m being ridiculous,” you muttered aloud, dropping it into the folded pile.

You didn’t hear the door unlock.

You didn’t hear footsteps.

You did, however, feel the sudden presence behind you — a weight of silence far too close — and just as you turned, a pair of arms wrapped around your waist.

You screamed.

Not just a startled yelp — a full-body, I’m-being-kidnapped kind of shriek that echoed off the kitchen walls. You stumbled forward, almost dropping the laundry basket, spinning on your heel with your hand already flying toward—

Oscar.

Standing there, arms half-raised, a startled look on his face, mouth already halfway through an apology.

“God—Oscar!”

He winced. “Okay, okay, I deserved that.”

“Are you insane?! You don’t just—” You clutched your chest, heart thundering. “You don’t sneak up on people like that when it’s pitch-black and no one’s heard from you for hours!”

His expression immediately softened. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t text me. At all.”

“I know.” He dropped his bag by the couch, stepping forward slowly like he was approaching a spooked deer. “I turned off my phone to sleep on the flight, and then we got delayed on the runway. I just… I wanted to surprise you.”

You were still frozen, hands slightly trembling, adrenaline high. But then — your eyes traced the details. His soft grey hoodie. The carry-on bag he always used. Hair flattened from headphones. The bags under his eyes.

And then it hit you like a wave — the kind of quiet relief that makes your knees weak.

“You’re home,” you whispered.

“I’m home,” he echoed, stepping close enough to pull you in.

This time, when his arms wrapped around you, you didn’t flinch. You collapsed into him instead, burying your face in his chest, clutching handfuls of hoodie fabric like it might vanish if you let go.

“I thought—” your voice cracked. “I thought something happened.”

“I’m sorry, love.” His voice was low, the apology real. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

You nodded against him, still not letting go.

He pressed a kiss into your hair, one hand gently rubbing your back in slow circles. “I missed you.”

“You scared the shit out of me.”

“I know. I’m never doing a surprise visit again.”

“You say that now,” you muttered.

He chuckled, and the vibration of it through your chest finally loosened the tight knot of worry inside you.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes narrowed. “You really thought sneaking in like a serial killer was romantic?”

“I had a key,” he said defensively.

“Oh, well, that makes it totally fine,” you deadpanned.

His lips twitched, and he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I brought snacks?”

You sighed and rested your head against him again. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I get that a lot.”

After a long pause, he murmured, “Were you folding laundry in my shirt?”

“No.”

He glanced down. “That’s literally my race tee from Austria.”

“Coincidence.”

He smiled and gently swayed you both side to side. “God, I missed this. All of this. Even you accusing me of crimes I didn’t commit.”

You looked up at him with a glare. “You broke into my house like a raccoon.”

“An adorable raccoon with good intentions.”

You bit back a laugh, finally exhaling the tension that had gripped you all night. “You dork.”

“I love you too.”

That stopped you.

Your eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the ease of his voice — not dramatic, not grand, just matter-of-fact, like it had always been true.

You smiled, shy and slow. “I love you more.”

Oscar brushed his knuckles down your cheek. “I thought about this moment the whole flight home.”

“What, the part where I nearly sock you in the face?”

“No,” he grinned. “The part where I hold you like this. And breathe again.”

You melted then, fully, completely. No more fear. No more what-ifs. Just Oscar, in your living room, smelling like airport coffee and victory, arms around you like home.

You didn’t move for a while.

Eventually, he helped you finish folding the laundry — sort of. Mostly, he sat beside you, making fun of your folding technique and draping socks over your head until you threatened to tickle him.

Then you ended up on the couch, tangled in blankets, watching reruns of the very race he’d won, Oscar making commentary like a sarcastic broadcaster while you curled into his side.

And when you finally drifted off — warm, safe, loved — it was to the sound of his heart beating steadily beneath your ear.

He was home.

He was yours.

[yoyomomiko]

Hi Miko, I've been reading your one piece posts and absolutely love how you write the characters! I loved your oblivious reader headcanons, but I wanted to request kind of the opposite - how would Luffy, Sanji and Zoro react to a reader that makes the first move and kisses them first? Thank you 🥰💕

pairings: monster trio x female reader

cw: not proofread, probably contains grammar mistakes, english isn't my first language!!

— (a/n): hiiii!! i'm very sorry for not posting, I've got a lot of requests and i hope I'll get to write them all ^⁠_⁠^ also, I SWEAR I don't have a favourite (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠) -> m.list

— LUFFY

Luffy is so straight forward that a lot of flirting just goes right over his head. You could be batting your eyelashes, throwing hints, or playfully touching his arm, and he'd just grin at you, not having a second thought.

He's naturally touchy with his crew, so when you start getting more physically affectionate, he just kinda rolls with it. Leaning on him? He'll lean right back. Holding his hand? He'll swing it playfully.

The realization hits... Late. You make a habit of teasing him, leaning in close when you talk, poking his face when he pouts, and even calling him cute. After a lot of punches from Nami and disappointed sighs from Usopp, he tilts his head and just goes "Are you flirting with me?"

Luffy starts leaning in close, just to see if you'll back away, and he literally COPIES your every move.

"Does this make your heart race too?" In the most innocent way possible.

You think he's immune to embarrassment, until you pull a bold move and trace his jaw with your fingers. "I bet you'd taste sweet." He actually pauses, eyes wide, and a faint pink tint covering the tip of his ears.

When you finally go in for the kiss, you catch him mid laugh. His eyes widen, and probably for the first time ever, he's speechless. Luffy, the king of energy, is frozen like a statue.

His hand almost instinctively catches your waist, holding you close. You pull back, watching his expression shift from shock, to realization, to a big, goofy grin.

"Do it again!" He doesn't even hesitate before grabbing your face and closing the distance again, kissing you back. Zero hesitation.

After this, he just kisses you whenever he feels like it. Mid conversation? Smooch. Stealing food? Smooch. Looking at him funny? Smooch.

He literally tells the whole crew. No warning, no build up. Just a proud declaration while you stand there, face buried in your hands.

You belong to his crew, but now you're his in a way that makes him extra protective. He wraps his arms around you randomly, pulling you close, his stupid, big grin plastered on his face.

He starts challenging you to kiss attacks. If you surprise him, you win. If he catches you trying, he flips it on you.

Luffy doesn't get embarrassed easily, but he does get attached. Expect him to be glued to your side, smiling like you're the best treasure in the world.

There's no overthinking with Luffy, he just likes being with you, loves that your bold, and will 100% support more surprise kisses in the future.

———☆

You're sitting on the deck with Luffy, sharing a plate of snacks, when you decide you've had enough of his cluelessness. He's laughing about something, something dumb, something that shouldn't make your heart race.

So, without a second thought you lean in and close the distance, pressing a firm kiss to his lips. It's quick, but it's just enough to make Luffy's breath hitch and heartbeat increase.

Luffy blinks at you, his usual bright eyes wide in surprise. He's touching his lips like he's processing the sensation for the first time. Then, slowly, a huge grin spreads across his face.

"Whoa!" He lets out a shaky exhale, and then he grabs your hands, bouncing excitedly. "Do it again!"

"Maybe later." You laugh, shaking your head. He was getting so excited over a simple kiss, and you couldn't help but feel your heart skip a beat at the way his touch felt on your skin.

"Later?! But I wanna do it now!" He doesn't wait, just leans in and captures your lips in another quick, excited kiss. Now, you're the one blushing.

— ZORO

Flirting with Zoro is like flirting with a wall, at least at first. He doesn't react to subtle touches, teasing smirks or even playful winks. He just raises an eyebrow like, What are you doing?

"You're acting weird." You lean in, fingers trailing over his wrist as he tenses, although not pulling away. "I'm just being friendly." "That doesn't feel friendly..."

The moment he does realize you're flirting with him, he goes completely still. His grip on his swords tighten. He legit looks like he just got challenged to a duel.

"Tch, like I care." But then he starts noticing everything. The way you look at him, the way your hand when you pass him something, the way you bite your lip when you tease him.

Zoro acts all cool, but inside? His heart is beating faster, and he doesn't know why. Literally internal panic.

One day, you brush your fingers along his jaw. "I bet you'd look good, all flustered and blushing." He visibly stiffens, eyes darting away. "Shut up." Oh, so he can get flustered.

You finally go for it, grabbing his collar and closing the gap, pulling him in for a kiss. He doesn't react at first, he's too shocked to move a muscle. Then, his hands grip your waist, pulling you just a little closer.

He's not as unaffected as he pretends to be. He exhales slowly, his breathing controlled. But you can feel the slight shake in it, the way his hands tremble slightly and the way his muscles tense.

Zoro pretends it's no big deal, but later, he tilts your chin up and kisses you again. Slower, deeper, like he's trying to memorize the feeling of your lips on his.

He's not big on PDA, but his protective streak triples. Arm around your waist? Always. Pulling you close when someone stares too long? Every time.

He doesn't say sweet things, but his actions scream it.

He still gets caught off guard when you tease him. A kiss on the cheek, and his ears turn red. Whispering something flirty, and his jaw tightens.

Zoro likes a challenge, and now that he's aware of you, he starts fighting back. He corners you and smirks if you get flustered.

He will DIE before admitting how much he likes it.

———☆

Zoro is training, sweat glistening on his skin, swords balanced in a way that makes him look damn near untouchable. You've been teasing him all day, dropping little hints, getting close... But he's been brushing you off, pretending it has no effect on him. Until now.

You walk up to him casually, hiding your smug smirk, standing just close enough for him to feel your presence. "Bet I could throw you off balance."

"Tch, you wish." He fights the urge to roll his eyes, the way his words came out was almost as if he was daring you to try.

Your smirk widens as you step closer to him. Before he could react, you grip his collar, tug him down, lips colliding into each other as you press a confident kiss on his lips.

He freezes. His whole body tenses like he's been struck by lightning. When you pull away, his breath is heavier, and there's a slight pink tint decorating his cheeks.

He glares at you, the grip on his swords tightening. "That was dirty..." He mutters, still trying to calm himself down.

You tilt your head to the side, still smirking. "Did it work?" You taunt him, trying to hold back your laugh, watching his flustered expression carefully.

Zoro exhales slowly, before grabbing your wrist, yanking you back in for another kiss. His lips crashed against yours, and you could feel his smirk pressing against your mouth. This one's deeper, hungrier. When he finally pulls back, a smirk forms on his lips.

"Yeah. It worked."

— SANJI

Sanji flirts with everyone, but when you do it back? He's done for. He's absolutely weak from the start. He nearly drops his cigarette every time you touch him.

"What's wrong, sweetheart? Cat got your tongue?" And he instantly covers his mouth, trying to hide his nosebleed and the way his face turns 50 different shades of red. He short circuits instantly.

He flirts dramatically, and you flirt right back, leaning in close, tracing his jaw, calling him pet names. His whole face BURNS.

You catch him off guard with a soft touch to his cheek, and his whole face erupts in pink. "M-Mademoiselle!"

When you finally kiss him first, his soul leaves his body. His cigarette falls, his legs turn weak, and he grips onto you for dear life.

The moment your lips touch his, Sanji's entire body locks up. His heart is hammering, and his mind is screaming in ten different languages. His brain kinda goes offline for a few seconds, but he'll snap out of it eventually!!

He covers his face with both hands, trying to suppress the absolutely ridiculous grin forming. "Mon Dieu! You're too much for me..." And his legs wobble like he might pass out.

His hands remain on your waist, but he doesn't pull you in, not yet. He wants to play it cool, but his flushed face and trembling hands give it away.

For the next hour, he is completely useless in the kitchen. He keeps chopping ingredients wrong, spacing out and giggling like an absolute fool. When someone asks what's wrong, his only reply is "I've been blessed by an angel today."

After the kiss, he becomes extra aware of your presence. A simple brush of your fingers sends a shiver down his spine. If you just lean against him, he has to take deep breaths.

The next time you tease him, he gets his revenge, tilting your chin up with his fingers and giving you the slowest, most knee weakening kiss of your life. "Two can play this game, mon amour."

Before, he was a hopeless romantic. Now? He's a hopelessly attached romantic. "Oh, you like me?" You tease, and you see the way his lips curl into a smirk. "Like? Darling, I adore you."

He was already treating you like royalty, but now it's way worse. Pulling out your chair, offering you the best cuts off food, whispering sweet nothings into your ear 24/7. It's endless.

You kiss him unexpectedly? He still gets heart eyes, but now he pulls you right back for another. "Don't start something you're not ready to finish, darling."

Completely, utterly, shamelessly yours. Sanji doesn't even try to hide it, he's absolutely whipped. He lets everyone know, the whole crew has to deal with it.

———☆

Sanji is flirting with you as usual, leaning close and murmuring sweet things. "Ah, ma chérie, if you keep looking at me like that, I might fall apart."

You rolled your eyes, a mischievous smirk forming on your lips. You grabbed his tie, fingers twisting in the fabric, yanking him down with a sudden tug. He stumbled slightly, cut off guard, but there was no time to react. Your lips crashed against his, the space between you vanishing as you pressed your body flush against his, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. His breath hitched as his hands instinctively found your waist, pulling you even closer.

Your lips parted just enough to tease, to taste. Your fingers slid up from his tie to tangle in his hair, nails grazing his scalp as you pulled him in, not letting go.

You finally parted from him, just barely, lips still hovering close and over each other. He's completely frozen. Mouth slightly open, cigarette hanging dangerously close to falling, his eyes wide in surprise, face completely red.

His whole body shakes, and he nearly collapses on the floor. "I can die happy!" He shouts out dramatically, both hands pressed firmly on his chest as he struggles to breathe.

Later, when he finally recovers, he pulls you aside, trapping you against the wall, kissing you so deep it leaves you breathless.

"Not so easy when I'm the one taking control, hm, mon amour?"

★yoyomiko ★miko

[ellewritesx]

cruising altitude (a sequel to ''cabin pressure'')

Summary: Professionalism takes a nosedive while mutual tension hits cruising altitude.

Warnings: teasing, fingering, oral (f!receiving), post-show sex, overstimulation, some degradation, slight praise kink, choking, dom!Harry, just generally really filthy honestly

A/N: ahhh it's finally here! i wanted it to be perfect for you guys. i've linked the first part of this in the title in case you missed it :) let me know if i've forgotten any warnings, i have a tendency for that, oops. hope it lives up to your expectations!

Word Count: 3,892

...

The Lisbon venue is buzzing with electricity. Crew members are scattered across the stage, marking spots, checking cables, adjusting lighting cues. You're sitting beside Harry in the nosebleed seats in the back of the stadium, clipboard in hand, walking him through the final pre-show rundown as he scopes out the venue before the show, but your mind is nowhere near the itinerary.

Not when he looks like that, black embroidered trousers clinging to his muscular thighs, sheer blouse half unbuttoned, showing off the tattooed swallows adorning his collarbone, hair a mess of curls from running his hands through them over and over again (much to the dismay of his hair stylist). And not when he hasn't stopped glancing at you with that look in his eyes all day.

Not long after your activities on the jet on the way here, the team had woken up to eat the (crappy) airline breakfast. You'd picked up the menu, and Harry had leaned over discreetly and lowly whispered in your ear something sinful. ''Gonna make you wait for it today.'' You hadn't realized he'd meant all day.

...

Soundcheck is unbearable. His voice is angelic, almost distracting you from the way he blatantly stares at you, undressing you with his eyes. His hands run up and down the microphone stand seemingly innocent, but you know better. It's sinful. You never thought you'd be jealous of an inanimate object, but here you are. Just terrific.

You're walking around the stage with Lloyd, showing him a few angles in which you'd like photos taken that'd be good for press. You catch the ghost of a smirk when Harry struts across the stage during Little Freak, mouthing, ''That's you, love.''

You barely make it to lunch.

The green room smells like him. Even before he arrives, there's something in the air, the vague presence of his warm cologne, expensive and woody, mixed with leather and citrus and a hint of vanilla. You take a seat, pretending to scroll through your phone, but really you're just breathing him in. It's stupid, you know. Pathetic. But he smells like comfort, like home.

You've worked with Harry long enough to know things about him no one else does. Not the fans. Not the press. Not the crew. You know that when he gets anxious before a show, he paces, not fast, but with a sort of steady rhythm, like he's trying to match his breathing to the beat of his footsteps. He rolls his shoulders four times before going on stage, left, right, left, right. Always in that exact order. It's not for posture, it's superstition. He never skips it.

You've seen him unravel in quiet ways. He doesn't talk about being homesick, but when he gets that faraway look in his eyes, you can tell he's thinking of his mum's kitchen, or the flower garden behind his childhood home. He's never mentioned it out loud, but you've noticed how he keeps a folded photo of his family tucked into a pocket inside his backpack. On the really hard days, with long travel, cancelled plans, and exhaustion written into the lines under his eyes, you've caught him pulling it out, just for a second. Just long enough to be able to breathe.

You know his habits like they're etched into you. The way he bites the inside of his cheek when he's overthinking. How he taps the edge of his rings against a table when he's bored, or how he hums under his breath when he's in a good mood, usually something old, something soulful. You know that he loves quiet mornings and hot tea with too much honey, that he hates waking up to alarms, and that he writes little ideas down on scraps of paper because the apps on his phone make him feel ''too digital.'' You've found those notes around the tour bus, crumpled and forgotten, full of half-finished songs and poetry that make your chest ache.

The media paints him in broad strokes: the rockstar, the fashion icon, the flirt. But you know the smaller, softer truths. The way he's careful with people's feelings. The way he listens, really listens, when someone talks to him. You've seen him sit backstage with a crying crew member, hand rubbing comforting circles on their back, voice low and soothing. You've seen him spend twenty minutes helping a lighting tech with a busted cable because he ''just likes to understand how things work.'' You've seen him come alive when the crowd sings his lyrics back to him, and dim a little when he walks off stage and the noise stops.

And you… you read him like no one else. You know when his smile is real and when it's a mask. You know when his laughter comes from his stomach and when it's just a polite response. You can tell when he's carrying something heavy he doesn't want to talk about. You see it in the slope of his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch against his thigh. You see it in the way he exhales, shallow and short instead of long and full. You see him, even when he doesn't want to be seen. Especially then.

That's what makes this complicated. The fact that you're not just his assistant or his friend or even his secret hook-up. You're the one who knows him. The real him. And even when he's in full showman mode, belting obscene lyrics, swinging his mic, thrusting into the air like sex personified, you can still feel the pulse beneath the surface. The tension in his hands. The flicker of something unspoken in his gaze. You catch it all. Every goddamn time.

