#is my personal plot line growing

[fatelcved]

btw the more i think about it, the more the idea of chiyo being one of the druids from the grove appeals to me. not just bc of the potential dynamics in that community, but also bc she's obviously gonna be so invested in those people -- the druids and the tieflings -- so the decision to move on with the companions to figure out the tadpole situation would be a hard one. and i love putting my oc's through hard things : )

[cosmictheo]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 | kang dae-ho

—summary: a sudden closeness of you and player 333 makes dae-ho's usually sweet mood swing in the opposite way, triggered by pure jealousy. why would you ever need anyone else when you've got him right there? —pairing: kang dae-ho/player 388 x female!reader —word count: 4.5k —contains: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, descriptions of the reader having female genitalia, some porn with some plot, really passionate sex, voyeurism, public sex, sub dae-ho!!! (canon), slight praise kink if you squint, he talks to you through it, jealous and possessive behavior, fluff, dae-ho being so in love with the reader.

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!

Kang Dae-ho had been protecting you ever since he had helped you survive Green Light, Red Light, the first game of all this hell in disguise as a promising new opportunity.

Not knowing you from absolutely nothing, he stepped right in front of you, stretching a hand out to the back to hold yours and guide you across the arena, playing human shield until together, you had crossed the finish line. 

And that basically summed up the kind of person Dae-ho is; kind-hearted, courageous, selfless, caring. He was one of the best people you had ever met and he was making this whole calvary into something much better, something brighter, something to keep fighting for until you made it out of there.

Since that, he had stuck by your side, practically standing as your own shadow, constantly putting you first, looking out for your well-being and safety. Without him, you would probably be dead by now, devoid of purpose.

The other players had already gotten used to seeing the two of you together, always watching each other's backs and fooling around and strategizing. Through thick and thin, you were together.

It was only a matter of time —hours—; before something else began to spark between the two of you, growing every time your hands brushed, or when he wrapped an arm around your shoulders or when your bodies cocooned in each other's warmth at night when you slept. A tension was just starting to build, an emotion that for some reason, would always make Dae-ho nervous and flustered, whenever you'd smile at him or clasp his bicep to be by his side every time Gi-hun related a story from his past experience at the games, or when you'd lean your head on his shoulder or when you'd hug each other every time a game ended.

Whatever it was, out of the same feeling, Dae-ho sensed a heaviness in the pit of his stomach, feeling as if his guts were constricting like a viper, every time you chatted with the 333 player.

He looks at you from the distance, frowning slightly as you laugh at something the guy says, he doesn't even know why he dislikes him so much... he just does.

“Why are you all puckered up?” Jung-bae questions him, pausing his own story to express concern for his teammate's face, following his gaze until he finds you, naturally.

Dae-ho clicks his tongue, shaking his head gently, his tone of voice fluctuating between disbelief and annoyance, "Why is she even over there? It's dangerous"

“Dangerous? Buddy, she's just talking to him. He saved her in the last game, remember?” Jung-bae answers him, confused by the uncharacteristic grumpy attitude of the younger man, used to the sight of him being so cheerful and jovial and optimistic.

“If it weren't for him, she wouldn't be here,” Young-il adds, also glancing at how you whisper with player 333, “She's just being polite.”

But Dae-ho huffs humorlessly, forcing his eyes to drag from you to Jung-bae standing in front of him, his fingers still grasping his fork tightly, not really feeling like eating lunch today, “Bullshit, I would've saved her anyway. She didn't need him.”

Gi-hun rolls his eyes, sitting by his side as he quietly observes the whole scene, chewing a mouthful of rice, “You're just jealous, man, admit it,” he pronounces with his mouth half full, eyes attentively scanning Dae-ho's reaction.

The whole group of men laugh upon seeing Dae-ho's face morph to one of embarrassment and some offense, cheeks blushing furiously at Gi-hun's fake allegation.

“I'm n-not jealous” he tries to defend himself with a stuttering voice, looking frantically around the amused faces of the men around him, his fingers letting his fork drop by his twitching and nervous state, attracting the attention of a few players who were nearby, including yours, which only makes Dae-ho to blush even redder.

Jung-bae smiles playfully, picking up the fork that had fallen to the ground, “And you're being overdramatic.”

“I am not!” Dae-ho squeals, his brow furrowing as he stands up and yanks the fork out of Jung-bae's hand. As the whole group laughs at him, his eyes again search for you in the crowd, finding you in record time, and his whole face darkens again as he notices the way your hand is resting down the player 333's forearm, like you would usually do with him.

He sighs heavily and for the first time, he seriously considers the words of the older men.

Time passes unnoticed within that place, hours perhaps, days? No one really knows.

But the warning that the lights go out in thirty minutes usually means that you should lie down and rest for the next event that the monsters who created this have planned for you all.

The first thing you notice when you arrive at the bed you share with Dae-ho, is that he is lying on his side with his back to you, which concerns you a little, since he never had his back to you when he would sleep.

Something is off.

“Dae-ho?” you call out his name in a gentle whisper, sitting down on the bunk and looking across the broadness of his back with worried eyes, “Are you okay?”

No response.

“Hey,” you try again gently, thinking that maybe he's not exactly having a good day, considering the current situation you're stuck in.

Dae-ho is feeling his chest heaving as he senses your hand laying on his shoulder, fingers delicately squeezing his flesh beneath the tracksuit jacket. 

And suddenly, he's cracking up.

“I'm trying to sleep” and yet, he replies to you curtly, without showing even the slightest sign of rolling over and wanting to actually look at you.

You admire his back with unconvinced eyes for a moment, lying down on the bed and resting your head on the pillow, your hand moving from his shoulder, down his back, across his shoulder blades, before dropping to the surface of the bed.

“You sound off.”

Dae-ho considers his options; whether to just keep talking to you in that oh-so-ungentlemanly way —which made him physically cringe—; whether to express everything he was feeling or just stay quiet and pretend to sleep.

In any case, he acts on impulse, rolling over so he can finally look at you, his eyes softening the instant they meet yours, his heart beating hard and fast, pounding in his ears.

“It's not good for you to associate with players outside our group,” he suddenly blurts out and sees how you just stare at him with further confusion washing over your pretty face, “It could be dangerous.”

“What do you mean?” you inquire, silently urging him to elaborate on his point. You are quick to notice how deadly serious his face is, his lips lightly pursed and his eyes solemn, a look that is unusual on him. You don't like to see him like that, like everyone there usually acted.

“Player 333,” he replies, jaw clenched, his eyes following you as you sat up again on the bed, looking down at him in sheer confusion, as if somehow, you aren't recognizing him, “I saw the way he was looking at you.”

He sounds... hurt? Disappointed?

“Lee Myung-gi” your face turns enlightened, finally understanding what he's referring to now.

Dae-ho deflects his gaze away from yours, slightly rolling his eyes. Whatever that idiot's name was...