And sometimes… when he looks at you across the room, when he smiles at you so brightly his dimples pop out, like there's an inside joke lingering in the air that only the two of you are in on, you wonder if maybe he knows you just as well.

...

Not much later, the long table is crowded with crew, conversations blending into a white noise you can't focus on. Harry slides into the seat next to you and rests his large palm on your thigh under the table. No one sees. He's careful, maddeningly so. His thumb lazily strokes slow circles… then dips between your legs.

You jolt, barely managing to cover it up by taking a quick sip of your water. He leans closer, face stoic like you're discussing stage cues.

''You're so warm,'' he murmurs. ''So wet. Poor thing.''

You try to breathe normally, try to keep your hand steady as you cut into your salad, but it's impossible when he's pressing two fingers against your panties, applying a gentle pressure. He doesn't slip beneath them, not yet. You've noticed he likes the build-up. The denial. He rubs slow, firm circles until your thighs tremble and your fork clatters against the plate.

''You gonna be a good girl and stay quiet, Y/N?'' he asks lowly, eyes zeroed in on your lips like it's taking everything in him not to kiss you right in front of the entire team.

You nod quickly, but it's humiliating how quickly your body betrays you. You can't focus on anything but his hand. His fingers move lower, dragging down the soaked cotton just enough to brush bare skin, making your breath hitch.

Then suddenly, he pulls away.

You're breathless. Empty.

''See you after the show,'' he says lightly, and he's gone before you can even protest.

...

The concert is torture.

He performs like a sin in velvet and glitter, hips rolling with obscene precision. You're near the wings with your headset on, pretending to be focused on the crew chatter, but every time he growls into the mic or grips it like you imagine he would your throat, you're subconsciously pressing your thighs together.

And he knows it. He glances over mid-set and catches your eye; it's not the usual glimmer of showmanship or crowd-charming sparkle, but that burn of intensity that he saves just for you, the same one he'd given you on the jet, and you know you're in for it tonight.

When the end of his set nears and the intro to Kiwi starts, he steps to the edge of the stage, curls clinging to his forehead, shirt clinging to his chest, and he pins you in place with a look that makes your knees buckle. It's not subtle. Not even close. His brows twitch just slightly as he sings the filthiest lines while making direct eye contact, daring you to keep watching.

The way he slinks across the stage, hips loose, shoulders rolling, one hand gripping the mic while the other runs through his hair, is pure sex. He throws his head back at the bridge like he's losing himself in it, and you know damn well it's calculated. Everything is. Every thrust of his hips, every stomp of his shoes, every teasing smirk. He doesn't just perform the song, he weaponizes it.

When the crowd enthusiastically douses him in water, he's soaked, his shirt clinging to his chest like a second skin, completely see-through, the fabric stretched tight across his torso. You can see the outlines of his abs, the ink swirling over his body, the faint rise and fall of his chest as he catches his breath between lines. His curls drip over his forehead, lips parted around heavy breaths. The crowd roars at the sight of him. He looks wild. Ferocious. And so fuckable.

He finishes the encore drenched in sweat and water, chest heaving, curls dripping on the floor. As soon as the lights drop and the crowd screams, he sprints off stage, straight to you.

You barely get a word out before he grips your wrist and drags you down the corridor.

The green room is empty now. Quiet. And as soon as the door shuts behind you, you're shoved back against it, mouth claimed in a rough, desperate kiss.

''You've been such a good girl today,'' he whispers against your lips, voice low, husky. ''Didn't even touch yourself, did you?''

You shake your head, breathless. ''No, Harry.''

''Need me that bad, don't you?''

Your knees nearly buckle when he grins. His teeth sink into your bottom lip, tugging on it lightly before releasing you with a low chuckle that makes your stomach flip.

His hand finds your throat, thumb brushing over your pulse as he walks you backwards toward the dressing table. Lights flicker in the mirror behind you, harsh, glowing, bathing you both in a golden haze.

''Get on the table,'' he orders softly. ''Hands behind you. Legs open.''

You scramble to obey, heart pounding, perching yourself on the cool marble with your knees separating for him. The air hits your thighs, making you shiver. The dress you'd chosen to wear this morning is modest enough to be professional and practical enough to allow you to move freely despite the heat here in Lisbon, but you've seen the way Harry has been eyeing your bare legs all day, and you'd be lying if you said that wasn't part of your motivation behind the choice of clothing. He steps between your legs, tongue flicking over his bottom lip like he's already tasting you in his mind.

''Look at yourself, Y/N,'' he says, hand returning to your throat. He presses, gently. Dominant. It's subtle enough to not be particularly constricting of your airflow yet, instead making you feel deliciously light-headed. ''Look how fucking desperate you are.''

His hand trails down your body and slides your dress up your thighs, before pushing your soaked panties to the side with two fingers, making a vulgar sound when he taps at your drenched slit.

''You've made a mess,'' he mutters. ''Think you need to be punished for it.''

He grips your thighs to push them further apart, then drops to his knees on the floor, deliberately slow, maintaining eye contact.

The first lick makes your vision go white.

You gasp, hands uselessly gripping the edge of the vanity as he devours you like a man starved. His tongue is ruthless, lapping, circling, sucking your clit until your knuckles turn white. He groans into you, the vibrations sending jolts of almost unbearable pleasure through your core.

''Keep your legs open,'' he growls. ''Or I'll tie them open for you.''

You nod, choking on a moan as his fingers push into you, two at once, rough and cruelly deep. He crooks them just right, licking your clit in sync with the the thrusts of his fingers, building your high up so fast you're panting his name like a prayer. The slick sounds, the obscene way he groans into you, it's filthy, raw, addictive.

''Fuck, Harry, please—''

''You don't come until I say.''

But it's too much.

His tongue flicks faster against your clit, his fingers drive deeper, and your orgasm slams into you before you can stop it. You cry out, thighs clenching around his head, but he doesn't relent. Doesn't even slow down until you're whining pathetically in overstimulation.

He smirks.

''Guess you do need to be punished.''

You're ruined. He keeps going.

He brings you to the edge again, fingers and tongue unrelenting, dragging every last sound out of your throat as he whispers filth against your core.

''You taste like heaven,'' he pants, pulling back for breath only to spit on your clit and start again. ''So fucking sweet, love. Gonna eat you every night if you keep being this good for me.''

Your thighs are twitching, your hand burying in his hair as he devours you, makes you cry into the curve of your elbow, desperate to stay quiet even as he eats you out mercilessly. Some of the curls on his forehead are soaked with your slick. You whine at the obsene sight.

He kisses the inside of your trembling thigh when he's finally done, lips soft and wet, the tendernes of it a stark contrast to what he was doing to you just seconds earlier.

''You ready, baby?'' he asks deceivingly sweet, grinning up at you.

You're still trembling on the dressing table, thighs sticky and shaking from orgasm after orgasm, when Harry rises to his feet. His lips are glossy, his cheeks flushed, and his pupils are blown wide with hunger. He doesn't give you time to catch your breath. Doesn't say a word.

The veins in his arms stand out as he yanks his shirt over his head, exposing every taut, glistening muscle. He's a fucking masterpiece. Cut from marble, bronzed by the sun, inked like a sinner.

You'd seen him shirtless before. Too many times, if you were honest with yourself. Quick, stolen seconds you weren't supposed to linger on. Like the time you'd walked into his dressing room door to update him on a last-minute setlist change and caught him mid-change, pants slung low and unbuttoned on his hips, chest bare and glistening with sweat from soundcheck.

Or worse, the time you'd passed the training room and caught a glimpse of him pulling himself out of an ice bath, water cascading down his body in rivulets, tracing every cut line of his abs, dripping from his tattoos like holy water. His muscles flexed with the effort, every inch of him flushed pink from the cold, breathing hard, eyes scrunched shut, and you'd had to physically force yourself to keep walking despite your knees feeling weak, to swallow the desperate little noise that almost escaped your throat.

But back then, you were just his assistant. Invisible. Untouchable. You'd trained yourself to look away, to keep your hands steady, even when all you wanted was to touch him, to trace the ink of the ferns hung low on his hips, to kiss the sparrows perched beneath his collarbones, to worship the body you weren't allowed to want.

Now, with his abs flexing, chest heaving, water from the show still dripping down the delicate black lines of his tattoos, he's standing right here in front of you, looking at you like he's starved for you, and you don't have to pretend anymore.

You don't even realize you're reaching for him until he catches your wrists midair and pins them behind your back with one hand. His eyes flash with dominance.

''Desperate little thing,'' he murmurs, stepping between your spread thighs again. ''Already wrecked and you're still begging for it.''

''I need you,'' you beg softly, your voice hoarse from moaning. ''Please, Harry. Need all of you.''

His free hand undoes his belt with one quick, sharp snap.

''You're gonna take all of it,'' he growls as he shoves his pants and briefs down just far enough to free himself. ''Every inch. Keep your hands behind you, or I'll tie them.''

You nod frantically, mouth watering at the sight of him. He's thick, heavy, flushed an angry red at the tip, veins running up the shaft. Your walls flutter in anticipation when you glance down, wide-eyed, dazed. You can see the way he's leaking for you, how painfully hard he is, and you realize he's just as desperate for you as you are for him.

You used to think he held all the cards, that he was this larger-than-life figure who was unbothered while you struggled with wanting something you could never have. But now, pressed against his bare chest, feeling his heart pounding like a war drum against your skin, seeing the raw need etched into his face, you realize he's just as wrecked as you are. Every twitch of his aching cock, every shudder of his body, every ragged breath he takes, it's for you. It knocks something loose in your chest, a quiet, aching insecurity you hadn't even known you were carrying, because it's not just you losing control tonight. It's him, too. And he's not hiding it anymore.

When he strokes himself once and presses the head against your entrance, dragging it slow and teasing over your soaked folds, it jolts you out of your epiphany.

''You want this?''

''Yes, fuck, yes—''

He slams into you in one sharp thrust.

Your head falls back against the mirror with a loud thud, mouth open in a silent scream. He doesn't give you time to adjust, just grips your hips and fucks into you, deep and rough, his cock stretching you so good you can't think.

The table rattles violently with every ruthless snap of his hips.

''Look at yourself,'' he pants, glancing down at where you're connected, where your slick coats his cock. ''So fucking wet for me. You hear that?''

You can. It's obscene, the sound of him driving into you, your soaked cunt sucking him back in every time he draws out.

He grabs your jaw, turning your head at an uncomfortable angle to face the mirror.

''Watch.''

It's filthy. Your mouth is parted, eyes dazed, tits bouncing with every thrust. You're a mess: smeared lipstick, flushed skin streaked with mascara stains, a few bite marks already blooming on your neck. He watches too, groaning at the sight.

''Fuckin' made for me,'' he grunts, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat again, squeezing just hard enough to make you dizzy. ''You like this, don't you? Being fucked like a good little toy?''

''Yes, Harry, please, harder—''

He growls, snapping his hips faster, harder, sweat dripping down his temples. The sound of your skin slapping together echoes off the walls.

And then... he pulls out.

You gasp at the loss, the sudden emptiness, aching, clenching around nothing.

''Bend over the vanity,'' he commands.

You scramble off the table, barely steady on your legs. He manhandles you into position, pressing your face into the cool marble, your ass high in the air.

The mirror in front of you reflects it all, your ruined expression, the curve of your back, the dark look in his eyes as he slides back inside your cunt from behind.

He grabs your hips, surely leaving bruises, and starts to fuck you again, deep and punishing, every stroke angled perfectly to wreck you. You cry out, eyes fluttering shut as your body jolts forward with every harsh thrust.

''I could watch you like this forever,'' he grunts, snapping his hips. ''Split open and begging.''

One hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back so you can see yourself in the mirror again. His other hand slides between your legs, rubbing ruthless circles over your clit. When you let out a choked moan, the hand in your hair moves to wrap around your throat again, pulling you back slightly so you're upright, your back against his chest. Your eyes meet in the mirror.

''You're mine now,'' he growls in your ear, voice gravelly and dark, his cock driving into you so deep you don't even realize you've been holding your breath. ''No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to touch you.''

''I'm yours,'' you cry, voice breaking. ''Only yours.''

''That's right, baby,'' he whispers. ''All fucking mine.''

He keeps driving into you, each thrust harder than the last, the sound of your skin slapping obscene.

''You gonna come for me again, Y/N?''

''Yes, yes, please, fuck, I'm gonna—''

He slams into you harder, biting down on your shoulder as your orgasm rips through you and you shatter around him with a scream, convulsing, clenching hard around his cock.

He works you through it, his thrusts growing sloppy before he spills inside you with a deep, guttural moan, heat flooding you as he buries his face in your neck, panting, hips jerking against your ass.

You're both silent for a long moment.

He stays buried inside you, hand stroking your thigh soothingly, lips pressing gentle kisses to your spine. His breaths come heavy and uneven against your skin, but even now, everything about his touch is so careful, so heartbreakingly loving. It's jarring, how gentle he is, after fucking you like that. But of course he is. It's Harry.

Your whimper softly.

Finally, he pulls out with a low, reluctant sound, hands steadying you as your legs threaten to give out. Without a word, he slowly spins you around, lifts you onto the dressing table, and presses his forehead against your shoulder. He clutches you like he needs you to breathe, like he's terrified you'll slip away if he lets go for even a second, one hand stroking lazy, tender patterns along your back.

''You good, love?'' he murmurs against your skin, voice hoarse but so, so sweet. ''Wasn't too much, was I? Tell me you're good.''

You hum your answer, too blissed out and overwhelmed to find the words, but he hears it anyway, feels it in the way you melt against him, your arms wrapping around his neck as you hold him closer. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then another to your cheek, another to your jaw. Like he can't stop. Like he doesn't ever want to.

And when you finally glance up at him, drunk on him, dizzy from it all, he smiles, soft and a little shaky.

''This was always gonna happen, you know,'' he says softly, pressing his forehead against yours.

Like it was inevitable. Like it's just the beginning of something neither of you will ever be able to walk away from.

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

general taglist

@2601-london @mads3502

...

[sparklingchim]

maybe in another universe; m |jjk

pairing: jungkook x reader

word count: 6.2k

tropes: idol!jungkook, angst, childhood friends, exes to lovers?, smut

rating: 18+

warnings: protected sex, making out, groping, fingering, jk is saur in love <3, oc is an overthinker, they're v needy, he loves watching her cum <3, giggly kisses, jk wants to hit it raw so bad 👉🏼👈🏼, one (1) boob squeeze i think, oc scratches his back 🤭

summary: jungkook is tipsy as he wanders the streets of seoul, and still, you're all he can think about.

a/n: it's bestie jk's bday!!! so here's a little fic n i swear i was gonna post smth fluffy but...here we are!!!!! sorry not sorry </3 love u

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

“I need you.”

“What?”

“I miss you so bad.”

“Are you drunk?”

“I love you. So much. It kinda hurts.”

“Jungkook.”

Silence. Except for the faint noises of cars passing by.

You hear a little sigh. “Missed hearing you say my name.”

Your fingers clasp tighter around your phone. “Why’d you call?” It’s 2 a. m., and the only reason you answered is because you were worried. This is the first time he’s called since the breakup.

“Just ‘cause,” he mumbles. You can hear the pout he’s speaking with. “We have a one week break from tour and I came back to Korea. Missed home and Mum, and you.”

“You’re in Busan, then?”

“Seoul.”

He’s here. So close.

You shake your head. Take a steady breath to calm your giddy heart. You shouldn’t care.

“Was at my parents’ for two...three days.” After a short pause, he continues, “Been wanting to talk to you all day long, but I didn’t have enough courage.”

“I mean...” You slump back against the couch, your head falling back. “There isn’t anything for us to talk about.”

“No?” he asks, confused. “I’ve got so much to say, though.”

“I meant, like, we shouldn’t be talking. At all. ‘Cause we’re – we’re done.” You thought you were. You thought you made it clear when you broke up with him.

“Haven’t you missed me at all?” He sounds both accusing and sad, and you think your heart breaks a little. “I think about you constantly,” Jungkook whispers, his confession carrying a soft hopelessness through the phone.

You sit up straight. “How much did you drink?”

“Hmm, not much,” he answers. “I’m not drunk!” he quickly adds. “Just needed some alcohol to have enough courage to call you.”

“You drank because of me?”

“You’ve never done this?”

“I’d like to say it wasn’t because of you.”

“So... you’ve been thinking about me too?” he asks tentatively.

You close your eyes. “Is this a conversation we should be having?”

Jungkook heaves a defeated sigh. With your eyes closed, you can almost picture him standing outside, the chill of the night air mixing with his feelings of loneliness. Maybe he’s pacing, or just staring into the distance, eyes weary with a faint trace of frustration mixed with vulnerability etched on his face.

“You can hang up if you want. I just hoped we could talk a bit. I’ve been – I’ve been feeling lonely and a little sad, and I couldn’t get you out of my head,” he babbles. “I’m sorry if you don’t wanna talk.”

You wish you could be cruel – could be a cynic and just hang up. But you can’t. He is tipsy and emotional, and you still love him too much.

“No, it’s fine.” If only he knew how much you’ve been wanting to hear his voice again. “I didn’t expect a call like this tonight, that’s all,” you add, pulling your legs up to your chest. “Are you on your way home?”

“Yeah. I’ll be there soon.”

“You have the dorm all to yourself?”

“The dorm? Ah, yes, I was the only one to fly back to Korea. The others stayed in the US.”

You hug your knees with one arm.

“Why are you still up so late?” Jungkook asks, as if he isn’t the one roaming around, tipsy and a bit of a heartbroken mess, in the city in the middle of the night. He does all that and yet worries about you.

“I was just eating.” Your eyes drift to the remnants of food in front of you. “And watching a drama.” The big screen is on mute. You hurriedly searched for the remote to turn off the sound once you saw the caller’s name.

“With your mum?”

“No, she’s at the studio. I think she’s finishing up some songs,” you say. Your mum left sometime in the evening, saying she’d had a sudden spark of inspiration and needed to go to the company. You bet she won’t come home until 4 a.m. “I couldn’t sleep and was craving some tteokbokki, so...”

“From the restaurant at Gangnam?”

A soft, hesitant smile blossoms on your face. “They make it the most delicious.”

He mutters a wistful sound. “I haven’t had it in so long.”

Your fingertips gently tap against your knees in a slow rhythm. “You should definitely have it before you leave again.”

“With you?” Just two words and yet they’re filled with so much innocent hope.

Your fingers halt.

“Oh?”

“Would you not want to see me?”

“I’m not sure if we should.”

“But do you want to?” He’s met with silence from your side. “You were one of the reasons I really wanted to come back to Korea.”

“But what if I don’t want to meet up?”

“Then don’t open the door.”

“I don’t...What door?”

“Your door,” he answers conversationally.

You hurriedly scramble to your feet and walk to the door. “You’re here?” The screen on the intercom shows Jungkook, holding up his phone against his ear and patiently waiting.

“You watching me?” Jungkook teases, playfully cocking his head to the side as he stares directly into the camera.

“Oh.” You take shy step back. Blood rushes to your cheeks.

“Open the door for me? Please?”

You don’t think it’s a good idea to let Jungkook in. But his doe eyes. His pleading doe eyes. They do it for you.

You buzz him in and, while you wait for him, you try to calm your racing heart.

When the elevator doors open and Jungkook steps out, you’re struck by the sight of him after months apart. You take in every detail: his tousled hair, his tired but still striking eyes, the way the light catches the contours of his face. He looks so handsome, so achingly familiar. You’re drinking him in with your eyes, unable to believe he’s actually here.

“I thought you were heading to the dorm,” you say as Jungkook steps out of the elevator.

“I didn’t say that.” A pout graces his face.

He said he was heading home.

“I missed you,” Jungkook says, and suddenly you become awfully aware of the situation unfolding before you. You have to blink twice to make sure you’re not just picturing a hologram of Jungkook in your apartment. This time, he is real. Not a figment of your imagination.

“Me too,” you admit with a heavy heart.

A lopsided, sorrowful grin appears on his mouth. “Can’t bring yourself to say it back?”

“Jungkook, you-” You shake your head, sighing as your scramble for words. “You shouldn’t even be here.”

It’s the middle of the night, and upon answering a call from Jungkook, he stands right in front of you – just like in the dreams you secretly have at night when you’re feeling lonely again. It shouldn’t be this easy. It really shouldn’t be this easy for him to say these things and fall back into a natural pattern with you when you’ve been crying yourself to sleep at night, wishing your love for him would die.

And yet, here you are, with dangerous words at the tip of your tongue, barely resisting the intense urge of your heart to scream how much it has been wanting him back.

“But let’s not – let's not just stand here.” You point to the slippers next to him. “Take off your shoes and I’ll...I dunno, put on a movie?” You go back into the living room as Jungkook hangs up his coat and follows you.

“Oh, that looks delicious,” Jungkook exclaims when he spots the leftover tteokbokki on the coffee table.

“I can heat it up for you, if you want,” you offer. Judging by the way his tongue wets his bottom lip, it’s clear he’d appreciate that.

Jungkook trails behind you into the kitchen.

“So, watchu been up to?” He leans his forearms on the counter, watching you from across the island as you put the tteokbokki into the microwave.

He’s been in this kitchen countless times before. He’s made you tea when you were sick, prepared hot chocolate when you needed comfort, and knew exactly where to find the snack stash for movie nights. He’s even prepared breakfast for you and your mum on some mornings. But tonight, he can’t shake the feeling of being a stranger here. The memories of those moments feel distant, like a blurry movie he watched when he was too young to fully remember, leaving him with only a vague sense of familiarity.

“Just, you know, studying, working. The usual.” You turn to him, mimicking his position on the other side of the counter.

“So much on your plate that you couldn’t reply to my messages?”

His gaze is intense and shameless, and you look away.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to reply to messages sent by your ex.” You turn around, leaning your back against the counter. “What am I supposed to text back when you tell me that you miss me?”

“Hey, just last week I asked how you were doing. You could’ve replied to that one.” You can sense the sulkiness in his voice, mingled with a touch of light-heartedness, but you don’t turn to face him.

Jungkook closes the distance between you.

“You don’t want me in your life anymore? Like, at all?”

Your engulfed by his scent as he stands next to you, struggling to form a proper answer as you hesitantly peer into his face.

The microwave dings, and you breathe again.

“When was the last time you had this?” You place the plate in front of him and hand him the chopsticks.

“It’s been a few months. Before the tour started, I was dieting, so, maybe 5 months?” Jungkook doesn’t notice the roll of your eyes when he mentions dieting, his attention focused on the hot tteokbokki between his chopsticks. “Mhmmm.” He closes his eyes tightly, tipping his head back as he tastes the food on his tongue. “So good.”

“Feels good to have a bit of home again before you leave?”

Jungkook nods vigorously, his eyebrows scrunched up as he eats more.

You find yourself smiling, only realising it when Jungkook mirrors your grin. A giddy thrill and a soft ache twist together inside you like a secret exposed to the light. Unable to bear the eye contact, you look away, hiding your smile by biting your bottom lip.

You notice Jungkook offering you a piece of tteokbokki in your peripheral vision. “No, thanks. I’m really full. I had a lot.” You rub your belly.

“You always used to steal bites of mine, even when you were full.”

“I used to steal your dessert. Not dinner,” you correct him. “I can never have enough dessert.” You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you. “But that was when things were... different.”

Jungkook’s playful expression fades slightly. He chews slowly, contemplating your words. “Does it have to be that different?”

A delicate confession that hangs heavily in the air.

The warmth in your chest tightens, and you’re reminded again. Reminded of the reality you’ve both been trying to avoid – more so you than Jungkook.

“Maybe it does,” you reply, giving him a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Things change, people change.”

The weight of your words settles over both of you like a cold shadow.

Jungkook’s eyes search yours, as if trying to find a crack in the wall you’ve put up. “But what if some things don’t have to change? What if...some things are worth holding on to?”

So much longing and regret in his words, his eyes, his heart – he is blue everywhere.

“It’s not that simple, Jungkook.” The ache in your voice betrays the calm you’re trying to maintain. “We can’t just go back to how things were.”

He steps closer, and his familiar scent surrounds you again, making it so hard to act rationally when so many past memories swirl in your mind.

“I know we can’t go back. But I don’t want to lose you completely. Can’t we find a way to be something else? Something that works?”

The idea of keeping him in your life, even in a different way, tugs at you, but you know the danger in that. You know how easily the lines could blur again, how much harder it would be to protect your heart.

That reminds you, there are still pieces of Jungkook left in your room; t-shirts and sweatshirts scattered in your wardrobe.

Taking a deep breath, you push off the counter. “Before I forget, there are still some of your things in my bedroom.”

You catch the sudden confusion in Jungkook’s eyes, but you don’t let it deter you as you pad into your room.

“It’s just a few of your shirts. I’ve been meaning to give them back to you, but uh, I wasn’t sure how to approach you because I didn’t want to contact you, but anyways.” You grab the neatly folded pile of clothes from the back of your wardrobe. “Now you’re here, so.” You hold the pile out to him.

He regards his forgotten clothes with a slight raise of his brow. His hands don’t move to take them.

“They’re old anyway,” he says. “I don’t need them. Just throw them out.”

You hesitate, holding the pile tightly.

You won’t throw them out. He knows that too.

“Fine,” you shrug nonchalantly, storing his clothes back into your wardrobe. They sit there, a constant reminder that he still has a place in your life, even when he shouldn’t. Haunting every little corner that still belongs to him. But you’re just as guilty, allowing him to do so.

When you turn around again, you see the loaded expression on his face, and your immediate response is to ignore it – redirect his attention before he starts digging up old feelings, past memories, and forgotten promises that will only make you doubt the walls you’ve tried to put between you.

“I think you still have some tteokbokki left-”

“___.” Jungkook interrupts you, grabbing your hand. You feel the warmth of his skin, and you’re mortified and comforted at the same time. “I thought we would always speak comfortably with each other. No hiding, no walls – just the truth.”

“That was before the breakup,” you counter, barely able to hold his gaze. “There is no we anymore.”

“How can you say that when our whole lives have been intertwined? We can’t just pretend it all meant nothing, erase everything.”

“Being with me is an inconvenience for you, Jungkook.”

“Is that why you broke up?”

Ah, right. You never told him the real reason.

The night when you broke up with Jungkook was a bit chaotic.

You hadn’t planned on ending the relationship. Threads of worry had plagued you for some time, and you had been considering breaking up with him, but you never had the courage. You loved him, still do. And losing the one person you’ve trusted since childhood was terrifying.

But that night, while waiting for Jungkook at your favourite convenience store, you grew impatient. Waited for so long that you started eating ramyeon without him. As you sat by the window, gazing at the night sky, you decided that tonight you would break up.

Jungkook had always been busy, and you never minded it. Didn’t even mind it as you were eating ramyeon while pondering how to tell Jungkook. But Jungkook had so many things on his plate, so many worries, and you didn’t want to make his life more complicated by being his girlfriend. He tried so hard to always respond to your texts, tried to call at reasonable times instead of the middle of the night after practise, and promised to meet you at times other than when the sun had long fallen.

Jungkook needed to prioritise things that were more important to him.

And knowing his selfish tendencies, you needed to help him a little.

“Part of it, yeah,” you answer.

Jungkook doesn’t hesitate when he says, “You’re worth the inconvenience.”

You think he holds your hand a little tighter, but maybe you imagined it.

“I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you, and that night, I – I didn’t know if I would ever feel okay again.”

Jungkook was so used to you giving in. Was so selfishly used to having you whenever he wanted, that once you finally pulled away, his world had lost its gravitational pull. Suddenly, he was left adrift, circling aimlessly like a planet that had lost its orbit.

“I still don’t know. I miss you every night and keep wondering how to move on, but I’m not sure if that will ever happen. How do you move on from a love like ours?”

He’s known you for almost his entire life, and having you completely erased from his life felt like something he could never get over. Jungkook went a little insane. Everyone around him noticed his change in behaviour, but he pretended to be clueless, perhaps as a foolish act of hoping that you might return, change your mind, want him again, and never leave. It’s the hopeless romantic in Jungkook that makes him cling to shreds of hope for a better ending – a happy ending.

And maybe it’s not so hopeless after all, he thinks, as he watches your eyes sparkle with gentle love when you meet his gaze.

“Have you never thought about calling me?” he asks. “Never wanted to text back?”

“I almost do every night.”

“What makes you hesitate?” Jungkook steps closer, and it’s so dangerous, but you can’t keep pretending you don’t want him.

Which is why you whisper your next words, staring down at the small space retaining between your bodies.

“Because I know that I’d forgive and not fight.” You want to force your eyes back to him, but can’t. “It’s not like I wanted to break up. I just did it because I thought it was the wisest decision for us.”

“___.” It’s just a soft murmur of your name, slipping off his tongue with more love than it should, and it sends your heart fluttering far too easily. His voice draws your gaze up to him, and you’re met with eyes brimming with pure yearning and raw adoration. You never forgot how he looked at you, but you did underestimate the intense pull of his gaze – how it stirs something deep within you, even now.

“I thought it was for the better, but...” You trail off, lost in his eyes, forgetting what you were trying to explain and deny. Because what does it matter? How does anything matter when he’s here – when he’s here and not a single bit of his love for you has wavered?

Jungkook cups your cheek with his free hand. It pulls you closer to him. His thumb brushes gently across your skin, and the world outside of this moment blurs into insignificance.

You can feel your resolve crumbling, the walls you’ve built around your heart starting to fracture. It’s terrifying and comforting all at once, the way he’s always had this power over you – the way he can unravel you with just a look, a touch, a simple word.

“I don’t want to let you go,” Jungkook says, his voice tight with emotion. His hand remains on your cheek, as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go.

“Neither do I,” you confess, barely believing your own words. But voicing it out loud seems to untangle something within you that had been knotted and confused for so long.

Jungkook’s eyes search yours, making sure he heard you right, that this moment is real and not just another dream he’s afraid of waking up from. His thumb stills on your cheek, and you can feel the warmth of his palm spreading across your skin, grounding you, anchoring you.

“Is this okay?” He leans in the slightest bit.

You nod, muttering a small “Yeah” as your gaze lingers on his sparkling eyes, the soft curve of his nose, the tiny mole beneath his lip – everything that reminds you of longing, comfort and the feeling of home.

The moment his mouth presses against yours, you feel a surge of warmth. It’s tender and soft, his mouth brushing against yours with a mix of hesitance and longing. As the kiss deepens it becomes more fervent, more urgent, as if he’s trying to convey everything he’s been holding back.

Your lips move with a slow, deliberate rhythm, and the touch of his tongue sends shivers down your spine. There’s a slight pressure as he cups your face, wanting you closer, while his other hand slides down your back, settling on your waist.

“I hope you know that I didn’t come here with these intentions.” Jungkook murmurs against your lips, his voice husky. But you guide him towards your bed.

“I know. It’s okay.” You straddle his lap. “You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want you to.”

Jungkook’s hands are eager and exploratory, skimming over your shoulders, your back, and down to your ass, giving it a firm squeeze. His chin rests in the crook of your neck as he breathes in deeply.

“You don’t know how much I missed you,” he mumbles, nose tickling your neck as he snuggles closer to you. “You missed me too, right?” he speaks with an innocent pout on his lips that you don’t even need to see – you know it’s there.

“Of course I did. Why would you think otherwise?” You run your fingers through his silky hair, which is a comfort for both you and him.

“I think I just need to hear you say it.”

He draws back, and a soft smile touches your lips as you see the achingly tortured expression contorting his face – traces of love and relief at having you so close, right where he wants you.

“I missed you.” You keep your eyes on him.

“Again,” he urges softly.

“I missed you.”

Your fingers gently curl around his face.

Jungkook’s lips brush against yours in a fleeting kiss. His forehead falls against yours as your words sink into him, straight to his heart.

“One more time? Please?”

A giggle slips out of you. “I missed you, Jungkook.”

Your laugh dies in your throat when he crashes his lips against yours, more forceful and passionate this time, pulling you so close to him, you feel everything.

Your hips move on their own, instinctively grinding against his lap. He’s hard and the bulge is right where you’re craving him the most. You kiss turns sloppy and needy and it’s filled with heavy breathing.

Jungkook’s hands are all over you. His touches leave tingling sparks everywhere. You’ve gone months without him, and every little brush of his finger makes you lose your mind. Especially when his hand dips into the front of your tiny shorts, lightly grazing the pad of his finger against your panties and making you twitch when he brushes over your clit. You break the kiss, inhaling sharply.

“I wanna make you feel good.” His words are hushed, a slight tremor tinging his voice. His fingers disappear into your panties, rubbing his middle finger along your folds and spreading your wetness. Jungkook is tender as he moves his finger, and you wish you could see him playing with you, watch him be so soft with you because he loves treating you with delicate care, and you love feeling like you’re everything to him.

Your hips buck as he circles your aching clit. You start whine softly as Jungkook applies a little more pressure, his steady, deliberate movements intensifying the sensations as he continues to rub your sensitive spot.

“You like it?” His gaze fixed intently on your reactions to his touches. His doe eyes drink up every nuance of your face and body – each twitch, shudder, and breath. His expression brightens with a trace of satisfaction.

“Feels good,” you reply shakily.

He has you making his fingers all sticky and wet. As Jungkook slowly teases your hole, drawing tiny circles and ever so slightly dipping the tip of his finger inside, your eyes close and your breath catches while you anticipate the familiar stretch of his finger.

Jungkook slides two fingers inside you, and your brows furrow as you feel them burying deep within your pussy. He moves them slowly, each stroke eliciting soft, breathy moans from you. The gradual, teasing rhythm amplifies your pleasure, and with each tender push, your senses heighten, making you ache for more.

“Move your finger like – oh. That’s right. Don’t stop, please.”

His fingers brush against your sweet spot continuously, making you grip his shoulders tightly, your nails digging into his skin as you try to anchor yourself and try to tame the soft trembles of your body as the pleasure reaches you everywhere.

Jungkook holds you close to him by having his hand placed firmly on the small of your back. He keeps you perched on his lap while you lose yourself in the feeling.

As the pleasure builds, you find yourself melting into him, whimpering his name in a gentle hush. The soft sounds of your voice blends with the rhythmic movements of his fingers.

Jungkook feels you tightening around him. He doesn’t increase his pace but keeps his steady pattern going, exactly how he knows you like it. You hide your face on his shoulder, overwhelmed by the fast-approaching high. Your muffled noises sharply contrasting with the squelching sounds coming your shorts.

“Let me see you,” Jungkook gently requests, tugging gingerly at your shirt to draw you back. It’s just a delicate tug, but it’s enough to pull you away from him. You’re too immersed by the intense feelings enveloping you to fully respond.

He catches the exact moment when your moan gets caught in your throat, your lashes flutter shut, and the sweetest glow settles on your face as you reach your climax.

He doesn’t tease you, instead, he lets you revel in the wave of euphoria that pulses through you, your thighs quivering as you gradually come down from your high. As our breath steadies, your foreheads touch, and you exhale heavily through your nose, tickling Jungkook’s face.

He smiles. His eyes reflect a deep satisfaction, because you’re happy and that’s enough.

Jungkook’s hands travel to your sides and he slowly strokes his palms up and down. Your body is warm and shaky and he wants to hold you forever.

“Is it okay that I want more?”

You nod, kiss him, probably a little deliriously, answering, “I want it just as much.”

Your hand glides under his sweater, fingers tracing the contours of his toned stomach. Jungkook wastes no a time pulling the sweater over his head, tossing it carelessly behind you. He helps you shimmy out of your shorts, discarding your clothes in a hasty rush, stealing giggly kisses between each movement, because you need to feel. He playfully comments on how cute your panties are. His finger lazily skims over the little pink ribbon before the material sinks slips down your legs and pools around your feet in a small heap. You giggle shyly.

Just as you want to sink onto your knees, Jungkook grabs you by the elbows, not letting you.

“Want you on the bed, ___. I need to feel you,” he says, voice strained with desperate need. Jungkook leads you onto the bed, gently laying you down. Your head sinks into the soft pillows. He spreads your legs, settling himself comfortably between them.

Your hair is fanned around your head against the pillow. Jungkook can’t help but stare, utterly captivated. He brushes a few strands away from your face, his fingertips lingering as if memorising every curve. His gaze holds a quiet affection, mingled with a sense of awe, like he is seeing you for the first time and falling for you all over again.