“I was just talking to him. He saved me in the last game, Dae-ho,” you explain in an overly naive tone, a little smile curving the corner of your lips, “I went to thank him”

“But I am the one doing that, that's why I'm here. You didn't need him, you have me,” he retorts back to you instantly, your name being pronounced by his lips like a plea for mercy, gesturing to himself with his hand for emphasis on his words. Your brow furrows at the same time as his, your lips turning into a small pout, feeling like a scolded child, “I was going to save you anyway! You only need me, no one else...”

His voice fades the more he speaks, shaky hand brushing through his loose hair. And now you notice it, the betrayed and hurt expression on his face, his eyes hiding something more than friendliness, something much deeper and bigger.

He is jealous.

“Why are you acting like this all of a sudden?” you are questioning him, getting more comfortable on the mattress, your voice keeping low so as not to wake the others, but also firm on your side of the little argument. You had done nothing wrong, “He was just being a good companion—”

“He didn't seem to be performing the good companion role,” Dae-ho interrupts you, spitting out the words as if they were venomous, rising himself up to also sit on the bed and face you, gesticulating with his hands, his tone of voice is fueled by sarcasm and subtle irony now, “I didn't like the way he was looking at you... neither how you were touching him with your hand.”

He crosses his arms and resembles a sulky kid who's had his favorite toy taken away, but you're too pissed off to pause and laugh at him.

Instead, you roll your eyes, starting to unbutton your jacket, feeling too hot all of a sudden, Dae-ho's eyes follow your fingers as they pull down the zipper, “You're being overdramatic.”

"I'm not!" he gasps-whispers, expression offended, he genuinely does seem to be feeling betrayed by what you had done. He leans close to you, so close that you feel the natural warmth of his body, but you stand your ground, looking at him with baffled eyes, his gaze remains soft yet aching, “I'm just looking out for you.”

“You'd rather I touch your arm then?” you raise an eyebrow on your forehead, dropping the jacket by the bottom of the bed, holding his gaze, “Is that what this is all about?”

The effect of your words in instantaneous on Dae-ho, blushing and causing him to pull away from you rather abruptly, brushing his hand through his hair again like a maniac.

“Yes,” he replies with certainty, the word barging into his throat before he could even think of a reasonable response, so he shakes his head slightly, “I mean no— I mean yes—” he cuts himself off, flustered by your attentive gaze, “—that's not the point! The point is that you don't need to go to anyone else when you have me right here.”

He gulps hard, eagerly waiting for your reaction through desperate, sheepish eyes.

“I know,” you whisper, letting out a soft sigh from your mouth, switching to a more empathetic postur. Then you nod your head and stretch out a hand towards him, who wastes no second in reaching out to take it and pull it close to his chest, nuzzling your knuckles with his thumb, “But he just dragged me with him, I couldn't do much,” you offer him a small apologetic smile, “I know you would have saved me anyway, Dae-ho.”

“Of course,” he murmurs your name, bringing your hand to his mouth to press his lips onto your knucles, kissing your smooth skin, “You're not alone, you're with me. You are everything...”

Without saying anything, you move closer to him and hug him. Dae-ho is more than happy to reciprocate your embrace, wrapping his beefy arms around your waist and hiding his face in your neck, breathing in your sweet and comforting scent, the scent he so adores. You feel his warm breath against the sensitive skin of your neck and a shiver runs through you from head to toe.

One of your hands goes up to his head, caressing his hair, fingers sinking into his dark long locks, the soothing and so intimate touch making him sigh.

“You're jealous,” you murmur after a moment of comfortable, heart-warming silence, and he stiffens, his body freezing, you can feel the way his muscles tense against yours.

Dae-ho pulls away from you just a little, far enough to be able to look at you, offering you a sheepish little smile, his cheeks blushing from all the attention and touch and closeness, the way you're talking and looking at him has him breathless.

“Maybe a little,” his expression shifts to one of shame as he dares to confess, valiantly enough to hold your gaze, letting himself fall into the gentleness of your eyes, always so lively and playful, but as beautiful and sparkling as a pair of gemstones, with your long lashes brushing your cheekbones every time you blink.

His hands gently squeeze your waist, contouring your curves and fitting into them perfectly, as if crafted for him to touch and hold.

“You don't have to be jealous, sweets,” you assure him, like a promise, a complicity, leaning into him again.

Dae-ho swallows loudly, squeezing his eyes shut as he feels your beautiful soft lips press down onto his throat, kissing his bouncing Adam's apple. He can feel himself in heaven, letting himself be swept up by the way you are treating him, the way your hands run down his body, passing down his chest until they stop at his midsection, just at the moment your tongue traces across his skin, making him hiss, feeling all the air being knocked out of his lungs.

“Fuck— ngh,” he whimpers, his whole body aching with heat, his heart pumping hot blood into his crotch, heartbeats matching up with each of your wet kisses on his neck.

His big hands wander over your waist, lightly caressing your lower back, fingers barely grazing the curve of your ass above the fabric of your tracksuit pants, clasping the flesh, pressing you helplessly against his body. His touch is needy, but nonetheless respectful, as gentlemanly as ever.

“Is this okay?” comically enough he's the one to ask as your mouth reaches his chin by a wet trail of soft kisses through his skin and he almost feels himself cumming into his boxers by the way you open your eyes to look up at him, pupils dilated in pleasure.

You sigh out a soft chuckle and your breath crashes against his half-open lips, needily breathing in your air, breathing you in. Your fingers fiddle with the edge of his jacket.

“You want this?”

It's stupid that you even had the mere thought of that question.

“Yes, please, baby— please,” Dae-ho rushes to answer, hands squeezing everything they could grab from you, desperately, “Can I kiss yo—”

Before he managed to formulate the question your lips are on his and from one second to the next he pulls you close to sit on his lap, making you feel his erection press against the underside of your thigh.

Frantically, between kisses, tongues recognizing each other and hands grasping what they can of the other, he helps you to remove his shirt, breaking away for just a moment to pull it over his head, looking at you with eyes darkened with desire.

He groans against your mouth as you kiss again, your teeth nibbling gently on his bottom lip.

“Shh...” you coo against his lips, pushing him down to make his back lay against the bed, “You don't want the others to hear, do you?”

A playful smile stretches at the corner of his lips, squeezing your butt once you leaned over him to begin kissing his chest, his eyes rolling back in pleasure, feeling the way your back arches.

“I wouldn't mind if 333 listens—”

“Dae-ho,” you name him disapprovingly, but your eyes are heavy with playfulness and longing.

He gazes adoringly up as you take off your shirt, eyes roaming down your neck, across your chest, down your stomach.

“You're so pretty, fuck— come here,” he tugs you closer to him to kiss you one more time, his hands detaching from your hips to lift his own, pulling down his pants and his now, wrecked boxers, clumsily sliding the waistband of the cloth down his thighs.

His dick springs free and it has you open-mouthed, staring down at it with eyes of raw longing and adoration. His mushroom-shaped, leaking, needy head bumps barely against his lower abdomen, lining up with his happy trail.

Dae-ho blushes under your gaze, one of his hands caresses your hip to attract your attention back to his face.

“Can you handle it, baby?” his tone of voice lowers sheepishly.

Your cunt pulsates around nothing from his words only and in less than ten seconds, you're stripping off your pants too, pulling your soaking wet panties aside. He can actually feel how wet you are when your pussy barely brushes against his bare crotch, he has to resist to keep from cumming right there.

“I can— fuck, yeah— I can handle it,” you babble tremblingly through gentle gasps as he reaches his cock, stroking it three times before he aligns it with your inviting hole, rubbing it slowly up and down your slit to scoop up all of your wetness, and use it as a natural lube.

Dae-ho bites down on his lower lip to muffle a moan that ascends his throat, feeling the head of his cock push up into the tight entrance of your pussy, plunging between your slick folds.

He leans his forehead flat against your chest, nestling right between your breasts, his whole body trembling from a riot of pleasure, muffling his moans and noises against your skin.

“Shit, y-you're— h-hah— you're so wet,” he raspes out into your bare skin, his lips slurring insults and name-calling you like a prayer, a poem through your sweaty skin, his tongue rolls out from between his parted lips, coating your skin with his drool. 

His hands are roaming over your hips, each digit digging into the fat of your ass, never applying weight, giving you all the time you needed to settle onto his size, yet his voice was desperate and eager with anticipation, “So tight— so pretty.”

Your lips are pressed against the crown of his head, breathing shakily as you begin to lower yourself into him achingly slow, drawing a gasp from both of you. Your palms squeeze his broad shoulders, suppressing the urge to cry out with every inch he is pushing his way inside you, your pussy fluttering and squishing him deeper.

“Yeah, just like that, that's it,” Dae-ho is praising you, pressing sloppy kisses all over your tits, fingers caressing your lower back while his other hand pats your ass appraisingly, “just a little more, baby, a little m-more and I'm all yours— I'm yours.”

His words really touch your very core, hand sliding up his neck to sink into his hair and pull it, making him hiss as he licks your nipple. Your pussy swallows another inch of him and you feel him in your fucking guts by now. He feels your squishy walls clench around him like a vice and he refuses to even think about the possibility of a life without feeling like this again.

“Dae-ho,” you whimper his name as the bulging tip of his cock reaches a particular spongy spot and instantly your whole body reacts as well.

“Mh-hm,” his lips lick and kiss your collarbone all the way up your neck and then he kisses your lips, “I'm here. I got you, I always got you,” his eyes finally lock with yours again and you nearly feel every single muscle and organ in your abdomen twitch when you notice tears being held back in them, all from the flood of pleasure and bliss your body is giving him.

He can feel himself in heaven, beneath you, his hips grinding up into yours as his cock is plunged so deep inside you.

Dae-ho kisses you again, intoxicated, a thread of spit remains connecting your mouths once you part.

A few more long seconds and you're all the way down sitting on him, his heavy, throbbing balls pressed flush against your ass. Your pussy envelops him thoroughly, molding into his shape as you breathe a deep sigh and Dae-ho breathes out as well when your nails dig into his shoulder blades.

“There you are, my baby, you're doing s-so good,” he croaks, fondling your backside affectionately, feeling your dampness dripping down his thighs, “Holy shit you feel good... I'm so deep—”

And when you start to move on top of him, he has to close his eyes, his sweaty palms pawing your ass, hopeless for your mercy. 

But you have no mercy, your pussy, your thighs, your fucking hips, the way you look down at him and ride him, giving him whiplash with every bounce. And he can swear he knows you from another life, from the way his cock forms a shape inside you, reaching parts within you that no one else has been capable of reaching before, as if your body was made for him— no, as if he was made to fit your body.

“My God—” he hiccups and you press your forehead against his, seeking his lips with yours to silence you both, pushing him down until he's lying flat on the mattress.

The bunk just barely creaks beneath the relentless sway of your hips slamming into his, ass bumping hard down on his thighs, taking him all the way down and up again, so deep that every time you bottom out you feel him in your fucking throat.

“You feel so good, baby,” you whine, looking down at him and all of his body is reacting to the petname.

You take in the gorgeous sight that is his face flushed with utter pleasure, eyes squinting, sweaty arms wrapping all around you and holding you impossibly close, his lower belly tensed and cramped.

He looks so pussy drunk, drinking and drinking in your body and essence, everything you provide. The tought makes you feel your insides flip, squeezing into a knot. And Dae-ho feels it too.

You bend down, lips falling onto his shoulder, trailing down to the tattoo on his side and when your tongue traces the black ink, exactly when his engorged tip brushes against your fucking cervix and your ass does a particularly powerful bounce on his thick thighs, he starts to feel his body twitching, reaching that exquisite release. He begins to cum, wracked by a rush of erotic bliss that has him seeing stars in the pitch-black.

His hips begin to meet yours in mid-between your wild bouncing and your pussy squelches around his cock, ready to take in all he has to give.

“I'm cumming— hah— b-baby, where—” he babbles through breathy hiccups and whimpers, his body is flushing, seeking your gaze with half-closed eyes, his chest gasping fast.

You kiss his tattoo one more time before answering him, having the nerve to smirk, as if you aren't jumping his bones, “Inside— mhm— fill me up, Dae-ho,” your eyes finally meet his and you squish his biceps, “please,” you beg him, with tears on your eyes.

“Holy shit— you don't have to convince me, love” he growls out hoarsely, and you have never hear him insult so much in such a short span of time. He kiss the corner of your lips messily, “I'm so fucking deep, you take it so well, baby— fuck.”

He chokes on his own voice and squeezes your hips until his palms are molded into your flesh. His tip touches that special squishy spot inside you again and you're cumming with him, both of you riding your own high, sinking into each other's bodies, souls becoming one. Straight into the core of the storm of pleasure.

His trembling fingers eventually loosen his grip on your ass, but his imprint stays right there, flushed. His cock softens deep inside you and you can feel it still spurting hot ropes up into your womb. Dae-ho whimpers flush against your mouth, gasping for breath. And you know you might as well die right there, tangled with his body.

Your head is empty, blurry with him and only him, your hips keep rolling on their own motion, slower. Your pussy squelches, full of him, the friction only makes him chant your name over and over in raspy whispers, like a hymn. Your orgasm is rough and strong, rocking your body like an earthquake. It makes you moan his name and he cuts you off, kissing you senselessly.

“Thank you, thank you...” he mumbles repeatedly against your mouth, hissing once you stop all movement on top of him. And he kisses you again, appreciatively, lovingly.

Dae-ho throws his head back on the bunk, trying to catch his breath, his hands drop to your thighs, always with a possessive hold, groping around for your ass, pressed down on his trembling thighs.