A curse slips his mouth as she stared down at your bare pussy, glistening and shining just for him, looking so pretty only for his eyes. For a few seconds, he allows himself to rub his tip over your wet folds. Just gentle brushes, nothing more. You don’t stop him, letting him play a little.

Jungkook is painfully hard, and he dares to slide his tip further down to tease your hole a little. His stare is fixed downcast while he pokes his cheek with his tongue to distract himself from the urge to push himself all the way as he minimally dips his head inside. Jungkook’s so sensitive, he thinks he could cum like this. He’d go insane if he slipped his cock into without protection. He’s let his mind wander to this fantasy a few times and he so desperately wants to feel all of you with no barrier, especially after not having you for so long, but you both have to be careful.

Someday, when you’re older, Jungkook thinks. When he can love you endlessly without always having to consider the consequences.

“Jungkook.” You pull him back to reality, and a faint pink flush colours his face.

He bends over and opens your nightstand drawer, searching for a condom. His fingers brush against several plastic foil packages, and he pauses, lost in thought. He thinks back to the last time he was over at yours. How many were left in the drawer then? Is his mind playing tricks on him, or were there more condoms the last time he was here?

While Jungkook’s mind drifts to you every night his head falls against the pillow in a different city each night – have you been letting other boys warm your bed?

You say his name again, forcing him out of his racing thoughts once more, this time with a note of impatience.

Jungkook tears open the wrapper, tosses it away along with his doubts, and focuses on you again. You chose him, and for now, that’s all that matters to him.

He rolls it down his length. Your eyes fixate on the slow connection of your bodies. Once he’s fully inside, a shaky whimper escapes your throat, trembling as it leaves you. Jungkook begins to move his hips with deliberate thrusts, and your head rolls back, eyes drifting to the ceiling as Jungkook finds his pace.

“You’re so pretty.” His eyes roam over your naked figure, so much adoration and maybe a hint of obsession hiding in them. The white covers beneath you are messy and chaotic, and you lie on top of them like a delicate masterpiece, a striking contrast to the chaos of the bed. The soft light casts a warm glow on your skin, highlighting every curve and contour. The soft swells of your boobs move with every thrust and he enjoys the sight of it.

You grow a little shy beneath his intense gaze. You turn your head and cover your face with your arm.

Jungkook lowers himself, clicking his tongue as he gently pulls your arm away. “Don’t.” His grip is firm on your wrist and he holds it against the covers, preventing you from hiding again. However, his hold on your chin is careful as he guides your gaze back to him. Fingers slightly caressing your skin. “I love everything about you, baby.” His words coax a small smile from you, which he acknowledges with an approving nod and a smile of his own. “You don’t need to hide from me.”

“It’s just been a while.” You bite your lip. The shyness still lingers, like spotting your crush in a crowded room and instinctively hiding, feeling all giddy inside.

Jungkook slows a little, buried so deep inside you, but his movements are precise, hitting the spot that makes your tummy clench.

“I know,” he says softly, tracing his thumb over your lip to free it from your clenched teeth. He plants a little kiss on your mouth, his tongue sliding over your bottom lip to soothe the ache you’ve caused yourself. “I don’t think I’ll last long,” Jungkook admits as his round nose brushes your cheek. You’re so wet and snug around him that he has to focus intently to keep from coming right away. You’re too good, too pretty, occupying every corner of his mind. “Missed you so much. You don’t even know.”

Jungkook’s head falls into the crook of your shoulder. His moans grow a little louder as he moves faster again. He can’t help himself. Feels too good. You wrap your legs around him, allowing him to bury himself even deeper. You pull him closer, throwing your arms around him to have him as close to you as possible while Jungkook repeatedly tells you how much he has missed you and loves you, how he never wants to let go of you and keep you to himself forever. How you are meant for him just as much he is meant for you.

Jungkook sneaks one hand between your bodies and grasps your breast. Keeps a firm squeeze around your flesh while your bed rhythmically hits the wall. All the tender murmurs and quiet gasps of your love had been missing from your room for so long that you began to doubt if Jungkook would ever again fill your bed with his warmth and whispers.

You feel the heat rising on your skin, growing with each passing second, and you can sense it on Jungkook’s body too. His back is hot, slightly slick with a sheen of sweat, and you can’t resist digging your nails into his muscled shoulders, leaving chaotic, frantic lines across his skin. A whine, which you try to suppress, tumbles from your lips as the tingling sensation spreads through you.

Jungkook pulls back, his movements weary yet determined, and peers at you through heavy-lidded eyes.

“Jungkook,” you mumble weakly, and he nods, because he knows.

With a gentle but firm motion, Jungkook shifts, guiding you both onto your sides. He slips an arm beneath your waist, holding you close to his chest as he continues to move inside you. The new position allows him to thrust deeper, and you gasp. His other hand slides down your thigh, hitching your leg over his hip to open you up further.

The intimacy of the position, with your bodies so close and intertwined, makes everything feel more intense, more personal. As you move together, your eyes lock. You see in his eyes the reflection of your own emotions, a mirror of longing, affection.

Tears begin to well up in your eyes, not just from the overwhelming pleasure, but from the sheer depth of the moment, the intimacy of it all, and how much you’ve missed him.

He notices the tears glistening in your eyes. “Baby,” he breathes. “Are those tears for me?”

“I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’m not letting you leave me again.” It’s a promise wrapped in desire. “That’ll never happen again.”

His hand on your waist grips you tighter, and his thrusts become more urgent until you’re both teetering on the edge.

Jungkook’s hips stutter as he loses control, and with one final, deep thrust, he’s all the way inside you, spilling into the condom with a low groan. At the same time, you reach your peak, your body clenching tightly around his length, breathy puffs escaping your lips as the intense tremors take over. Jungkook’s holds you steady through all of it.

He stays inside you, savouring the warmth and closeness for a few more moments before carefully pulling out. He presses soft kisses along your shoulder and neck, his breath still uneven as you both come down from the high.

Later, after Jungkook asked if it’s okay to stay – just as you had been plagued by the thought that he might want to leave, and sighed in relief upon realising you were on the same page, lovesick and obsessed after finding each other again – and after he asked if he could borrow one of his old t-shirts and you giggled, saying they are his anyway (they are more yours than his and you both know it), you’re now cuddled up in bed with your head on his chest, right on top of his heart where you belong.

“Forgot how comfy your bed is.” He nuzzles deeper into the mattress, wriggling beneath you.

“You should visit more often, then.”

Jungkook sniffs a surprised laugh at your flirty remark.

“I should, huh?” He brushes his knuckles over your back. “After the tour, I’ll make sure to drop by as often as possible,” he says. “So much that you might get sick of me.”

You smile. Banter and flirt and giggle with him a bit more before you both drift off to sleep.

But you wonder, every time your eyes flutter open in the dark, is it actually this easy to fall back into normality?

Pretend the last few months didn’t happen and continue as you had never been apart?

Questions swirl in your head all night long, but the answer to your doubts lies right beside you. Unlike you, he isn’t awake, grappling with what’s right and wrong – he’s softly sleeping, peacefully unconscious of your turmoil.

It makes you think, is it really this simple and you’re just too much? Or is it all a mess, and you’re the only one trying to make sense of it?

Maybe you had it all wrong.

And you wonder, the next morning, are you really that surprised to find the spot next to you empty?

[leafy-pixel]

—✩‧₊˚ 3racha! Reacts to their S/O flying out to surprise them!

✩pairing: skz 3racha x female!reader

✩genre: fluff, established relationships

✩author’s note: Hello everyone and welcome to the first post on my blog. I’ve been trying to get back into writing so i’m very sorry if this is all over the place, but i hope you enjoy it nonetheless! <3

☆ Bang Chan

He was in the studio when he heard a knock at the door. Thinking it was one of the boys coming to join his late night work session he said a quick “come in” and went back to his laptop. But when he heard the words “Hi channie” a nickname he only gave you permission to use, fall from your lips his heart skipped a beat as he whipped around, his chair creaking with the sudden movement.

His eyes widened in disbelief, locking on you standing in the doorway, a playful smile tugging at the corners of your lips. It took him a moment to process what he was seeing. There you were, his love, standing in front of him after all this time. "Y-You're here?" he stammered, his voice a mix of shock and disbelief. His hands reached out to you instinctively, pulling you into his arms as if confirming that you were real.

"How... How did you get here? I thought—" His words were cut off by the overwhelming warmth of your embrace, the rush of emotion hitting him all at once. His lips brushed softly against your forehead in a tender kiss.

You laughed softly, pulling back just enough to on meet his gaze. "Surprise," He pulled you into another embrace, squeezing you tightly as if afraid you might disappear if he let go. “I can’t believe you’re here,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve missed you so much.”

☆ Changbin

Changbin sat on the couch, his phone in his hand, staring at the message you sent him earlier that day. "Rain check, babe. I’m so sorry. Emergency meetings" You guys were supposed to facetime and play minecraft today as it was one of the very few days that both of you had off. He didn’t want to upset you so he said it was fine, but in reality he was hurt. He missed your face, your laugh, your..everything. He tried to go about his day, getting a workout in and going to the studio to help Chan, but the minutes felt longer than usual. Every time he glanced at his phone, he half-expected a notification from you, but none came.

Hours later, he was in the kitchen helping make a late dinner for the rest of the boys when he heard the familiar ding of his phone. He picked it up quickly, hoping it was you.

“Guess who’s at the door?”

His heart skipped. He ran to open the door, almost running over Seungmin in the process only to be greeted by you standing there, a grin on your face."Y/N?!" Changbin blurted out, eyes wide in surprise.“Yeah, about that rain check…” you said with a playful smile. “I thought I’d show up in person instead. Surprised?”

His heart swelled with joy as he pulled you into his arms, breathing in your presence.“I thought you were mad at me…” he murmured against your hair, his voice low with emotion. “I missed you so much.”You smiled softly. “I could never be mad at you, Binnie. I just wanted to surprise you... now, how about that Minecraft session?”

He chuckled, pinching your cheek playfully "As long as you promise not to build anything ridiculous again."

☆ Han Jisung

It had been a busy week for both you and Han, and though you both had planned to Facetime that evening, something kept you from reaching out. Han had been sending a few texts here and there, wondering if you were still up for it, but you stayed quiet, building up the suspense.

Little did he know is that you were in the car with Chan on your way to see him at this very moment.“Are you sure this will work?" you asked quietly, glancing up at Chan

“Of course it’ll work. Han’s been overthinking all day. When you show up, he won’t know what hit him.”You smiled, anxiety bubbling in your stomach. "I hope so."

With Chan's help, you waited until Han was in the practice room, a place where he often retreated to when he needed to focus. Chan had texted him from your phone, pretending that the two of you would be on call later and that it would be another night to play some games together, keeping him distracted.

Once Han’s attention was elsewhere, you slipped out of the car, ready for the surprise. Chan gave you a reassuring nod as you walked toward the door to the studio. Han was sitting on the couch scrolling through his phone when he got a text from you asking him to call you. He couldn’t help the small smile that crept its way onto his face. He has missed your voice, the one thing that could always heal him.

Riiing... riiing...”

The sound of your ringtone echoed through the quiet hallway. Han froze, his heart skipping a beat.He slowly lowered his phone, his mind racing as he turned toward the door. He recognized the familiar melody of your ringtone—a song you both had laughed over, one that made both of you smile every time it played. He walked toward the door, his steps slow and cautious. As he reached for the handle, he heard the sound of your soft giggle that made his heart race.

Opening the door slowly, his eyes widened when he saw you standing there, grinning with your phone in your hand.

"Y/N?" Han's voice barely rose above a whisper, shock written all over his face. As he picked you up and spun you around. “You—how—when did you—”You shrugged nonchalantly, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “I thought I’d surprise you.” Chan, who had been lurking to the side finally stepped forward with a teasing grin. “I may have helped a little”

Han chuckled, pulling away slightly to look at you with soft eyes. “I swear, you two are going to be the death of me.

[lvnleah]

accidental hard launch | kyra cooney-cross

You should have double-checked. Triple-checked. It was a habit, usually a necessity because your anxiety made you overthink things like this. 

Privacy was important to you, especially when it came to your relationship with Kyra. You weren’t ashamed, not at all, but keeping it just yours felt safer, less overwhelming.

But somehow, you’d messed up.

The realisation didn’t hit until your phone started buzzing on the table beside you, interrupting the mindless Netflix episode playing in the background. At first, you ignored it, assuming it was just the usual team group chat chaos. 

Then came a second buzz. 

A third. 

Then your phone started going off in rapid succession, messages piling up so fast that the screen barely had time to go dark between notifications.

Frowning, you picked it up.

Your stomach flipped, dread creeping in as you switched to Instagram.

There it was.

The photo you’d meant to post on your private account, the one with barely thirty followers, all trusted friends, was instead sitting proudly on your main feed. Public. For all of your followers to see.

Your heart started to pound in your chest.

It was an innocent enough picture. It was an old one from your first holiday as a couple that summer and she was on the beach chair next to you. You’d tried to take a photo of her but instead, she reached over and decided to pepper kisses all over your hand. 

And the caption? Oh, the caption made it worse.

You stared, horrified, as the likes and comments continued to flood in. Fans, teammates, and even journalists speculating. Your worst nightmare was unfolding in real-time.

A noise from the kitchen snapped you out of it. Kyra.

Completely oblivious.

You scrambled off the couch, phone gripped tightly in your hand as you rushed toward her. “Kyra,” you blurted, voice tight with panic.

She turned around with a spoon in her mouth, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

You held up your phone. “I posted it.”

She blinked. “Yeah, I know. I saw it when you took it.”

“No, Kyra.” You inhaled sharply, pulse racing. “I posted it on my main account.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then—

“Oh, sick.”

You gawked at her. “Sick? Is that all you have to say? Sick?”

She grinned, setting the spoon down. “Yeah! I mean, I kinda figured we’d get caught eventually. Might as well rip the band-aid off, eh?”

Your stomach twisted, hands gripping your phone tighter. “Kyra, I didn’t want—” Your voice cracked. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”

Her expression faltered, the teasing glint in her eyes softening as she took a step toward you. “Babe…”

You felt your chest tightening, breathing shallow. The anxiety was creeping in, clawing up your spine, squeezing your lungs. Kyra noticed immediately, of course, she did. She always did.

“Hey, hey, c’mere,” she murmured, gently prying the phone from your grip and setting it on the counter. Her arms wrapped around you, warm and grounding, as she pulled you into her chest. “It’s okay. I promise it’s okay.”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of her hoodie. “But what if—”

“Nah,” she interrupted softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “No ‘what ifs.’ We’ll handle it. Together.”

You swallowed, squeezing your eyes shut. You weren’t convinced yet, not entirely. After a moment, she spoke again, voice still light but careful. “And, you know… at least the picture’s cute.”

Despite yourself, a small, shaky laugh escaped. “It is, isn’t it?”

She pulled back just enough to grin down at you. “Hell yeah, it is. I look hot.”

You rolled your eyes, exhaling slowly. Kyra rocked you slightly in her arms, her chin resting atop your head as she rubbed slow circles into your back. The tension in your shoulders hadn’t fully eased, but the weight of her touch made it a little easier to breathe.

“Y’know,” she started, her voice laced with amusement, “People love us, bet the comments are great.”

You groaned, pulling back just enough to glare at her. “Kyra—”

“What?” She held her hands up in mock innocence. “I’m just saying, we might be the internet’s new favourite couple. Beat Beth and Viv!”

Your phone was still buzzing somewhere behind her, a constant reminder that this was very much not something you could just ignore. Your private life, something you’d worked so hard to keep yours, was now out in the open. 

There was no taking it back.

Kyra must’ve noticed the way your lips pressed into a tight line, how your fingers twitched at your sides. Her teasing softened into something gentler. “Okay, babe, look at me.”

You did, hesitantly, and found nothing but warmth in her gaze.

“You don’t have to deal with this alone,” she reassured you. “We’ll turn off your notifications, get off social media for a bit. We’ll make some tea, watch something other than that depressing documentary you love—”

“Hey,” you muttered weakly, but she just smirked.

“—and if you want, we can put out a little statement or whatever. Make it clear this is our relationship to share and we’ll do things in our own time.”

You exhaled slowly. “And if I don’t want to say anything?”

“Then we don’t,” she said easily. “It’s up to you, always.”

That was the thing about Kyra. She joked, teased, and never took much seriously but she always took you seriously.

Then Kyra grinned. “But if we do say something, I think we should go big. Like, a full-on announcement video. I can be like—” She widened her eyes dramatically, clutching her chest. “‘Guys, the love of my life just revealed us to the world, and I couldn’t be happier. Please respect our privacy during this beautiful time—’”

You smacked her arm, but there was no real force behind it. “You’re so annoying.”

“You love it.”

You huffed, shaking your head, but the small smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “I really don’t.”

“Liar.”

“Fine, okay I do love it.” You sighed, wrapping your arms around her neck before placing a kiss on her lips. 

[asterafroditis]

𐔌 . ⋮ fame's shadow .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☓┆Vil Schoenheit x insecure gn! reader

𓏵 695 words

ᝰ.ᐟ 2nd Person POV, no pronouns used, established relationship with reader, angst, hurt/comfort

kind of a self-indulgent post bc this sickness is making me feel things （；￣＾￣）feel free to like, reblog, or comment!

ᝰ.ᐟ masterlist

It started with a single article.

“Vil Schoenheit’s New Muse? Mystery Student Spotted by His Side!”

You’d laughed when you first saw it, showing Vil the grainy photo of the two of you walking through Main Street after classes. He’d only sighed, brushing it off with the ease of someone far too used to the tabloids. "They’ll get bored soon enough. Just ignore them, darling."

But they didn’t.

Soon, there were more headlines. “Ordinary Nobody Caught in Vil’s Spotlight!” “Rising Star Vil Schoenheit and Their Unworthy Partner—How Long Will It Last?” Comment sections filled with snide remarks, nitpicking everything from your appearance to the way you stood next to him.

At first, you convinced yourself it didn’t matter. Vil loved you. He chose you. That should’ve been enough.

But the comments stuck.

"They don’t even dress properly. How embarrassing for Vil."

"Must be nice riding his coattails."

"Do they seriously think they can keep up with someone like him?"

You stopped mentioning the articles to Vil. He was always so busy—filming commercials, practicing for his next show, overseeing the Pomefiore dorm. Every moment you had together felt precious, and the last thing you wanted was to add to his stress.

So, you smiled. You nodded. You told him you were fine.

But you started checking your reflection more often, tugging at your clothes and wondering if they looked too plain. You spoke less around his friends, afraid of saying something the media would twist into another cruel headline. You scrolled through hateful comments at night, your heart sinking further with each word.

And Vil, ever composed, ever radiant, never seemed to notice.

“You look tired,” he’d comment sometimes, brushing a hand against your cheek. “Have you been taking care of yourself? You know how important self-care is.”

You’d nod, force a smile, and tell him everything was fine.

Until it wasn’t.

It hit you during one of Vil’s photoshoots. You’d tagged along, thinking it would be nice to spend time together, even if you were just watching from the sidelines. But the photographer’s assistant, unaware of who you were, had muttered under their breath while passing by.

"Can’t believe they’re the one Vil chose. He could do so much better."

You froze. The room buzzed with activity, Vil effortlessly shifting poses under the bright lights. He looked perfect, untouchable. And you? You felt like a stain in his otherwise flawless image.

That night, you couldn’t hold it in any longer.

"Vil, do you ever wonder if… if you’d be better off without me?" you asked quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

Vil blinked, clearly caught off guard. “What kind of nonsense is that? Where is this coming from?”

You hesitated, then shook your head. “Forget it. I’m just overthinking things.”

But Vil didn’t forget. He studied you with sharp, discerning eyes—the same eyes that could catch the slightest flaw in a stage performance or a fashion ensemble. And for the first time, he truly saw the exhaustion behind your smile, the way your shoulders sagged under an invisible weight.

“Darling,” he murmured, stepping closer, “who’s been filling your head with such ridiculous thoughts?”

You tried to brush it off, but Vil wouldn’t let you. Not this time. And when you finally broke down, confessing everything—the articles, the comments, the way you’d slowly started believing them—his expression hardened, not with anger toward you but at the world that had dared to hurt someone he cherished.

“You should have told me sooner,” he said, voice softer now, thumb brushing away a stray tear. “I can’t protect you from shadows I can’t see.”

That night, Vil didn’t just hold you; he made calls, sent emails, and ensured that certain tabloids would think twice before publishing another cruel word. But more importantly, he promised—no matter how bright his spotlight shone, it would never cast you aside.

Because in his eyes, you were never a shadow. You were the light that made his world worth standing in.

[harrywavycurly]

The Almost Bumble Fumble: Impressed

Masterlist: Here

CW: None

Tag List: @georgiarose94

A/N: This is just some fun fluffy goodness that popped into my head the other day! I have a part 2 in mind if y’all want it? Enjoy!

Summary: Harry Styles shows up on your dating app and you’re convinced it’s not really him✨

Harry only has one reason why he finally caved and downloaded the bright yellow dating app, he likes the fact he can’t be the one to message anyone he matches with first. It takes some of the pressure off of him because it’s hard to think of an opening line that is catchy and engaging enough to actually make the other person respond, and while he may be a talented songwriter he is absolutely horrible at trying to be witty and flirty through a screen and over texts. So not having to worry about reaching out first allows him to just sit and wait to see if anyone is actually interested enough in him to send him a message and so far, much to his disappointment and only a slight blow to his ego he hasn’t gotten more than a few random hellos.

Even though he hasn’t gotten the kind of response he thought he would since he downloaded the app just a few days ago, he still finds himself checking it a few times a day and that’s exactly what he’s doing now as he gets comfortable on his couch with a glass of wine in his hand. He scrolls through a few profiles and doesn’t swipe right or hit the heart button on any of them until he lands on one that seems interesting. Your profile picture is of you grinning as you stare at a piece of what he thinks is cake that’s on a plate in front of you that has a candle in it, there’s a little caption under it that says “if you can make me smile the way this cake did, you’re a keeper” and he chuckles to himself as he continues further down your profile. The most important thing he likes to look at on people’s profile is what they’re looking for on the app, because Harry knows he’s ready for a relationship and he isn’t trying to have his time wasted nor waste anyone else’s if he knows they aren’t looking for the same thing in the end.

He feels a smile tug at the corners of his mouth when he sees your response to that prompt if the exact same as his, looking for something long term. Harry takes a sip of his wine as he looks through the photos you posted on your profile, enjoying the tiny look at what you do for fun since you have a few photos at concerts and other events such as the classic group photo during a girls night out but the one that sticks with Harry the most is of you sitting on a couch with a glass of wine and a book in your hand that someone took while you weren’t looking or at least that’s how it appears. When he reaches the end of your profile he doesn’t give himself a moment to overthink it he simply swipes right and continues on his scroll through the app trying not to get too anxious as he waits to see if you’ll match with him and find him interesting enough to message.

After a few more minutes of scrolling he lets out a sigh before he takes a rather large sip of wine, just when he’s ready to call it a night and leave the silly little dating app he sees that he has a new message. He quirks an eyebrow as he goes to his messages and he can’t help the grin that takes over his face when he sees it’s from you, meaning you have to be online now since he just swiped on you not even ten minutes ago and you’ve already sent him a message.

Now what Harry isn’t prepared for is what your message says, having only gotten the different variations of Hello so far as opening lines so when he opens your message the laugh that escapes him is genuine and he feels as if you just sent him a one liner you’d possibly use on him if you saw him at a bar and wanted to start a conversation with him. He reads the message again and shakes his head as he chuckles to himself while also feeling a bit of an inflation to his ego because your opening line is tailored to him, it’s something that you wouldn’t be able to use on just anyone. Because even if they were an obvious One Direction fan it would be very risky because they might not know the lyrics to the song and be extremely confused.

“If the room was burning, would you really not notice?”

He finds himself instantly replying and when he hits send he suddenly starts to get nervous that maybe he should’ve waited a bit to reply so he doesn’t seem too eager and possibly scare you off before he can even really get to know you. But it’s too late now, so he just sips his wine and stares at the small screen in his hand.

“Honestly I don’t think I would. My mind would be too preoccupied by someone and their ability to tell little fibs.”

When he sees a new message appear beneath his he lets out a small sigh of relief because already this is the longest conversation he’s had on this app so far.

“Right well thank goodness you’re fireproof.��

He quickly replies to you and waits with a new feeling of excitement brewing in his tummy to see what you’re going to say next. But he can’t help but wonder how long you can keep this up, he will happily play along because he doesn’t want to be the one to change the subject and possibly ruin the mood.

“Exactly. I’m also very good at finding my way through dark places as well.”

Luckily for him he doesn’t have to wait very long and your response has him laughing and he’s grateful that he lives alone so no one can walk into his living room and ask him what he’s laughing at while cuddled up in the corner of his couch.

“Oh does that mean you’re not scared of the dark? Because if you are that’s okay I won’t let anything get to you and drag you down.”

He is typing out his reply and hitting send before he can even fully lean over and put his empty wine glass down on the table.

“That’s lovely of you to say but no I’m not scared of the dark. Not even a little bit. The only thing I get a little unsettled about is how quickly the night can change.”

As Harry waits to see what you’ll say he can’t stop his mind from wondering if there’s a possibility you’re doing something similar right now, sitting comfortably on your couch or maybe in bed smiling and laughing at your phone like an idiot. Because surely it can’t just be him that’s enjoying how easy the conversation is flowing, regardless of how silly it may be.

You read the latest message from this “Harry” person and laugh at how he goes about avoiding the exact lyrics of the song night changes, you quickly type out a reply so you don’t have to keep him waiting for too long.

“It does change fast doesn’t it? I’ve always thought it was a bit rude how everything you’re dreaming about is just is gone in the morning.”

After hitting send you reach over to your nightstand and grab your glass of wine and take a sip as you go back to visit his profile. You narrow your eyes as you bring the screen a little closer to your face as you scroll down to the few photos he’s chosen, most of which are also on his Instagram so you don’t let the thought that you’re talking to the actual Harry Styles cross your mind. Especially since a lot of the information needed to make a profile on the dating app the two of you are currently messaging on is very accessible, it’s just a simple scroll through Google. The only thing that makes you quirk a brow is one photo he has at the very end of his profile, it’s a photo of him sitting at a table with a smile on his face while holding a glass of wine and it’s one you’ve never seen before but that also doesn’t mean anything because there’s tons of photos and videos of Harry you haven’t seen.

When you saw you matched with him you couldn’t stop yourself from instantly messaging him, because even though you know it’s just someone using Harry’s photos to get attention you figure you might as well have some harmless fun. You know eventually you’ll decide to move on and maybe report his account depending on how weird he gets. You’re brought back to the moment when you see you have a new message, you take another sip of your wine as you read what he wrote.

“It’s very rude but there is something that even the night can’t change. Do you know what that is?”

You bite down on your bottom lip as you read the message and you get an odd feeling this person might be trying to flirt with you because the next line of the song he’s talking about is a rather romantic one, but then again you can’t really be sure. You take this moment to test the waters a bit as you type out your reply and hit send before you can second guess yourself and delete it.

“It’s you and I right? Because nothing can separate us?”

You know you’re going to have to casually change the subject soon but you can’t help but want to see just how long the two of you can keep indirectly quoting One Direction songs in a way that has ended up with the two of you in a rather pointless conversation. You feel your cheeks get warm when you read his reply, of course this Harry impersonator would send you lyrics to Stockholm Syndrome.

“Precisely. It’s safe to say you’ve got me tied down.”

You finish off your wine and place the empty glass on your nightstand before figuring out how exactly you want to reply. There’s a few ways you could go about this, but instead of going the obvious flirty route you choose to go for the comedic approach instead because that’s more of who you are anyway.

“I mean I can’t have you trying to escape the city and follow the sun now can I? Because that would just break my heart and I don’t even know where I’d go if that happened.”

You giggle to yourself as you scroll to the top of your messages and reread them, well aware that if anyone were to read them they’d be extremely confused. You also have to admit that this person is very well educated on their One Direction lyrics and you’re a bit impressed. When you get to the bottom you see “Harry” has replied and what he says makes you lean your head back and laugh as you drop your phone into your lap as you try to get yourself under control.

“I’d never try to escape because if your heart is broken and you’re just wondering around that makes me worry people will try to steal you away from me and I can’t have that. Not to mention I also have no clue where’d you go with a broken heart and I’m honestly so shit with directions so I’d be left with no choice but to walk around shouting your name.”

After a few moments you quickly type out a response and double tap his last message letting a red heart appear next to it so he knows you really enjoyed that creative use of lyrics from two songs.

“Walking around shouting my name? Absolutely not. Don’t embarrass me.”

Harry doesn’t even bother trying to hide his amusement at your message, enjoying how you managed to give him an easy way to go along with your subtle change of conversation since he notices a very obvious lack of song lyrics in your reply. And Harry being the romantic that he is finds this a great opportunity to ask something, and your answer will be one he might possibly tuck away in his mind to remember at a later date.

“Not one for big declarations of love then?”

As he waits for your reply Harry takes a moment to process the fact that even though the two of you haven’t even really had a true conversation he already can tell by your sense of humor that he’s going to enjoy getting to know you more, if you let him that is. When he sees your response he laughs and runs a hand through his hair with his hand that’s not holding his phone.

“I’ve never had anyone do a big declaration of love for me before so I’m not sure how I feel about them. What about you? Do you need a Jumbotron proposal during a sporting event or a billboard dedicated to how much I love your hands?”

Harry looks at his free hand and wonders if you’re being serious about loving his hands or if that’s just an example you picked to show him what you would be willing to write on a billboard about him. As he types out his reply his mind begins to think of things that could be considered big declarations of love or feelings that maybe you’d like, because even though he doesn’t know you he figures having some ideas on the back burner can’t hurt and who doesn’t like coming home to an outrageous amount of flowers or a maybe even having the radio play nothing but your favorite songs for a whole day.

“I am open to all types of declarations of love. Big, small, handwritten or painted on a billboard. I’m not picky.”

Now only part of that statement is a lie, Harry truly does enjoy any type of declaration of love that his significant other is willing to give him but he is a tiny bit picky. But that’s something to discuss at a later date, because it doesn’t really have anything to do with what the two of you are discussing now, he’s picky about other things but not how someone is willing to tell him their feelings about him. As Harry is getting up and grabbing his empty wine glass off his coffee table and heading into the kitchen he gets an odd notification at the bottom of the message thread between the two of you.

*accept video chat*

But before he can even hit accept or decline the message is gone and he sees you’ve typed out a quick little explanation.

“Oh god I’m sorry! Finger slipped and hit the video chat button! Sorry!”

He quirks a brow as he scrolls to the top of the messages and sees what looks like a FaceTime icon near the corner. Having not noticed it before he becomes curious and maybe it’s the wine or maybe it’s just that he’s interested in you and thinks this is a smart way to “meet” for the first time to get a better feeling of if the two of you actually can hold a conversation or not but either way Harry is typing out a quick message and hitting send before entering his kitchen.

“It’s okay. I didn’t know it was an option, I’m fine with a video chat if you are?”

You stare at his message for a solid thirty seconds before you even blink, not knowing why on earth this person would want to video chat with you when you know they aren’t Harry Styles. It’s going to be awkward and embarrassing, for them of course not for you because you already know you haven’t been talking to the tall tattooed international superstar but maybe this is for the best so you can tell whoever it is how impressed with their One Direction song lyric knowledge you are. And maybe, just maybe you’ll still find whoever it is attractive and it won’t be a total bummer of a Friday night. So against your better judgement you send him a simple response before you climb out of bed and head for the kitchen to refill your wine.

“Sure!”

You catch your reflection in the door of your microwave and instantly place your phone on the counter next to your fridge so you can adjust the monstrosity that is your messy bun. Once that’s as good as it’s going to get you look down at your faded band t shirt and decide that it’s good enough for whoever it is that’s about to video chat you, it’s after nine at night on a Friday after all so in your mind them seeing you like this is just preparing them for what they can expect in the future. As you’re reaching for your bottle of wine you see a new notification appear on your screen and you feel nervous as you pick your phone up.

*Accept video chat from Harry Styles*

You hit accept and the screen goes black before suddenly you’re looking at someone’s ceiling and you squint your eyes and bring the phone closer to your face as what appears to be half a forearm comes into view.

“Sorry love it seems I’ve dropped you.” You feel your heart begin to beat so fast you’re afraid it’s going to explode as a British accent comes from the phone, you swear it sounds exactly like Harry’s but you simply shake your head at that idea because there’s no way he’s on the other end of this call.

“Oh wow you sound just like-”

“I sound just like who?” Harry asks as he finally comes into view after he picks the phone up from where he accidentally dropped it on his counter while trying to open his wine bottle one handed. Your eyes go a bit wide as you move your phone away from your face, you feel your cheeks get hot and out of pure panic you place your phone against your wine bottle and put both hands over your face making Harry raise an eyebrow at you.

“Are you okay?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re Harry Styles.” You mumble into your hands but Harry hears you just fine making him chuckle as he pours some wine into his glass. “You weren’t supposed to actually be Harry Styles.” You explain as you spread your fingers allowing you to get a small look at Harry through the gaps, it’s almost unfair how much better he looks while taking up your phone screen than he does in his photos.

“Who was I supposed to be?” He questions as he grabs his phone and his wine glass and heads back into his living room.

“Some weirdo just acting like you to get attention on a dating app.” Harry doesn’t quite like that answer, he doesn’t like the idea of someone pretending to be him just to get attention and possibly hurt people in the process.

“Do people really do that? Pretend to be me on things like this?” You just shrug as you slowly lower your hands from your face and Harry is glad he’s already sitting down because even with your pink cheeks and distraught look in your still slightly wide eyes he can’t get over how pretty you are.

“I’m not sure? You’re actually the first Harry Styles I’ve ever come across but I mean I just-I didn’t think it was really you.” You admit with a laugh as you reach and grab your phone so you can get to your wine bottle, deciding you now more than ever need to refill your glass.

“Are you disappointed it’s really me and not some random weirdo?” He watches you raise an eyebrow and make a humming noise as if you really have to think about it before answering him.

“Honestly I’m relieved it’s actually you because if it wasn’t then I would’ve had to tell a random person how impressed I was with their One Direction knowledge.” You answer after you fill your glass up with wine, Harry chuckles as you make a face of disgust at the mention of telling someone you were impressed with them. “But since it’s you-”

“Oh are you saying you’re not impressed with my One Direction knowledge?” He says in mock offense as he watches you walk through what he can only assume is your kitchen based on the oven he sees in the background.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” You answer without any hesitation and Harry’s face breaks out into a wide grin because the look you give him is one that tells him he should’ve known that was going to be your answer.

“Well I’m quite impressed with your knowledge and your opening message was-”

“Oh god.” You say with a groan as you head into the living room, your cheeks turn a light shade of pink as you take a seat on your couch making Harry give you a soft smile to try to help ease your clear embarrassment of what you sent him because he thought it was great.

“Don’t feel embarrassed love.” He quietly clears his throat and takes a sip of his wine after the petname accidentally slips out of his mouth. “I thought it was brilliant that’s why I responded and kept it going.” He explains making you smile and it’s not until this very moment do the two of you really sit and look each other in the eyes and Harry feels his own cheeks get a little warm as you stare at him through the phone.

“You’re really pretty.” Harry laughs and runs a hand through his hair as you blink a few times and realize what you just said out loud.

“You’re really pretty as well.” He says with only a small hint of nervousness evident in his voice because he doesn’t want to come across overly flirty but he also doesn’t see the harm in telling you the truth, you are very pretty.

“Thank you.” You smile and get comfortable on your couch. “I guess it’s good to get all this embarrassing and awkwardness out of the way now right?” Harry just nods and smiles at your choice of words, giving him some hope that you’ll want to maybe do this again or possibly meet up in person if you feel comfortable enough.

“Exactly.” Is all he says with a grin making you return his smile as you sink into your couch and toss a blanket over your legs to get comfortable because something tells you that you’re about to be on the phone with Harry for a while and you don’t mind. You silently thank your lucky stars that you decided to message him when you saw he matched with you because you can’t imagine the level of regret you’d feel if you somehow found out you fumbled the opportunity to talk and possibly get to know Harry just because you thought it was a fake profile.

[glowettee]

🕶 she ghosted the groupchat & built an empire

hey lovelies!! ✨

so i've been thinking about this a lot lately... like how we're all constantly connected but somehow feeling more drained than ever?? and it hit me that sometimes the most revolutionary thing you can do is just... disappear for a bit??

i literally had to turn my phone off for three days last month because my creative energy was being sucked dry by all these group chats that were going nowhere. like, bestie, why am i reading 87 messages about someone's ex's cousin's new haircut when i could be building my dream life instead??

so here's my unfiltered thoughts on strategic isolation + how it literally changed everything for me...