And it's ridiculous how absolutely majestic he looks there under you, in an afterglow that has him breathless, eyes narrowed and lost stare, gazing upwards as if he's suspended in paradise. His entire abdomen is sweaty and you hold back the urge to run your tongue across his cute little tummy, since your body is slowly beginning to give in to exhaustion, your legs wobbling.

You are satisfied with tracing your fingers along his sweaty skin, touching what were strong muscles, now softened under your thumbprints. Your hand makes an appreciative path up his pecs and he comes back to reality with the touch, looking up at you and patting your ass lightly, his gaze softening as he met your eyes amidst the darkness. The look of love.

“Don't do that, I'm about to get hard again,” he murmurs in a playful voice, a little sheepish smile growing on his lips. He is blushing, like he's not balls deep inside you, his cum leaking out of your cunt and trickling down your thighs.

You let out a sleepy chuckle, leaning down and snuggling close into his chest, his arms wrap around your shoulders and he tugs a blanket over the two of you.

“I had to take you on a date first,” Dae-ho blurts out suddenly, sounding more like he's talking to himself than to you, but you do manage to hear him, yet not really understanding what he's trying to say.

“What?” you ask curiously, still a little dizzy, fingers tracing light caresses on his chest, right where his heart is.

He clears his voice, bowing his chin so he can look down at you, gaze full pure love and adoration, his fingertips soothingly caressing your spine as he answers you in a hushed whisper, “I was supposed to take you on a date before.... all of this.”

You smile bashfully against his chest, looking up at him with big, soft eyes, “Well, we're not exactly in a position where having a date is doable, Dae-ho.”

But he is confident on the subject, fingers drawing little circles on the small of your back, “After we get out of this, I'll pick you up at your house and take you to the fanciest restaurant.”

You kiss him tenderly. 

And he smiles like he's actually in love.

“I'll be waiting for you in my best dress, then.”

[dabisqueen]

Pornstar!Dabi (Touya Todoroki) x female reader

⇢ word count: roughly 7K

⇢ plot: as a broke student, you sign up for an assistant job at a movie set. It turns out the job is more than you bargained for.

⇢ warnings: 18+, minors DNI, swearing, size kink, pierced big-cock Touya, fingering, cunnilingus (f receiving), multiple orgasms, loss of virginity, overstimulation, exhibitionism (sex in front of other people (movie set)), creampie, sweet aftercare

⇢ personal note: thank you @/blankexpressions-and-falsefires for bring my beta again! As for what you're all about to read – I have no regrets. Virgin kink goes brrr

"College has always been so crucial, such an essential part of what measures a person’s worth and determines their future."

They say college life is quite challenging. That it can help you come to realize your potential, that you learn more about yourself while in it. That the challenges you experience in university help you grow into a mature person in society.

You have several challenges to face. There's the problem that you focus entirely too much on your studies. In some ways, it’s to secure your future and to compensate for your lack of private life. In other ways, it makes you, because of inexperience, too naive for your own good. Or, as your friends have called it: too innocent. You've never had anyone touch you, never been with anyone in that way. Thus, you never get the hint when someone hits on you or finds you attractive. You have excellent grades – but unlike many of your peers, you’re still a virgin. 

Another challenge you are facing is that you aren't wealthy. One semester into your studies, you are closer to the end than you expected. Leaving your landlord's buro, you take a few steps before coming to a halt and close your eyes as if to gain some semblance of composure. You're broke and desperately need money to cover your rent and living expenses. The bank isn't going to give you another loan, and you find yourself on the verge of having to leave college without a family to support your education.

They say you have to fail first to be successful in the future. But you are beyond failing – you are simply screwed. 

You are very aware of your financial predicament. And you loathe having to live day to day on just pennies. To put it short—you are sick of being a broke-ass, loser virgin.

You sigh. 

Giving up is not a choice. So you do the next best thing: grab life by the horns and start looking for a job. Searching under your bed, clothing pockets, and between couch cushions, you scrounge up enough money to get a local newspaper. In its classified ads, only a few offers deem themselves feasible with your busy school schedule: a late-night shift at a local diner, pizza delivery, or a job doing telemarketing. None of those sound too appealing, but there might not be a choice. Then, your gaze stops at an offer that sounds too good. A movie company is looking for a production assistant on a film set; you don't need prior experience, work hours are during the weekends, and pay is double what the other jobs offer.

You don’t think before hastily grabbing your phone, punching in the number, and waiting while the dial tone rings.

After a distinct click over the other line, a man hisses, "Shimura?"

"Uhm, hi. I- I am calling about the assistant job offer. I was wondering—"

"You're hired. Tomorrow at 5 pm," the man at the other end interrupts in an annoyed tone.

He rattles off the address as you fumble around for a pen, hastily writing it down when you find it.

Before you can reply, he finishes with Don't be late and hangs up unceremoniously.

You exhale, realizing you’ve been holding your breath since he started speaking.

What the hell just happened? 

***

The path to the location is littered with brown leaves, and you struggle to keep from slipping as you walk toward the building. The address given to you is an old warehouse on the edge of town. Its monotonous, featureless walls covered in graffiti make it feel abandoned. There are no visible signs that anything is happening inside at all.

As you walk across the parking lot, you start to see small indications of life: fancy cars—far too fancy for this area- and sensual music permeating through the corrugated steel walls. 

You weren’t sure how to dress for a job you knew nothing about, so you opted for blue jeans, a white blouse, and pointy shoes with heels. Your hair is tied into a neat ponytail, and simple smokey eyes complete the look. 

You aim for a large steel door that the cars are all parked close to. As you lift your head, you take in the old brick building you are standing in front of, lined with large casement metal windows. 

There is a single doorbell, no name on it, and you hesitate before inhaling and pressing it with the tip of your finger.

You hear a clicking sound, and then the heavy door swings inwards. 

Alright, here goes nothing.

***

The set is surprisingly professional—like a luxurious bedroom sliced in half. A row of chairs faces the set on a concrete floor behind multiple cameras and some sound equipment, with the crew standing around talking.

The producer, Tenko, as he introduces himself to you–with tufts of pale hair and seemingly chronic dry lips in dire need of some chapstick – explains that your job will consist of helping around the set, distributing beverages, and handing out the script. Simple work you could do. After introducing you to the crew, he hands you a stack of papers, instructing you to pass them out.

Then you see her—the actress. She is gorgeous, dressed in an ivory-colored silk robe. Her hair is the color of the sun. Her skin is flawless and tanned, and her body is perfect- although almost definitely sculpted by a professional surgeon.

"Where the fuck is he?" You hear Tenko grumble, pulling a phone from his pocket, thumb tapping against the screen.

A flurry of activity breaks your concentration. A door flies open, and a man strides through—the leading actor, you gather, from how everyone else suddenly perks up.