✧ protecting your energy isn't selfish, it's essential ✧

let's be honest - we're all just walking energy fields. and every notification, every "hey girl, you free?" text, every random zoom call is either feeding your field or draining it. i started tracking my energy levels in this little pink journal (yes, elle woods style but make it productive) and noticed that certain people and activities were literally vampire-draining me.

some hard truths about protecting your time:

• not everyone deserves access to you

• "sorry, i can't" is a complete sentence

• your dreams require your full attention

• boundaries aren't mean, they're necessary

• your future self will thank you for saying no today

i started implementing what i call "ghost protocols" where i literally just... stop responding for periods of time. not forever! just long enough to recalibrate. it feels uncomfortable at first (i literally had anxiety sweats) but then something magical happens - you remember who you are without all the noise.

✧ digital detox rituals that actually work ✧

okay so everyone talks about digital detoxes but they make it sound so basic like "just turn off your phone lol" which... no. here's what actually works:

1. schedule your disappearance (sounds dramatic but it's just good planning) - i block off "ghost time" in my calendar just like i would a meeting

2. create a hyperfocus sanctuary - mine is this corner of my room with no wifi, just candles, my journal, and a vintage alarm clock. no devices allowed within 10 feet.

3. implement the 5/1/3 rule - for every 5 hours of deep work, allow 1 hour of connection, followed by 3 hours of integration time where you process what you've created

4. batch your responses - i only check messages twice daily now (12pm and 6pm) and i use templates for most replies which sounds cold but actually gives me more energy for meaningful conversations later

5. practice saying "that doesn't work for me" without explaining yourself - hardest thing i've ever done but most rewarding

✧ hyperfocus rituals that built my empire ✧

the truth that nobody tells you is that success isn't grinding 24/7... it's protecting your focus like it's the most precious resource on earth (because it literally is).

my non-negotiable focus rituals:

• morning pages but make them strategic - i write 3 pages about my vision every morning before touching my phone

• the 90/30 method - work in complete silence for 90 minutes, then take a luxurious 30 minute break (no exceptions)

• environment switching - i have different spaces for different types of work (creative work happens by the window, admin work at my desk, planning happens on the floor with a giant paper)

• sensory anchors - learned this from a few psychology articles online, stayed w/ it foreverrr -> specific scents, sounds, and tastes that tell my brain "it's empire building time" (for me it's this fancy bergamot candle + instrumental lo-fi + earl grey tea)

i know this all sounds intense but listen... while everyone was busy commenting on instagram posts and overthinking text messages, i built something real. something that matters. something that's mine.

sometimes the most rebellious thing you can do is disconnect in order to connect more deeply with your purpose. and yes, people might get annoyed when you don't respond right away. they might even talk about you in those same group chats you left. but honestly? that's just background noise when you're focused on building something meaningful.

your time is literally the only non-renewable resource you have. protect it fiercely.

xoxo, mindy 🤍

p.s. what's one conversation or obligation you could ghost this week to get closer to your dreams? i promise the world won't end... but your empire might just begin.

⋆ psst. i made a free workbook just for you. it’s soft, dark-academia, and full of real advice. get it here: deprogramming your trauma-coded ambition

[sowerpatch]

unfold [chapter two - yield]

Summary: Paige Bueckers didn’t expect to lose the WNBA championship. She also didn’t expect to find comfort in a bartender who spoke more with her in guarded silences than most people did with words.

Author's note: this is an AU where Azzi doesn't play basketball but works as a bartender.

*CHAPTER LIST HERE*

Chapter Summary: Paige doesn’t mean to keep showing up, but she does. Again. And Again. Azzi never asks for more than what’s given. In between study sessions, midnight rides, and the confusing things left unsaid, they begin to build something quiet and unspoken. Something that doesn’t fix what’s broken, but makes the breaking feel a little less lonely.

Word count: 5,082

Paige lay in bed, arms crossed behind her head, the ceiling fan clicking gently above her like a second hand no one had wound. Her bedroom was quiet, dim. Her phone rested beside her on the pillow, screen still glowing. 

She hadn’t opened any of the other notifications, not the group chat, not the missed call from her agent, not the post-game feature someone tagged her in. None of it mattered right now. 

All she could see was the name sitting in her contact list. 

Azzi. 

Her name. 

Her beautiful name. 

Just that. No last name. No bar title. Just a single name dropped into her phone like something that had always been there. 

Paige hadn’t noticed it then. She hadn’t paid attention to the way Azzi had typed it. Plain, unembellished, and without hesitation. But now, lying here in the thick quiet, she recognized it. Azzi’s name was the first thing she had offered Paige freely. 

And Paige hadn’t even asked. 

Her fingers hovered above the screen. She didn’t want to overthink it. But she didn’t want to say the wrong thing either. 

So she just typed what was true. 

It’s funny... I just realized I never asked your name. I only knew it when I saw it on my phone. 

She stared at the message for a moment. Then hit send. 

She put the phone down on her chest like it weighed something, her breath shallow for no clear reason. 

Ten minutes passed before the screen lit up again. 

I think I liked it that way. 

Paige didn’t smile. Not exactly. But her chest softened. Her grip on the moment loosened. 

She replied: 

I’ve been thinking about you more than I meant to. Is that weird? 

This time the pause was longer. Long enough that she began to wonder if she’d gone too far, said too much. 

Then, a new message notification came in.  

No. Just early. 

They didn’t keep texting in paragraphs or flurries. Just a slow, drifting rhythm over the course of the evening.  

A song Paige sent without context.  

A photo Azzi took of her notebook at a coffee shop.  

A quiet admission that Paige hated mornings but was willing to make exceptions. 

None of it was demanding. None of it tried to push their connection forward too fast. 

But something moved anyway. 

It wasn’t that Paige had nothing else going on. It was that nothing else felt like this. Like calm. Like balance. Like the version of herself she didn’t always know how to reach. 

She found herself checking her phone more now.  

- 

By the time four days passed, Paige had memorized the pacing of Azzi’s replies. 

Never instant. Never reactive. Always deliberate. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel like hesitation but choice. Azzi answered when she meant to, and only with what was necessary. No fluff. No overreach. 

Paige liked that more than she admitted. 

The texts weren’t frequent. Just well-timed.  

A brief comment on the article Paige posted.  

A screenshot of Azzi’s study playlist.  

Paige once sent a blurry photo of the back alley behind her gym captioned “five-star post-practice ambiance.” and Azzi had replied with just “Tragic. But poetic.” 

Even that felt like a thread. 

Still, Paige kept circling on one thought she hadn’t spoken aloud. It was they’d only seen each other at night. In a curated club under dim lights and in her car surrounded with fast food wrappers and milkshake stains. And maybe that was part of why it felt safe—the half-shadow between them. The mutual unknowing. 

But now? She wanted something more precise. 

So Thursday evening, sitting in her apartment with her shoes still on and the windows cracked open to let in the early dusk, she finally typed what she’d been holding onto all day. 

When’s your next day or night off? 

She didn’t check her phone compulsively. Didn’t need to. 

Azzi replied ten minutes later, like she always did. 

Sunday. Why? 

Paige sat with the question. Then answered simply: 

Because I keep thinking about seeing you again. And I think I’d like to meet the daylight version of you. If that’s something you’d let me see. 

The silence that followed wasn’t long. But it felt full.    This time, Paige stared at the bubble appearing and disappearing on her screen. Then the reply came in.  

Most people want less of me, not more. But I’ll text you a time and place. Bring your broody self. And curiosity. 

That made Paige smile. A slow, deep feeling blooming behind her ribs. She closed her eyes for a few second, taking in the realness of Azzi’s reply. Then, she stared at the screen again, thumb hovering. 

I’ll bring both. 

- 

The address came Sunday morning. No explanation. Just a pin on the map with two words underneath. 

Meet me. 

It wasn’t Vault 35. It wasn’t anywhere near downtown. Paige stared at the map long enough to commit the cross streets to memory, then tossed her phone on the counter and pulled on a hoodie. 

Whatever Azzi had in mind, Paige was already in. 

The coffee shop wasn’t one of the hyper-trendy, neon-signed storefronts Paige expected Azzi to frequent. No influencer tables. No curated latte art. Just soft earth tones, hanging plants by the windows, and the rich, unpretentious smell of actual roasted beans. It was tucked into the corner of a neighborhood she’d never wandered into before. The kind of place with locals reading real books and couples who didn’t need to speak to be content. 

Azzi was already there. 

She sat at a small two-seater by the window, sunlight striping across the sleeves of her crewneck. Her hair was down this time, a little messy at the ends like she’d let it air dry and hadn’t bothered to fix it. A textbook lay open in front of her, but she wasn’t reading. Just tracing a fingertip slowly along the spine, lost in thought. 

Paige stepped inside and, for a second, didn’t announce herself. 

She just watched. 

She observed how Azzi settled into the space, calm and unbothered. Her blinks unhurried. Her breathing measured. As if she had nothing to prove to anyone in the room. 

Then Azzi looked up. 

And smiled. Soft, barely there, but real. 

Paige made her way over, sliding into the seat across from her. 

“I half expected a bar patio with mimosas and someone crying over brunch,” she murmured. 

Azzi shook her head. “This place doesn’t serve opinions with their eggs. It’s safer.” 

Their coffees arrived without needing to be ordered. Black for Azzi. Latte for Paige. Azzi must’ve remembered, or maybe guessed. Either way, it landed. 

“So,” Paige said, curling a hand around her cup, “you going to tell me where exactly I’ve been summoned to?” 

Azzi leaned back, gaze steady. “Corner of Vermont and 30th. You’re five blocks from USC’s main campus.” 

Paige’s smile stalled slightly. “You’re a Trojan?” 

“Four years running,” Azzi said, unapologetic.  

Paige’s brow lifted. “And you waited five days to tell me this? I mean when you said you’re completing your bachelor’s degree, you never said it’s in USC.” 

“You never asked,” Azzi said, deadpan. 

“I just thought you were… I don’t know. Mysterious. Untraceable. Possibly immortal.” 

Azzi shrugged. “Student loans say otherwise.” 

Paige took a slow sip, then narrowed her eyes, playing along. “You know I went to UConn.” 

“I do.” 

“So you invited a Husky to Trojan territory.” 

Azzi’s mouth twitched. “Should I have warned you to leave your jersey at home?” 

“I feel deeply unsafe,” Paige said. “Truly violated.” 

Azzi tilted her head. “Relax. We only bite during rivalry week or March Madness.” 

“Cute,” Paige said, gaze steady. “But I’ve seen the way USC talks about itself. You’d think you invented basketball.” 

Azzi’s smile grew by half a centimeter. “We didn’t. We just perfected it.” 

That made Paige bark a laugh. “Oh, you did not just say that.” 

“I’m just saying,” Azzi said, folding her arms, “if JuJu Watkins and college-you played one-on-one, it wouldn’t be a sweep.” 

“I would cook her,” Paige said instantly, full chest, no hesitation. 

Azzi blinked. “You say that with alarming confidence.” 

“I say that with a jumper that doesn’t lie.” 

“Mm,” Azzi mused, nodding like she was indulging a toddler. “Sure. Okay. But JuJu’s faster. Smoother. She’s got that L.A. calm. You? You’d go full Connecticut chaos in five seconds.” 

“And still drop twenty on her before you finished that sentence,” Paige shot back, smirking. 

Azzi tilted her head, resting her chin on one hand. “You’re fun when you’re defensive.” 

“You’re fun when you’re wrong.” 

They grinned at each other then. It was enough to admit that this, whatever it was, was starting to feel like something neither of them needed to define to enjoy. 

Paige sat back in her chair, letting the warmth of the room settle into her shoulders. 

“So,” she said. “What’s next?” 

Azzi glanced out the window, then back at her. “A bookstore. Then a reading I have to sit through for a seminar. You’re welcome to join for both. Or neither.” 

Paige considered that. 

The offer wasn’t casual. It was an opening. 

A glimpse into Azzi’s day. 

A glimpse into Azzi's life. 

“I’ll come,” she said simply. “I want to see what else is behind the bar.” 

Azzi looked at her for a moment longer, her expression unreadable but not distant. 

Then she stood. 

“Come on then, Husky,” she said, gathering her books. “Let’s see if you turn into dust in Trojan sunlight.” 

- 

The bookstore was narrow, the kind of place with mismatched shelves and books stacked in precarious towers beside the register. The air smelled like cedar, coffee grounds, and dust. Azzi moved through it like she’d walked this path a hundred times before. 

She didn’t tell Paige to follow. She just kept walking, pausing only to pull a small paperback from the philosophy shelf without looking at the title. Her fingers flipped through it absently, her mind clearly elsewhere. 

“You memorize the layout or just psychic?” Paige asked, trailing a step behind. 

“I used to shelve here,” Azzi said, eyes still on the book. “They paid in tips and coffee.” 

“That sounds like a tragic sitcom.” 

Azzi smiled, faint but genuine. “It was. I liked it anyway.” 

They wandered without speaking for a while. Paige watched the way Azzi’s hand lingered on each book she touched. It reminded Paige of the way she handled a ball during warmup. Casual. Instinctual. Muscle memory. 

When they stepped back out into the sun, Azzi gestured up the street. “I have an hour before a seminar. You’re still good?” 

“Yup! Still not turning into dust,” Paige did a 360-degree turn for full dramatic effect, smirking. “Let’s go Trojan girl!” 

Azzi looked down and suppressed a smile. She led them a few blocks farther until they reached a red-brick building with slanted windows and ivy growing crookedly along one side. Inside, the seminar room was mostly empty. Just a few scattered students with laptops open and blank expressions on their faces. 

Paige followed Azzi to the back row and dropped into the chair beside her. She didn’t ask questions. She sat down, hands folded in her lap, eyes flicking around the room like she was back in study hall. Except the only thing she wanted to learn was seated next to her, uncapping a pen and sliding notes into place. 

Ten minutes into the lecture, Paige was already zoning out. 

Twenty minutes in, she was pretending not to check the time. 

Thirty, and she’d started playing a quiet game in her head called How Many Things in This Room Can I Dunk On. So far: the professor’s tie, the fluorescent lights, and the student in front of her using Microsoft Word in 2025. 

But every time she glanced sideways, Azzi was still. Sharp, focused, eyes narrowed with attention. She didn’t slouch. Didn’t fidget. She underlined phrases like they mattered. 

Paige leaned in a little and whispered, “You’re actually into this?” 

Azzi didn’t look up. “I’m writing about carceral policy for my thesis. So yes.” 

“Carceral like—?” 

“Prisons. Systems. How we punish and who benefits from it.” 

“Fun.” 

“Not fun,” Azzi murmured, underlining something else. “Necessary.” 

Paige watched her for a second longer. The curve of her brow. The way she bit the inside of her cheek when she read something she didn’t like. She leaned back, folded her arms. 

“I like how serious you get when no one’s watching.” 

Azzi looked at her, finally, the edge of a smile flickering at the corner of her mouth. “You say that like you’re not bored out of your mind.” 

“I am,” Paige said, unbothered. “But that’s not the point.” 

Azzi turned slightly toward her. “Then what is?” 

Paige didn’t hesitate. “That I wanted to be near you, even if I didn’t understand half of what was being said.” 

That landed harder than she expected. 

Azzi’s gaze lingered on Paige for a moment longer than necessary. Not with challenge, but with something quieter. Like she was trying to decode a question she hadn’t figured out how to ask yet. 

“You didn’t have to stay,” Azzi said eventually, her voice quiet but not unsure. 

“I know,” Paige replied, eyes steady. 

There was no need for explanation. No rush to fill the pause. 

Azzi closed her notebook slowly, slipping the pen between the pages, fingers brushing the corner like it anchored her to something. She didn’t speak right away. Just sat there, still, the corner of her lip caught gently between her teeth like she was weighing the cost of saying anything at all. 

“I don’t usually let people see this part,” she said, finally. 

Paige tilted her head slightly, not pushing. “This?” 

Azzi nodded faintly, gesturing. A small movement toward the now-empty seminar room, the open textbook, the half-finished notes. “This and everything that’s quiet. Routine. Not shaped for anyone else.” 

Paige let the silence stretch a little. She could feel Azzi watching her now, maybe not expecting anything in return, but still braced for it. 

“I don’t know if it’s impressive,” Azzi added, voice softer now.  

“I like that you’re not trying,” Paige whispered. “Most people can’t sit still without putting on some kind of act.” 

Azzi's shoulders dropped and sighed softly. The kind of release that happens when someone realizes they’re not being judged. 

“Sometimes I feel like I’ve split myself in half,” she said. “There’s who I am when I’m working. And then there’s... this. The student. The person no one really pays attention to. I think I got used to keeping them separate.” 

“And now?” Paige asked, gentle. 

Azzi looked at her—a glance that lingered, direct but not sharp. “Now I’m not sure if I want them to be.” 

There was no dramatic shift in the air, no big moment of realization. Just something subtle. A rhythm changing. A thread tightening between them. 

“I’m not always like this,” Azzi said after a moment, eyes flicking down to her notes, then back up. “I can be cold. Distant. Not on purpose. Just practiced.” 

Paige’s voice was quiet but certain. “You’re not cold.” 

Azzi gave the smallest shake of her head, almost amused. “You don’t know me well enough to say that.” 

“Maybe,” Paige said. “But I’ve spent enough time around people who are. You’re not one of them.” 

Azzi didn’t reply. Not right away. But the way she looked at Paige after that—really looked at her—felt like the beginning of something unguarded. 

They stood in quiet when the lecture hall finally emptied around them, neither rushing to fill the next beat. Paige adjusted the strap of her hoodie, glancing over. 

“I was serious when I said I’d stay,” she murmured. 

“I know you were,��� Azzi said. 

They walked outside together, side by side, the daylight falling low across the pavement. 

As they reached the edge of the lot, Azzi said, not quite looking at her, “I’m still figuring out what to share.” 

Paige nodded. “That’s fine.” 

“You don’t expect anything?” 

“No,” she said simply. “I’m just here.” 

And that, more than anything, was why Azzi let her stay. 