"Fucking finally," the pale-haired director groans, tucking his cell back into the pocket of his jacket.

The man's hair is coal-colored, falling in messy strands into his face. His eyes remind you of the bright ocean, almost glowing in the dim light of the set. His sharp lips pull into a wide grin, his canines peeking out. He is casually dressed, wearing a pair of dark, ripped jeans and a white t-shirt, allowing you to notice just how well-toned his arms are. He is handsome, with delicate yet masculine features and sharp angles set in his face. His eyes are heavy-lidded, and his thin lips form a troublesome grin when his eyes meet yours. 

Shit. 

He holds your gaze before dragging his sinfully blue eyes over your figure and looking away again. Your heart skips a beat because even in the low light, you can see that the actor is incredibly hot. Totally your type. You can't help but stare at him, watching how he moves, the way his muscles ripple under the thin fabric of his shirt, the way his thighs bulge in his tight pants. 

Speaking of bulge. 

It's the biggest one you've ever seen, and the sight of it sends a pang straight to your core. Your cheeks heat up automatically. 

Stop it!

You curse inwardly a few times for thinking lewd thoughts on a professional movie set.

But—you can't help it. He just looks too handsome. It stirs something inside of you you've never felt before. You sigh, knowing that this man has already made his way into your dreams, but in the end, they’ll stay just that— dreams. 

Someone like him would never want to lay a hand on you.

As he approaches the stage, the man stops dead in his tracks, staring at the actress with a bored expression. 

“Not her again.” You hear him groan.

The actress snaps her head around, a stunned expression on her face. “Pardon me?”

"The script calls for an innocent girl." The actor deadpans. "No one's gonna believe that with you in the female role."

The actress jumps to her feet. “How dare you talk about me like that!”

Tenko hisses, “Didn't you read the script? You would have known you film with her today, Touya—"

“I told you not to use my real name on set,” he says with a blase, somewhat impatient gaze.

“And I told you not to let out your frustration on the set, Dabi.” The director retorts.

“Frustration caused by your actions.” Dabi deadpans.

You hold your breath as your eyes dart from the director to Dabi and back to the actress. The rest of the crew acts like this is an everyday commotion on the set. 

“This is not a request— I'm not doing the scene with her, " Dabi says, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

The actress jumps from her chair, visibly outraged, as her cheeks flare red with anger. “You're such a dick!”

“Yeah, you're right. But I’m the best dick in the industry.” He turns around, a sardonic finality in his tone.

You stare at the scene before you, the forgotten papers clutched tightly to your chest. The blonde woman stares at the dark-haired man, infuriated. 

“So, it's either me—or her.” Dabi addresses Tenko, who isn't even trying to de-escalate the situation. “That's my final say.”

“I can't believe you're doing this to me!" The woman wails exaggeratedly.

"Sweetheart, we need someone who conveys innocence. Not some chick as fake-looking as you," Dabi purrs with false care. “Go carry your plastic off the stage already.”

Tenko scratches his neck in annoyance. He watches as the actress slings an array of profanities at Dabi before storming off with quick strides toward the door, slamming it shut behind her.

The dark-haired man stands at ease, reaching into his pants pocket to retrieve a cigarette, lighting it, and taking a deep drag. “Thank god she's gone. What were you thinking, Tenko?”

“Dabi, she's the most requested—” 

“I don't give a fuck.” he runs a free hand through his dark bangs. “She sucks.”

You listen to them bicker, getting more confused by the second. 

“So—what do you expect me to do now?” Tenko's scratching increases as he starts pacing up and down the set. “Production costs will double if we cut and pick things up on a different day. Not to mention the cost of finding a new replacement.”

He jumps off his chair, pacing around the set. Then he grumbles, “We’ll take a ten-minute break. I need to come up with a solution or else—”

“We need someone Pretty, no makeup, normal clothes.” Dabi suggests, "That won't be too expensive. Someone who looks undefiled, innocent.” Dabi's gaze wanders across the room. “Like a student or something.”

Then he sees you, and a smirk tugs at his lips. His stunning sapphire eyes look you up and down. You swallow hard, your shaking hands almost crumpling the papers in their tight grip.

"Like her." Teal eyes narrow as they focus on you. 

You blink back at him dumbly, the room around you completely silent.

"Me?" You answer, his words catching you off guard.

"Yep. You." Dabi's smirk returns, a playfulness in his eyes. 

The director stares at you with the same baffled expression written on your face. "Her?"

"Yep. Her." His grin widens.

"B-But, I can't!" You counter. " I'm a simple student, not an actress—"

"That's exactly what we need." The twinkle in his eyes is still there, "And you have a pussy, don't you?"

"Yes, I—” You catch yourself, your cheeks flaring hot. “W- What does that even have to do with this movie?"

Suddenly, the room goes alive with murmurs and whispers.

Dabi quirks a brow. "You're telling me you don't know?"

"Don't know what?" You helplessly look around.

The dark-haired man turns to his director, "You didn't tell her?!"

Tenko mumbles something about how you would have found out eventually. 

Dabi steps toward you and crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Doll, this is an adult film set."

"A what?" You dumbly blink at him.

"An adult film set. You know, where people fuck." He leans forward, deep azures sparkling salaciously. "You know how fucking works, don't you?"

"Yes, I mean—in theory?" A heat washes over your face and flushes down your entire body.

"Yes or no. What is it?" Dabi asks teasingly, raising an eyebrow.

The heat in your face has reached the tip of your ears as you stammer. "It's none of your business."

He steps even closer. "C’mon, sweetheart, tell us."

He smirks, eyes narrowing as he leans closer. He looks at your lips, then back at your eyes. You can smell him with how close he is leaning in. His deep, masculine scent surrounds you, sending a jolt of heat straight through your core. Even though your mind wants to scream at him, to tell him off, you hear a timid voice whisper, "I’ve used my fingers? Maybe some toys?"

It is your voice.

"You're telling me you've never done it with another person?" This time, it is Dabi’s turn to sound baffled as he leans back, taking you in. "That you're a virgin."

"I-I…" You stammer, swallowing dryly.

Looking over his shoulders, he calls over to his director, "It'll break records if we film this. You're aware of that, right?"

"I am." Tenko snaps, scratching at his neck irritably, "You don't need to tell me."

"Ok, then it's a deal.” He nods towards you. “I want her—or I'm leaving."

"You little piece of—" Tenko growls. "That's extortion."

"You won't regret it," Dabi says, shrugging nonchalantly.

"Shouldn’t I have a say on this too?" You ask, but both men ignore your words.

"Ok, it's a deal," Tenko murmurs. "How much do we pay her?"

Dabi turns his gaze back to you. "You need money, right? Or else you wouldn't be here.”

"That’s none of your business."

"C'mon, sweetheart, This is your chance."

“Yes, I mean… " a sound of annoyance bubbles up your throat. "I can't afford my rent anymore, and my landlord will kick me out if I don't pay up soon."

“I sense an opportunity here," Dabi smirks. "Tenko, how much will you pay her if she agrees to do this with me?"

"How much do you want?" Tenko asks you.

“I-I don't know. I've never thought about it." You shyly add.

"Pay her rent plus an allowance," Dabi suggests. "Tenko, you know she's worth it."

"That’s too m—" You swallow hard.

Tenko mumbles disgruntledly: "OK, I'll do it.” 

“You what?" His words leave you stunned.

Dabi interrupts quickly. "What he's saying, sweetheart, is that he'll pay for your rent - if you let me fuck you.”

His lewd words and the deep blue pools of his stunning eyes send a flutter through your stomach. 

“In front of all these people?!" 

“That's what porn is all about, doll.” Dabi chuckles, studying your reaction.

You swallow hard.

"So? What's it gonna be?" He cocks his head, waiting. 

You have always prioritized safety, so common sense tells you to stick to your usual way of life. However, look where common sense has led you: You're almost broke and may need to drop out of college. 

This could be a bad decision. But, it's time to throw safety to the sea.

"OK, I'll do it," you proclaim, and a round of applause and cheers erupt on the set while Dabi nods appreciatively.

“Congratulations, you're hired. Now, get ready before I change my mind.” Tenko waves a hand. “We still have a movie to film here.”

Your heart starts to race, a crushing weight bearing down on your chest. But you know that you have no choice. It's either a free porn loan—or being a forced college dropout. Taking a deep breath, you ball your hands into fists, trying to ignore the signs of panic your body is giving you.

"Okay, everyone, resume positions. And hand her the script.” Tenko moves to his chair, sitting down in it. “Let's do the first take." 

"Hold on," Dabi says. "Why not do it a bit differently this time? No script, no acting— just raw footage. The whole thing.”

“You mean a one-shot film?” Tenko looks surprised. “I suppose that would work. Especially with a new actress.”

“Are you okay with that, doll?” Dabi smiles at you, and there's a warmth in his voice that wasn't there before.

“Do I have a choice?” you sigh.

“Not really.” He winks.

"Are you two lovebirds done flirting over there? " Tenko asks, " Because we're ready to film.”

“We weren't flir—” you protest, but Dabi bridges the distance between you.

"So, sweetheart?" He leans in, his face hovering close, sharing a breath with you. "How are you feeling about being fucked on camera?"

“Nervous.” you bite your lips, your face starting to burn.

"Doll, don't be; just focus on me," he soothes, stroking your cheek. “Forget about everyone else; I'll take care of you.”

He takes your hand and pulls you towards the bedroom set.

“Quiet!” Tenko raises a hand, and complete silence falls over the set as the crew prepares to film you both. 

Tenko calls out a set of commands, which different crew members around the room answer.

“Sound?”

“Set.”

“Camera?”

“Set.”

“Roll sound.”

“Sound rolling.”

“Roll camera.” 

“Camera Speed.” 

“Marker.”

A man with a clapper board enters the scene and calls, "Scene one. Take—uhm— whatever." 

Dabi nods, and that is the cue. The lights dim, and the cameras vanish into the darkness; only the red lights betray their existence. 

You glance around, your stomach in knots, as you realize that this is no game, that this is it. The only thing visibly lit was the bed standing a few feet away. The crew's faces are barely visible as everyone watches you, the man behind the camera tilting it, filming you from bottom to top.

“Hey baby, you alright?” You hear Dabi's voice.

“N-No, not really.” You stammer, your hands trembling, your breathing picking up, as your eyes frantically dart around the dark set. “I don't know if I can do this.”

“Sweetheart, look at me.” You feel a finger hook under your chin when Dabi tilts your head to meet his gaze. It's intense, the turquoise of his irises gleaming almost unnaturally. 

You feel your heart sink into your stomach as his thumb caresses your skin. When he closes the already minimal distance between you, your eyes flutter close in reflex. His lips are sensually warm and addicting against your cheek, and your heart starts thrashing wildly inside your chest in response. Something changes between you, an intimacy blooming as the voices of the people mute.

It's all you need to distract your mind, to make your body heat up. Not with anxiety—

—but in anticipation. 

“Are you ready to give me your virginity?” His low voice rumbles close to your ear.

You nod, like in a haze, every caress of his lips causes your skin to tingle, to burn with passion. He shifts, and you feel him faintly brush your lips, and a zap of electricity courses through your veins. Then, your lips are united in his first tentative kiss. They are so soft, and the way he kisses you is so delicate, almost tender— deliberately slow.

You relax, giving in to how wonderful this feels. His tongue slowly traces the shape of your lips, and you feel your brain short-circuiting. Angling your head to the side, you part your lips, begging him to enter. Dabi reacts instantly, his tongue slipping your mouth, delving deeper, tasting you, consuming you.

You groan—how could a man taste so good?

It makes your knees buckle, and you start panting into his mouth, your instincts taking over, your body reacting to his touch. A desire, a passion, awakens like a wild animal roaring, and you feel a wave of arousal pool in your panties. You can't help it, and you slide your hand underneath his shirt, your other hand circling his neck. You can feel him smirking into the kiss, but the sound carries off into a groan when you rake your nails down the small of his back. 

As he breaks away, a warmth lingers between you and him while he admires your wet, pink, swollen lips, "A little eager for your first time, huh?"

The kiss leaves you dizzy, and you can't seem to form an answer, too stricken by his closeness and intoxicating scent.

The moment passes, and then his lips smash against yours so fast you don't even have time to react. He presses his hips against yours, his clothed hardness grazing against your heat, letting you feel just how hard you’ve made him.

Holy shit.

He's not gentle anymore; he's rough and demanding now. He is taking you, enjoying the shaky gasps that leave your lips. Dabi’s hands trail down your side to find your ass cheeks. He lifts you by the thighs onto his waist skillfully, never breaking the kiss. Carrying you easily toward the bed he releases his hold and you topple onto it, panting heavily.

The lights around you heat the air, and you notice one camera panning across the set while the other tracks toward you on a dolly. Just as your heart starts picking up an anxious speed again, you see a movement to the side. Dabi yanks his shirt above his head, the muscles in his stomach flexing with every movement.

The second the fabric touches the floor, he's on you with his lips pressed to yours and his tongue in your mouth. You feel yourself getting lost in the moment of passion and all you can see is him. Your stomach somersaults and the world around you ceases to exist; it is just you and him— the people around you and the cameras wholly forgotten. The world, right now, only revolves around the two of you.

“You taste so fucking good,” he breathes into your mouth, hazy eyes glowing with arousal. "How do you taste so fucking good?”

You feel his hand sneak underneath your shirt to slowly pull it off over your head. Next, he skillfully removes the rest of your clothes off until you are lying below him, sex and breasts cupped by delicate cotton underwear. 

“Look at that,” he muses. “So innocent.”