- 

It didn’t begin as a routine. Not intentionally. There was no calendar, no agreement, no line drawn in the air where one kind of closeness became another. It just settled. Quietly. Naturally. Like steam rising from a cup left too long on the table. Gradual. Unnoticed. But unmistakably there. 

One morning bled into the next. A casual pass-through turned into a seat kept warm. Study hours stretched without ceremony, until their shared silence felt less like a pause and more like its own kind of conversation. 

Paige started appearing around ten, hoodie pulled over her head, sunglasses she didn’t need. Always with a paper bag from somewhere a little too curated to be casual. The kind of pastries that flaked at the corners and cost more than she admitted. She never explained where she got them. She didn’t need to.  

Azzi was always already mid-page, highlighter uncapped, with a curve of her concentration softened only when Paige set the bag down beside her. 

“You didn’t have to,” Azzi would murmur without looking up. 

Paige would slide into the seat across from her, stretching out like she belonged there. “I know,” she’d reply. “Did it anyway.” 

Azzi never reached for the croissant first. But she always finished it. 

No one ever said it was theirs—the bench, the mornings, the time. But they kept returning to it. As if it had been theirs from the beginning. 

And then there were the nights. 

It became another routine. Paige pulling up in front of Vault 35 just before closing. Hoodie zipped, window rolled halfway down, fingers drumming the steering wheel in rhythm with the lo-fi playlist she refused to admit she’d made just for these drives. 

Azzi would slide into the passenger seat. Always a little tired, but always a little amused. “I could Uber, you know,” she’d say, seatbelt already buckled. 

“And yet you don’t,” Paige would answer, offering her a bottle of water or a pack of gummy worms or whatever random snack she’d picked up on the way. 

From there, it was always something low-effort. Tacos on a curb. Drive-thru milkshakes. One night it was a 24-hour Korean BBQ place that neither of them could finish and both agreed to forget.  

It wasn’t about the food. It never was. It was the hour. The simplicity. The space. 

Two weeks passed like that. Quietly. Completely. 

And somewhere in the middle of it, Azzi changed. 

Not dramatically. She didn’t suddenly burst into laughter or lay bare her inner life with poetic monologues. But she started smiling more—not the half-curved, cautious ones, but full ones, the kind that reached her eyes and stayed there. She teased Paige more often, gently, without edge. She lingered when they said goodbye. Asked Paige about things beyond the court. 

And Paige? She noticed all of it. 

One night, sitting on the hood of her car outside a late-night sandwich shop, Azzi leaned back on her palms, her legs stretched out in front of her, ankles crossed. 

“You’re really still hanging around,” she said, eyes fixed on the empty sidewalk across the street. 

Paige popped a fry into her mouth and shrugged. “What can I say? You’ve grown on me.” 

Azzi turned to look at her. “Like mold?” 

“Like something more charming. Ferns. Moss. Those aesthetic girl Tumblr plants.” 

Azzi rolled her eyes, but her smile was unguarded. “I still don’t get why you do this.” 

“Do what?” 

“Sit through lectures you don’t care about. Wait outside my job at 1 AM. Pretend my thesis drafts make sense.” 

“I don’t pretend,” Paige said. “You’re smart as hell. Your work is dense. That’s not a critique.” 

Azzi laughed under her breath. “You know what I mean.” 

Paige didn’t answer right away. She looked at Azzi. The soft light from the storefront casting gold along her cheek, the way her hair was pulled into a loose braid over one shoulder, how she looked both tired and alive. 

“I don’t know,” Paige said finally. “Maybe because I don’t have to be anything around you. And maybe because you don’t pretend not to see me.” 

Azzi blinked, the moment heavier than either of them meant it to be. 

“I do see you,” she said quietly. 

Paige looked down at the sidewalk, then back up at her. “Yeah. That’s the thing.” 

They didn’t say much after that. Just passed the rest of the fries back and forth until the bag was empty, then drove with the windows down and the radio low. 

- 

It had been a normal night.  

Until it wasn’t. 

Just another late shift at Vault. Paige had parked like always—second row, under the overhanging tree. Her hoodie pulled low, hands in the pockets of her joggers with her head down. The night air smelled like smoke and clove, and the low hum of bass from inside the club pulsed gently through the pavement. She leaned against her car, waiting. 

She didn’t expect trouble. Not here. Not in Azzi’s space. 

But then the door cracked open, and three guys stumbled out. Loud, already laughing too hard. The kind of drunk that comes with money and nothing to lose. One of them paused when he saw her. Did a double take. Then smiled like he’d spotted prey. 

“No fucking way,” he said, swaggering closer. “That’s Bueckers, right? LA Sparks, golden girl.” 

Paige straightened but didn’t move. “Not tonight, man.” 

He kept walking. Too close. “Didn’t think I’d see a star player hiding outside a bar. Thought you’d be off somewhere, I don’t know… losing?” 

Laughter broke behind him. Paige’s jaw tensed. 

“I said, not tonight.” 

But he was already circling, beer sloshing in his hand. “How’d it feel, huh? Choke in the last two minutes? What was it, a reach? A bad read? Or are you just a complete fraud?” 

Paige’s fists balled in her pockets. Her breath tightened. 

The door behind them opened again. And then Azzi’s voice, low but cutting. “Walk away.” 

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even loud. But it stopped everything. 

The guy turned to look at her. “Hey, relax. Just talking.” 

Azzi stepped forward, eyes sharp beneath the wash of neon. “You’re not.” 

He smirked, about to fire back but something in Azzi’s face made him think twice. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just stood between him and Paige like a wall of silence. 

Eventually, he scoffed and muttered something under his breath. The trio stumbled off, their voices fading into the alley. 

Azzi didn’t turn to Paige right away. She stayed where she was, spine tight, shoulders still. 

“Come on,” she said finally. “You’re coming with me.” 

- 

Azzi’s apartment was hushed in the way intimate spaces often are. Dim corners, quiet breathing, the ambient hum of a city winding down beyond the windows. The walls were bare except for a single framed print above the bookshelf. A coat hung neatly on a wall hook. A stack of folded laundry sat on the arm of the couch, untouched. It was a space built for solitude, not spectacle. One where everything had been placed with care, and nothing begged to be seen. 

Paige stepped inside slowly, her movements hesitant, like the apartment might shrink if she disturbed the air too much. Her hand brushed the edge of the counter as she passed, grounding herself. She didn’t sit. Didn’t speak. Just stood there with the faintest tension curling her shoulders inward like she was trying to contain herself. 

Azzi said nothing. She walked ahead with quiet precision, her footsteps soft on the hardwood. She turned on the kitchen light without comment, then disappeared briefly before returning with a glass of water. She placed it gently on the corner of the coffee table, then stood nearby. Not close enough to press, not far enough to feel absent. 

“You can sit,” she offered quietly. 

But Paige didn’t move. 

She stood in the middle of the room. Her hands hidden inside the pockets of her joggers, trying to find solace in the soft cotton. The silence drawing long and taut around her. Her voice, when it finally came, was barely above a breath. 

“I wanted to hit him.” 

Azzi didn’t react. No raised brows, no polite protest. Just stillness. Attention. 

“I mean it,” Paige said. Her voice caught, rough-edged. “I wanted to hit him. Just once. Hard. I wanted him to feel it.” 

She pulled her hands out and clenched her fists so hard. Veins visible with anger.  

“I stood there and let him say everything everyone else probably thinks. That I’m the reason we lost. That I cracked when it mattered. That I’m not who they thought I was.” 

Azzi remained quiet. She listened the way Paige had always wished people would. She didn’t interrupt. It felt wrong to interrupt.  

“I’ve been waking up every night,” Paige continued. “Always the same. Two minutes left. That foul. The bench. The clock. My body feels like it’s still in the game, like it never ended, and I’m just stuck there. Inside the moment that broke everything.” 

Her shoulders shook. Not violently, not dramatically, just enough to shift her breath out of rhythm. She hadn’t cried. Not once. Not since the final buzzer. Not even during post-game. But her eyes now looked raw, like the ache had moved inward and nested there. 

Azzi took a step forward, unhurried. 

“You don’t have to carry it all,” she said gently. “Not tonight.” 

Paige finally looked at her. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, like she wasn’t quite in her body. 

“I don’t know how to put it down,” she said. “Even when I want to. Even right now, standing here, I still feel like I have to hold it together.” 

Azzi stepped closer. Not to pull her in. Just to be near enough for the weight to shift, even slightly. 

“You don’t have to hold anything for me,” Azzi said softly. “But if you let me, I’ll hold it with you. Just tonight. Just enough to help you sleep.” 

There was no pity in her voice. No pity in her face. It’s that quiet grounded presence that Paige had begun to trust without realizing. 

She didn’t respond. Not with words. 

She just exhaled. Long. Shaky. Like a release she hadn’t allowed herself. 

And then she nodded. 

- 

Azzi’s room was dark except for the streetlight spilling softly through the blinds, tracing faint gold lines across the wall. Paige sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over her hands. She didn’t move, didn’t look back. Her eyes stayed on the floor, where her shoes sat side by side like they were waiting to leave again. 

Azzi watched her from the doorway for a moment, then crossed the room and folded the comforter down. The motion was quiet. Unrushed. 

“You can lie down,” she said gently. 

Paige didn’t answer right away. Her jaw moved, like she was chewing over something she didn’t know how to say. 

Finally, “I used to be really sure of myself.” 

Azzi sat on the far corner of the bed, not too close. “And now?” 

Paige let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. Eyes shadowed and tired. “I thought if I trained hard enough, focused enough, I could shape myself into someone untouchable. Someone who delivered, no matter what.” 

She turned toward the wall, shoulders curling slightly inward. “But then I fouled out. I watched the whole thing fall apart from the bench. And now I can’t stop wondering if that was the moment I proved everyone right. That maybe I’m not what they thought I was.” 

Azzi remains quiet. But her stillness didn’t feel empty. It felt like space. A pause made of presence, not absence. 

“I don’t think one game defines a whole person,” Azzi said after a moment. “But I think sometimes we believe it does because it’s easier than sitting in the gray.” 

Paige decided to lay on her side, eyes open in the dark, her breath shallow against the pillow. The silence stretched. It pressed inward, dense with the things she’d never let herself say aloud. 

“I used to think control was the same as safety,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “If I could control the game—the tempo, the floor, my stats, the way people saw me—then nothing could fall apart.” 

Her fingers twitched slightly beneath the blanket, tightening, releasing, like her body was still running drills even in rest. 

“But I lost that game,” she continued. “And it’s like… I haven’t been able to get my footing back since.” 

Azzi hummed and positioned herself parallel to Paige’s lying form. Paige could feel her presence beside her, solid and unmoving. Like a shoreline you don’t have to swim toward. It’s just there, waiting for you to drift close. 

Paige kept her eyes on the bedroom ceiling, her voice low, raw. “No one tells you how disorienting it is when the thing you’re best at becomes the thing that betrays you.” 

She swallowed hard and continued, “And when that happens, when the one thing you thought defined you suddenly slips away, it stops being just about the game. It becomes about identity. Like, who am I if I’m not the one who always comes through?” 

The question hovered. She didn’t expect an answer. 

She turned slowly in the dark, not fully facing Azzi, just enough to blur the line between distance and closeness. 

“I don’t know how to be with people when I’m like this,” she admitted. “When I’m not composed. When I don’t have the right words.” 

Azzi didn’t respond with empty comfort or advice. Instead, she shifted slightly, enough for their arms to touch under the blanket. Her fingers brushed against Paige’s. Not reaching, just quietly offering. 

And Paige, without ceremony, let her hand fall into Azzi’s. 

She let her weight sink into the mattress like it had finally stopped trying to hold itself up. Her breath steadied, only slightly, and the knots in her body began to loosen, one thread at a time. 

She didn’t cry. She didn’t collapse. 

She just let herself exist beside someone who didn’t need her to be fixed. 

Eventually, exhaustion took place and her eyelids fluttered closed. 

And she slept. Not because anything had been solved, but because she’d finally told the truth in a room where nothing demanded her strength. 

[prettygirl-gabi]

“To the Moon and Beyond” pt.2

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd x Reader (Pazzi x Reader)

Fandom: NCAA Women’s Basketball / WNBA

Warnings: cheating, revenge cheating, eventually in later parts there will be 18+ content (smut, alcohol consumption, strong language), polyamory, public teasing/flirting (in later parts)

Summary: A tangled history of love, heartbreak, and hidden desire leads three elite players into a secret relationship—and the WNBA spotlight.

A/N: yes this is hella long… I got in a groove and couldn’t stop writing… but yeahh enjoy!! This is also one of the longest fics I’ve ever written… will be multiple parts….cause it’s too long for tumblr…

Also thank you @paige05bby for the banner/header

🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @unknowgirlypop , @yailtsv , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @elalfywhore , @starfulani , @authentic-girl03 , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @imnotkaizer , @italyyy , @lightsgore , @private-but-not-a-secret , @aubreygriffin , @issilovesherself , @graceeeeeesblog

Time Passes…

Azzi’s POV – Connecticut

We never said we’d be okay again. We just said we’d try.

And that was enough.

Paige and I gave each other space when we got back to Connecticut. No more sharing playlists or crashing on each other’s couches. No long talks under low kitchen light. Just… basketball and boundaries.

And oddly, it helped.

We found our rhythm on the court again—better, even. Quieter communication. More trust. Something about everything falling apart had made us sharper. More aware. More patient.

She’d glance at me after big plays now, like checking to see if the foundation was still solid. I’d nod once. It always was.

But we didn’t talk about her. Not really.

It was like this uncrossed line neither one of us dared to cross.

Not until we had to.

Because she crossed it.

Before Paige or I could.

Y/n’s POV – Southern California

Three months.

That’s how long it took before I could breathe without tasting regret.

I started sleeping better. My shot was smoother. My appetite came back. I laughed again—loud and real—usually thanks to Juju or Avery acting like idiots in the locker room. And slowly, the ache dulled into something almost nostalgic.

That’s when I saw Paige’s post.

Just a simple photo dump post.

And without overthinking it, I did the thing I told myself I wouldn’t:

“🌚”

That emoji.

Ours.

I hit send and tossed my phone across the bed.

It didn’t take her long.

Incoming call: P.B🌝

I stared at it for a second before answering. “Hey.”

Her voice was quiet, shaky. “What does it mean?”

I smiled faintly. “It means I’ll see you soon, P.”

Three Days Later – Connecticut

They were already waiting at my Airbnb when I pulled up—Azzi leaned against Paige’s car, hoodie sleeves pushed up, Paige sitting on the hood, knees bouncing, like she hadn’t slept.

I stepped out slowly. Heart racing.

We walked into the living room in silence. The same couch they used to sit on. The same air that used to choke us.

Only this time, we all sat closer.

Nobody ran.

“I’m not asking for a miracle,” I said. “Or a relationship. Not yet. But I think… I think we all deserve to know what this could be if we tried.”

Azzi nodded. “Even if it breaks us again?”

“Even then,” Paige whispered.

I looked at them—two people I knew like the back of my hand. Two people who knew all the ugliest parts of me and still showed up.

“Let’s be honest. Let’s be clear. And let’s try—together. For real this time.”

Azzi swallowed. “You mean all three of us?”

I nodded. “If you’re both still willing.”

They looked at each other, then at me.

And for the first time in months, all of us exhaled at the same time.

It wouldn’t be easy.

But maybe it could be something.

Something wild, something flawed, something real.

Something worth breaking and rebuilding again.

Time does something to love.

It doesn’t erase it.

It stretches it. Rebuilds it in the spaces between heartbreak and forgiveness.

It’s been years since that night.

Since Azzi stood in my doorway with a suitcase and heartbreak on her lips. Since Paige cried outside my apartment like she was begging the past to love her back. Since I threw a water bottle at the only girl I ever really wanted to stay.

We tried.

Then we tried again.

And again—each time more honest than the last.

And somehow, all that trying turned into something else. Something that didn’t need to be named to be known.

Junior Year (Me & Paige) | Sophomore Year (Azzi):

It was two weeks before the start of junior year, the night it all started—Paige’s jaw in my hands, Azzi’s laugh breaking between kisses—never fully left us.

It just kept morphing.

Into private hotel rooms after games, where the world slipped away behind locked doors and drawn curtains. Into Spotify playlists shared without explanation, songs that said everything we were still too scared to.

Into FaceTimes at 3 a.m. that started with anxious whispers, melted into silence, and ended with us asleep but still connected—breathing synced through the screen, like some kind of tether neither of us wanted to cut.

Senior Year (Me & Paige) | Junior Year (Azzi):

We found a rhythm. Unspoken but steady.

Azzi and I shared playlists. Paige and I studied film together. When one of us got hurt, the other two were there. Always.

We took turns traveling. Hid in hotels. Drove hours for a few minutes of normal. Still never confirmed what this was to anyone. But we were each other’s constants. I think we all clung to that.

There were moments—quick, breathless ones—when I swore we were close to saying it out loud.

But we weren’t ready yet.

Now.

My fifth and final year.

Paige’s, too.

Azzi had the chance to declare. Agents lined up. WNBA scouts in her DMs. But she didn’t.

“Not yet,” she told us both. “I’m not done with this chapter.”

Maybe she meant basketball.

Maybe she meant us.

I didn’t ask.

We’re older now. Wiser. Still messed up in our own ways, but we don’t run from it anymore.

Because somehow, against all odds…

We made it here.

Whatever this is—we’re still writing it.

Not in the way that erases what we did or how we broke each other. But in a way that makes it all softer at the edges. Like smoothing out the corners of something once too sharp to hold. Like choosing to remember the warmth more than the ache.

We never put a label on it. There were no posts, no announcements. Just a series of moments that filled the space between “maybe” and “still.” Like Azzi flying out to surprise me during finals, showing up in a hoodie that still smelled like her detergent, standing outside my apartment with donuts and a handwritten note I’ll never throw away.

Like Paige bringing me lemon ginger tea when I lost my voice before media day, tucking a fleece blanket around my shoulders before I could protest, then sitting beside me in total silence just to be close. Like me knowing the exact minute they both needed space—and when they didn’t.

When Azzi went quiet for too long. When Paige stopped making eye contact but lingered in the doorway like she was waiting for someone to pull her back in. I always did.

The only people who knew were the ones close enough to feel the heat off us when we were all in the same room. The kind of knowing you don’t talk about out loud, because naming it might steal something from it.

There were nights when it felt too fragile to last. When someone would flinch a second too late, or ask a question we didn’t have words for yet.