Sliding his hand behind your back, he unhooks the bra with an expert pinch of his fingers. Your breasts spill out as he slides the straps off your shoulders, tossing it aside. Then his gaze lingers on your soft, round tits.

“Damn,” he cups them and squeezes them gently, “Where have you been hiding, girl? You're perfect.”

He slides his fingers over your nipples and a low moan tears from your throat. Dabi lets out a low rumble as his hands continue to work your breasts, rubbing and plucking at your stiffening nipples. There’s a deep throb low in your body, pulsing between your thighs, and you're startled at the way you’re reacting. You are so turned on—his touch only adds to your body’s cravings, and as his large palms glide over your breasts; it pulls the breath from your lungs as it simultaneously fuels your desire. His thumbs drag over your nipples again, rolling it between his fingers before leaning down to lick at your pebbled nub. He makes you feel breathless with excitement the more he focuses on toying with your breasts, rolling the tips back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. 

It makes you crazy with need until you're aching, shivering throughout your entire body. You're gasping for breath the entire time Dabi has his lips wrapped around your erect nub, sucking it to send a tingling sensation straight through to your core. Then he's biting just hard enough to make you squeal before soothing the puckered nub with a flick of his tongue.

“You’ve got the most amazing tits,’ Dabi murmurs against your skin. “So soft and full. So natural.”

While he switches from pliant nipple to pliant nipple, you feel a stray hand hook its fingers under the seams of your panties. He releases your nipple with a pop and peppers kisses down to your tummy while he adeptly pulls the little piece of fabric down and off your legs. You're now utterly naked below him while Dabi continues revering your body with wet kisses and nibbles, moving downward until you feel his warm breath on your pubic mound. He spreads your trembling legs, his eyes glazing over your pussy, pupils expanding and then retracting into pin slits.

"Look at that pretty pussy." His breath is hot against your soaked folds. "And so fucking wet—you're dripping."

A shameful sound spills from your lips at his words, and you writhe in his hold. But his hands keep you in place. 

"You're seriously telling me,” he slides his fingers up and down your glistening folds, “No one's been here before?"

You squirm below him as a camera zooms in on where Dabi’s eyes are affixed– between your thighs.

“Cause you have the prettiest pussy I've ever seen.” He snickers. “And I've seen a lot.” 

His warm, calloused fingers slide up and down your slippery folds, his hot breath fanning over your sex. Then he spreads apart your sweet lips; it makes you shudder in anticipation, and Dabi chuckles.

“I can see you twitching for me.” A finger sinks in, making you arch your back the deeper it goes. 

The camera behind him zooms in on your blushing face, and you cover it with trembling hands. 

"Nu-uh, no hiding. Look at me." He slaps your clit lightly—making you jolt. "Let us see your pretty face."

You whimper softly, because you've touched yourself before—

—but this just feels so much more intense.

“Dabi—” you choke out, flinching in pleasure when he slides a hand underneath your ass, 

raising your hips to have more access to you. 

“Relax, baby, I'll take care of you.” A growl tears from his throat, and then he drags his tongue over your gleaming folds, tasting you. 

You cry out, your body shuddering. Over and over, Dabi licks you with deep, claiming strokes, using his tongue to explore every bit of you. 

“Damn, you taste better than anything I've ever tasted.” He pushes his wet muscle into your core, frantic to have more of you. 

“Oh my God. Dabi!” Your toes curl, and your thighs tighten around him. You're both – startled and aroused at his eagerness. Any worries you have are melting away as he drags his tongue over you again and again, making you squirm with need.

A moan escapes your lips– loud, uncontrolled– when his tongue flicks over your folds. When he grazes your little button, you jolt as if you've been stung. 

He hums appreciatively and buries his face into your warmth, seeking out that sweet nub. Your body jerks as he moves his tongue over it, repeating the action when he does it again. You give a little wail, and your hands curl into the fabric the longer he teases. He eagerly works that spot, and you cry out with little choked gasps.

As his tongue circles your clitoris, your sensations spiral out of control. You can feel the tension increasing in your body with a growing urgency to be released. 

“Dabi,” you pant with every flick of his tongue. But he doesn't respond, does not hear– or pretends not to. He buries his face in your folds, hands holding you down by your hips.

With every quiver that moves through your body, with every shiver of response, every tensing of your muscles, you draw closer to the edge.

You writhe against Dabi, with his face between your thighs, lapping at your juices. All the while, he continues to work your little clit with his tongue in slow, steady strokes. 

Suddenly, the feeling that you’re about to cum overwhelms you. Your pussy clenches, dripping with your juices, and your clit is ready to burst.  

Your hips jerk against him, and then a release explodes in your mind, your thoughts crashing all around you. You come with a slight scream that morphs into a moan, but Dabi does not stop his ministrations—

—no.

He continues to lick and suck as you come and come and come.

It's too much; you feel like exploding. You’re a moaning mess, fingers slipping between Dabi’s strands, pushing and pulling at his roots unsure if you can take it if he keeps going like that. 

Your entire body is on fire. The orgasm continues to surge through you– more intense than anything you’ve experienced by yourself– with Dabi gently sucking and licking at your clit. You are delirious, feel like you are floating with no way to find your path back to earth. 

“Dabi, please—” you choke out.

Dabi’s mouth detaches from your overstimulated nub and straightens up, licking your cum’s sweetness off his lips. Crawling on top of you, he gazes into your eyes. “Doll, tell me—what do you want me to do?”

You see his jeans straining from the bulk of his erection and swallow, your body responding with a flood of hormones. 

“Please fuck me,” you whisper, thinking in ways you never have before.

You want to beg him to be gentle, but you can’t seem to form the words when you see him unbuckle his belt before unzipping his jeans, his eyes carefully watching your expression as he does. His cock springs to life, and you swallow thickly. It's enormous—and pierced. 

You feel a momentary pang of doubt, questioning if that monster will even fit inside you. The previous excitement and adrenaline pumping through your veins gradually turn to panic. Your breathing picks up as you stare at his cock, wide-eyed. 

“You look worried,” Dabi says, stroking it with one hand. His raised eyebrows and amused grin tell you he's used to this type of reaction. 

“Are you sure…” you nod towards his cock.

“Trust me,” he says. “I’ll make sure you feel good. It’ll be the greatest thing you'll ever experience.”

Your entire body yearns for his touch, and there’s no way you're saying no now. He’s spreading you wide open, hands on your knees, before he moves to hold himself in hand to align his cock with your entrance.  

"Do you want me to fuck you?’ Dabi asks as he drags the head of the tip up and down your slit. 

“‘S not gonna fit,” you whine with a worried expression.

“Don't be scared,” Dabi says, "I know what I'm doing. So, you'll be a good girl and take it all, right?”

“I'm not sure,” you whisper.

“I know you can...” His eyes stare at you with a desire so intense that you almost feel intimidated. 