But somehow, we kept choosing each other. Quietly. Constantly. In the ways that mattered most.

It was love.

Complicated. Tangled. Untraditional. But love.

We weren’t hiding. Not really. Just… protecting. We were public as best friends. Private in every other way.

Especially with Paige and I going pro soon.

Paige? Projected number one pick. Everyone had already printed the headlines. She walked into rooms like she already belonged in them—but I knew how much of that was armor, how much came from the pressure of being everyone’s golden girl for so long.

Me? Somewhere right behind her. Maybe second. Maybe third. My name floated through draft boards like a sure thing—but never the first thing. And I was okay with that. I was chasing something different anyway. Something slower. Something real.

And somehow… we were still us. Not every day. Not always smooth. But we never stopped coming back to each other.

There were team dinners where we sat across from each other pretending not to flirt through inside jokes. Long weekends where we vanished into some Airbnb upstate and forgot what the world expected from us.

Off days spent tangled in dorm beds too small for three people, limbs heavy and warm, no one ever really knowing where one body ended and the next began.

There were fights—sharp words flung in hallways, silences that lasted days. Jealousy that crept in like static: who got more minutes, more press, more offers. Exhaustion from being pulled in too many directions. But even in the worst of it, we never questioned the gravity. Never stopped orbiting each other.

And there was laughter. So much of it. Azzi’s laugh against my neck when I said something stupid. Paige’s breathless giggle when we piled on top of her after a win. Late nights watching bad TV, fingers laced, legs braided, mouths full of popcorn and too-tired confessions.

There was comfort. A kind of safety that didn’t need explaining. That silent understanding of you’re mine even when it’s hard to be.

Now, we’re back in the same room again.

The night before the draft, we end up curled together in Paige’s hotel room—no glam team, no press, no cameras. Just us.

Azzi’s on the floor with her back against the side of the bed, head leaning on my thigh, scrolling through some playlist she swears is good luck. Paige is beside me, one arm flung across my waist, her other hand tangled in Azzi’s curls like muscle memory. The air is thick with unsaid things, but none of them feel heavy.

There’s an unspoken weight hanging in the room—like we all know this is the last time it’ll feel like this. Like home.

Tomorrow, everything changes.

Draft night. New cities. New teams. New people.

And yeah, we’ll FaceTime. We’ll visit. But we all know it won’t be the same. We won’t have spontaneous Wednesday night takeout or shared laundry loads or long recovery sessions where one of us always ends up asleep with someone else’s ice pack slowly melting between tangled legs.

Paige being the first to speak. “This doesn’t feel real.”

Azzi sighs softly from my lap. “It doesn’t feel fair.”

I tilt my head, resting it on Paige’s shoulder. “We knew it wouldn’t last forever.”

“Still,” Azzi says, voice tight, “I wanted more time.”

None of us say it, but we all feel it: the ache of what it means to love two people at the same time, knowing the world doesn’t always bend to make space for that.

Shortly we fall asleep in the bed tangled together as if we were a package deal, that was too fragile to separate. Paige on one side, Azzi on the other, me in between—like a bridge holding two halves of the same heart together.

And in the quiet, I let myself wonder if this is the last night we get to have like this.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

                 -Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

                             -prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

[peanutheaddd]

I know artist hate this question, but you are so chill so I was like ,,Let's give it a shot": Do you have any tips about learning art?

Things like shading and wrinkles would be especially nice, I overthink about this thinks too much and it keeps blocking me from the progress and I stuck in the same place for like 5 years with it plz I begging you the way you draw wrinkles is very yummy

i actually dont know why artists hate this question 😭😭 same w getting asked about brushes . i mean they probs have a reason but idk what it is LOL . im gen flattered u think my art is good enough to ask for advice LOLLLLL but heres a guide ! ill js do shading and wrinkles .. i have another post in drafts abt how i study art in general LOL

if theres one thing to take away from this its copy lots and lots and lots of pictures and everntually itll start making sense. almost everything i do in my life is by way of brute force including art LOL.

again . this is just how i do things PERSONALLY. so take it w a grain of salt . it might not work for you . and thats fine . youll figure out smth that works eventually . BUT i hope it helps regardless.

i totally understand the struggle with being stuck and overthinking LOL ultimately you really js have to embrace the fuck it we ball mindset i fear . if you keep staying scared of making bad art youre doomed to forever make bad art . youll never improve.

"theres no such thing as bad art" has never helped me personally bc i dont actually give a shit if theres no such thing as bad art . if i think my art is bad then i think its bad . saying that bad art doesnt exist doesnt change anything at all . the way i think about it is "ok. my art is bad yes. and thats too bad. but i can improve even just by 0.01% if i do a study . so im gonna do that" . so every time i feel bad about my art i do a study . and ultimately all of those individual studies add up and thats probably why my art level is at the level it is today . 😭😭

u got this man . art isnt easy at all but its rewarding and most importantly it is Fun . if u improve enough to the point that u dont constantly hate ur art then art becomes the most fun thing in the world . thats why i draw so much . it feels like doing a line of coke . instant dopamine hit

[swizzlemynizzle]

Underneath the Noise - George Clarke

———————————————

Masterlist

Chapter Ten: Off the Grid

———————————————

ATV cornered her in the kitchen with a packet of Jaffa Cakes and a suspiciously innocent grin.

“Okay,” he said, “hear me out before you say no.”

Y/N blinked over her cup of tea. “Already nervous.”

“Bach and I want you on the podcast.”

She nearly choked. “What?”

“Just as a guest! Nothing terrifying. We’ll talk about gaming, the football video, maybe the fountain thing if you let us—” He cut off at her expression. “Okay, no fountain thing.”

Y/N tried to play it cool, but her heart dropped straight to her stomach.

“It’s low pressure,” he added quickly. “Just us chatting. You’re one of us now—it makes sense.”

She forced a smile. “I’ll think about it.”

“Take your time,” ATV said, all casual as he opened the Jaffa Cakes like he hadn’t just detonated a minor panic attack in her brain. “But we’d love to have you.”

—

That night, the spiral came quietly.

She hadn’t meant to look. But one scroll led to another, and suddenly she was two Reddit threads deep and knee-deep in comment sections under the football video.

“She’s so desperate to be one of them it’s actually painful.”


“I’d watch George’s streams more if she wasn’t always there.”


“Only reason they keep her around is for views. And maybe the ‘George tension.’ Pathetic.”


“Chris needs to stop inviting every girl he meets.”

The words blurred together. It didn’t matter if some were upvoted and some weren’t. The tone was all the same.

You don’t belong.

She closed the laptop. Then turned off her phone. Then didn’t turn it back on.

—

No one saw her for three days.

Chris messaged. ATV checked in. George sent three increasingly worried voice notes, the last of which ended with, “Just… let us know you’re okay, yeah?”

She didn’t answer. Not because she didn’t care.

But because answering meant existing again, and she wasn’t sure she had it in her yet.

—-

Arthur Hill’s gig was already halfway through by the time Y/N showed up.

She slipped into the back of the venue unnoticed, hood up, hands stuffed deep into her jacket pockets. The air inside buzzed with bass and sweat and euphoria, lights flickering off the high ceiling like heat lightning. Bodies moved like a tide to Arthur’s voice—raw, steady, alive.

She hovered by the wall, letting the sound seep in through her skin.

It had been three days since she’d last replied to anyone. Since the spiral.

ATV’s podcast invite had been kind—excited, even. But somewhere between accepting it and actually prepping for it, she’d made the mistake of opening the comments under Chris’s football video. Then Reddit. Then Twitter. Then her own notifications.

And it all just hit—too much, too loud. One comment louder than the others:

“Why is she even there?”

That was the tipping point. She’d shut off her phone and gone radio silent. No streams. No Discord. No messages.

And yet here she was. Drawn in by Hilly’s name in bold print on the venue marquee. Pulled by something softer than guilt but heavier than loneliness.

When the set ended, she slipped backstage, nerves jangled from too much overthinking. The greenroom was dimly lit, half full, everyone buzzing from the show.

It was George who spotted her first.

He blinked, like he wasn’t sure she was real. Then, without a word, he crossed the room and wrapped her in a hug.

“You’re here,” he said, low and steady into her hair.

She couldn’t speak—just nodded, clinging to the warmth of his hoodie and the quiet understanding in his arms.

“Thought I was gonna have to call a search party,” he murmured, not letting go.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be. Just…” He finally pulled back, eyes searching hers. “Next time, let someone know you’re breathing, yeah?”

She managed a wobbly smile. “I’m breathing.”

He nodded, relief flickering across his face.

—

Later, they all spilled into a club down the street—Arthur’s post-show ritual.

The place was packed, the music decent, the lighting soft enough to hide in. Bach ordered tequila for everyone. ATV dragged her into a group photo. Chris yelled something about a dance battle. And for the first time in days, she didn’t feel like she was watching herself from far away.

George stayed close. Always nearby, always within reach.

They danced—not pressed together, but orbiting the same space. Her hand brushed his. His fingers grazed her lower back when someone jostled too close. Once, in a flash of bass and laughter, their eyes met, and the world seemed to hold its breath.

That was when the stranger appeared.

He was older. Sharp suit. Confident in a way that felt manufactured.

“Didn’t know angels came to clubs,” he said, voice syrupy, fingers ghosting over the small of her back.

Before she could recoil, George was there. Tense. Focused.

“Mate,” he said, voice flat. “Back off.”

The man turned, eyeing him with a smirk. “Relax. Just being friendly.”

Bach stepped in, arms folded. “Try being friendly over there.”

ATV leaned against the wall, smiling too brightly. “I’ve been politely waiting to get kicked out. Give me a reason.”

The guy held his hands up and backed off, muttering something about “fragile egos” before disappearing into the crowd.

Y/N let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

“Thanks,” she said, voice barely audible.

George didn’t answer—just looked at her, gaze intense.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get some air.”

—

Outside, the night was cooler than expected. The street was quieter, save for the occasional passing car. She leaned against the wall beside him, head tipped back toward the sky.

“I shouldn’t have disappeared,” she said softly.

George shook his head. “You don’t owe anyone anything. But I wish you’d let someone in.”

“I thought space would help. But it just… spiraled. The comments. The silence. It all got so loud.”

His shoulder brushed hers, grounding. “I get it. I really do.”

She turned to look at him. “Do you?”

He nodded, something unspoken in the tilt of his head. “Yeah. And if you ever feel like that again—like it’s too much—I don’t care if it’s 3AM. Call me. You don’t even have to say anything. I’ll just come sit with you in the dark.”

Her heart caught on the words. On the way his voice dipped, honest and careful. Like he was afraid she might break again.

She reached for his hand. “You already do more than you know.”

The tension between them shifted—deeper, quieter.

She stepped closer. He didn’t move.

Under the streetlight, his face was cast in soft gold. His eyes flicked to her mouth, then back up.

“George…”

His free hand came up, hesitant at first, then firmer—fingertips brushing her jaw. When he leaned in, there was no fanfare, no hesitation left.

Just warmth.

His mouth on hers—gentle, grounding, real.

She kissed him back like she’d been waiting for this to happen since the first night they met. Like something fragile had just been rewired.

When they broke apart, his forehead rested lightly against hers.

“Okay,” she whispered. “That was definitely not an almost.”

He chuckled, breathless. “Finally.”

From down the road, Chris’s voice shattered the quiet.

“Oi! We’re getting chips! You in or what?”

George groaned. “Perfect timing, as always.”

Y/N laughed, cheeks warm. “Let’s go before ATV actually punches someone for no reason.”

George laced their fingers together, thumb brushing hers.

“Only if we walk slow,” he said. “Don’t really feel like letting go yet.”

She didn’t argue.

And as they wandered back toward the chaos and the chips and the boys who had quietly become her family—Y/N felt like maybe, just maybe, she could start trusting the quiet again.

Because someone had come to sit with her in the dark.

And now, she wasn’t alone.

——

Taglist:

@madforgeorge

@wherethezoes-at

@sundarksposts

@clarkey4life

@edgyficuselastica

@whistlef0rthechoir

@kneelforloki

@yeahnahalrightfairenough

—-

Finally!!! Sorry to spoil but smut warning for the next chapter :P please skip or message me for alternate clean version of the scene xx

[thebluester2020]

If you're taking writing comissions.. I really liked your post about sdv bachelors with reader who squirts...but let's turn it around! How about a farmer (female) who is really quiet during sex? Cuz you know, when she was touching herself alone, she didn't want to be loud and it stayed that way. You don't have to write all the bachelors, I'm interested in Harvey 👀 I imagine he would be concerned at first and overthinking if he did something wrong

Harvey x Quiet Farmer Who Squirts For The First Time

Summary: Harvey makes a quiet reader squirt for the first time. Warning(s): Munch Harvey, Reader is a bit quiet in this one, Slight dom!Harvey(?) [It quickly goes away though lol], Both Harvey and the reader are shy together tbh. Side note(s): Sorry this took so long anon- the procrastination virus hit me hard 😭 [I hope this is close to what you were asking for!] Also, shout out to Aaryan Shah for being my song inspo that allowed me to write this. His music is so good I swear to god.

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ

He couldn't help the nervousness that racked his entire body as he feasted upon your sex. You...you were just so quiet!

And that was something that he never minded. Your comfort and pleasure came before any wishes he may have had or would ever had, so long as he was allowed to suckle at your cute clit, sweet babbled murmurs and moans flooding his ears like the welcomed warmth of water over cold skin. He was was fine with you never making a single sound in the bedroom.

Your reactions and silent pleas for him to continue were enough for him, enough to make his cock absolutely ache.

But, at this moment? As your cunt practically begged and drooled for more of his skillful tongue, the sight of your glistening pussy wet from the sheen of your slick making his throat dry as if he hadn't taken a sip of water in days. Coupled along with the fact he was admiring your panting figure through his lashes, a question mark silently formed in his head.

Why were you so adamant on making as little noise as possible?

As arousing as your attempts were...from how you bit your lip so hard to the point he feared it would bleed.

Or how you'd squirm and turn your head side to side, biting either the pillow sheets or covering your lips with the back of your hand if that wouldn't work. Adorable as it was, his desire to hear you moan out his name all the stored-up breath in your lungs frew ever fervent in his mind. To the point he feared he'd begin to cum inside his boxers like some teenager!

But...rather than try to confront you about it, it was far more fun to let his tongue and fingers do the convincing. To let them coax your voice out of you.

"H-Harvey...?" You whispered in a daze as you finally registered Harvey's tongue no longer circling your sex, your breath labored as you shakily rose your head to look at him.

"Yes?" He responded with devotion in his gaze, apologetically pressing a kiss to the inside of your thighs as his fingers slowly traced your labia.

You sucked in a breath, electricity pulsing through you at the simple slow touch. "W-Why did you stop?" You whispered.

Harvey pressed another kiss on you, to the hood of your clit this time as he steadily worked you back up, as well as silently worked himself up to the plan he was about to commit. He almost felt bad for it! Torturing his poor wife who looked like she was on the verge of tears if she didn't get to cum in the next minute.

"Harvey..." You moaned, trying to get his attention once more. "A-Aren't you going to— Oh!" There it was...the noise he'd been so desperately searching for, yearning quietly since the moment you two had started becoming intimate with one another, all from him suddenly plunging his fingers inside of your wanton sex and curling them up into your sweet spot.

An action he more than eagerly repeated as his head dived back towards your sex, lapping and suckling at your engorged clit as he unconsciously rutted against the sheets, aching to release his cock from its confines and find relief in your sweet sweet pussy.

"I'm so clue," You cried out, your thighs shaking as your peak rapidly approached the more Harvey's fingers continued its assault on your G-spot inside your pussy. Something that didn't register in the doctor's head as he became drunk off your juices, barely paying mind to how your thighs twitched more than usual or how you were becoming more and more vocal.

It was like finally receiving that badly wanted gift during Christmas.

His groans against your pussy creating a delicious buzz against your clit that further brought you closer and closer to orgasm until...something felt different.

You grabbed his hair, fruitlessly tugging to try and catch his attention. "H-Harvey...!" You keened, Harvey's free hand digging into the flesh of your hips to keep you open before you came. The sheer force shocked you as a guttural scream ripped from your throat, white flooding your eyes as wetness gushed out of your cunt.

And it was silent as you came down from your explosive high, your chest heaving up and down as you struggled to focus your vision and come back down to reality. Your vision was blurry and...filled with Harvey's worried expression as he looked down at you. "Y/N! Are you okay?" He asked, his voice distant as you smiled all dopey-like.

"Y-Yeah..." You said.

As you steadily propped yourself up on your elbows and rose an arm to loop around Harvey's neck, bringing him closer to you. Both you and he began to blush as you tried to work up to asking your question. "C-Can you do that again...?"

His words choked up in his throat, his cock twitching at your words.

Rather than it being a one-time thing, it seemed he'd have all night to continue to hear your unashamed moans...

[shanastoryteller]

hey so, I tend to leave a short comment just saying I reread a fic when I do... and I was wondering about your personal opinion for those with multiple rereads.

because like, if I reread a fic and tell you about that, that (probably) feels nice, but if I end up rereading something 5 times (sometime in the future) those short comments might start to feel annoying?

I'm not very good at commenting, so it would be the same (or very similar) very short comment just mentioning the reread...

I'm possibly overthinking this, but I'd like to know if in the case of me rereading something multiple times like that you'd prefer to get those comments or if I should keep that to myself after the first/second reread 😅

there's no non-rude comment that I ever find annoying

I'm so pleased you like my writing! I am giggling and kicking my feet when I get comments! One of the first things I do in the morning is open my inbox and read whatever new comments I've gotten. A few times people have been like "this fic is old idk if you're still reading comments for it" and I absolutely am. I read every single AO3 comment I get

Sometimes people leave hearts at the end of each chapter and I think it's so cute and fun to track their progress. People leave "reread kudos!" and smiley faces and key smashes

I am a greedy greedy author. Obviously I love love big long in depth comments - I have a lot of them saved to reread later because they spark so much joy - but every comment is someone liking my fic enough to tell me about it and I love that

I don't want people to ever feel pressured to leave comments. I love them. I am gobbling them up. But if you read my story and it sparked joy within you then the end, that's why I posted it and I'm so happy about it regardless if you tell me or not

But if I get a "fifth reread. shit still hits" all I'm doing is going 🥰🥰 FIFTH reread!! ❤️ Shit still hits!! 💃😘