He’s spreading you wide open, hands on your knees, before he moves one to hold himself and align his cock to your entrance. The pressure between your legs increases as Dabi nudges the pierced tip of his cock against you.

“Get ready,” he whispers.

A mix of a gasp and a cry leaves your lips as Dabi strains against you, feeling like he’s trying to shove a massive pole inside of you. You squeeze your eyes shut as tears gather in your lashes, and Dabi holds back, kissing you, waiting for you to relax.

“Easy,” he says softly, “I’ve got you.” 

The softness of his tone relaxes you and the tension in your shoulders lessens. Then, somehow, something gives way, and he enters you. You gasp, your body opening up to accommodate the massive dick that is now sliding inside of you. 

"Oh my god—” You throw your head back, hands clawing at his shoulders in a weak attempt to push him away.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight,” he hisses, eyebrows furrowing before he hits resistance and then pushes forward.

There’s a sharp pain slicing through your core, and you don't know if it's from the stretch or a tear. Probably both. It hurts, and you squeeze your eyes shut, forcing tears down your cheek. Dabi continues to push his hips forward, only stopping once he’s entirely inside, heavy balls pressed against the crease of your ass. The cameras zoom in on the bulge in your womb, where his dick sits buried deep inside of you. But you don't notice them, your brain too consumed by him filling you up, his whole weight resting against you. 

“You ok?” Breathing heavily, he drags his eyes back and forth over your face. 

“Gimme a sec.” Your lips press into a thin line as the pain from the stretch slowly turns into a dull throb. After a moment, you nod...

"I'm gonna start moving now," Dabi says— and then does precisely that. 

Just as you start to feel your body relaxing, he withdraws, only to plunge himself in again. The sudden shock of the movement is incredible. You feel every ridge, every single thick vein. It feels fantastic, and as he slowly slides back in, you can appreciate every inch of his cock. He starts an even rhythm, rocking inside you gently. 

“Shit, just squeezed me so fucking tight,” he moans in response. "I’m warning you, don't make me lose my composure. You don’t want to see me act up.”

Your mind feels detached from your body; you don't hear him, don't even notice the camera zooming in, focusing on how your face scrunches and your lips quiver because of how good he makes you feel. 

He grabs you by the waist and brings you closer to him. Raising both legs in the air, he pushes them forward until your body is folded in half.

“Oh—shit—” You choke out, the walls of your sex stretching to accommodate him. 

“I’m gonna make you cum,” Dabi is panting hard as he starts driving his cock rapidly in and out of you. “You won't be able to walk for days.”

“I-I can’t—” your jaw slackens as you tighten around his dick again, the ability to form comprehensive answers having left you the moment he breached your walls.

He rams himself deeper while his fingers slip between your strands, guiding your face upward, your mouths colliding in a frantic kiss. 

It starts as a slow burn that gradually builds into a white, blistering heat. A feeling begins coursing through you, making you lose control of your body. You tense and arch your back, your head digging back into the pillow, voice caught in your throat. And just when you think you can't take it anymore, all that tension releases, and you cry out loud, a turbulent wave of pleasure hitting you like a storm. All your nerve endings are seemingly set ablaze while Dabi fucks you through your orgasm. 

His eyes are wide with wonder, hearing and feeling you come undone around him. The way your eyes are shut tightly in pleasure, your entire body trembling and shaking in ecstasy, is the best thing he's ever seen. It makes his chest swell with pride. Still, it feels like it's not enough, though, and he needs more. He wants to own you, possess you, make you his.

Dabi snaps. 

With a suppressed growl, Dabi grabs you by your hips and flips you over onto your stomach. He's not letting you catch your breath before he propels his cock back inside you again. His hand slides from the dip in your spine to the spot between your shoulder blades, pressing down until your face is buried in the sheets. At this angle, he reaches even deeper than before, his piercings rubbing your G-spot just right. Your hands tightly fist the soft duvet with every drive of his hips, knocking the air from your lungs.

Dabi seems delirious, pistoning in and out of you now. Reaching forward, he gathers your hair around his fist, tugging it to keep you in place, forcing your head up from the sheets. You sob out his name, your chin and cheeks covered with your drool and tears. 

But Dabi is drowning too deep in pleasure to notice. 

"I’m gonna fuck you so hard you’ll never think of anyone but me in your fantasies," Dabi growls while your elbows shake under the pressure of his forceful thrusts.

Slowly, your mind is falling apart with the pleasure pulsing through your body. Dabi starts drilling his big cock into your even faster now. You tremble below him, thighs quivering when you feel another orgasm building up. 

“You gonna cum for me again, princess?” Dabi groans, “I can feel your pussy clenching around me.”

You nod, too exhausted to form any words. Dabi tightens his hold on your hip, fingers digging into your plush skin, holding you still. 

“I’m gonna cum with you,” he tells you. “I’m gonna fill up your tight hole, gonna breed you so good—fuck!”

"Please—" you whimper pathetically, finding yourself trapped in his lewd promises. 

And then you lose it, feeling like the world is disappearing underneath your feet. Pleasure rips through you, leaving you with no strength. It’s an intense tingling pleasure that starts in your core and spreads through your whole body, from your fingertips down to your toes. It's all-consuming and euphoric, your body not knowing what to do with that much sensation at once. 

You feel your body falling off a cliff into a pile of tingling ecstasy as you cum again with a broken whimper escaping your lips. The orgasm is even more potent than the last ones, like a massive burst of pleasure; all that tension explodes and shoots up the back of your legs and everywhere else. You moan and shudder, your pussy clamping around his cock. 

“That’s it,” Dabi lets out a long, shuddering groan. “Just like that.”

You forget to breathe while Dabi keeps fucking your harder and harder, feral with desire, shoving his cock as deep inside you as he can.

“Oh fuck—” You gasp out, arching your back, fingers twisting against the sheets.

No sooner have the words slipped from your lips that you feel your whole body lock tight again—and then unravel. You forget to breathe as an unending cascade of euphoria detonates deep inside of you. You come undone, shaking uncontrollably as juices gush from your pussy, dripping down Dabis balls, drenching the sheets below. 

Dabi groans, his eyes screwing shut, head dropping back. With one final possessive thrust of his hips, he cums, shooting his seed deep inside you. You feel his cock twitch as he moans heavily, eyebrows sewn together. His body is shuddering, his hips hitching while he rides out his orgasm.

You’re faintly aware of your surroundings, buried too deeply in your bliss. Unable to take any more pleasure, you slump backward. Dabi slides his softening cock from you with an obscene wet sound before dropping down onto the bed beside you, taking you with him.

“Fuck…” he breathed out, caressing your skin. “That felt so—”

‘And—cut!’ You hear a voice call, speaking its way into the mush that is your brain, slapping you back to reality.

You open your eyes and look around in shock, having completely forgotten where you are. The lights switch on, almost blindingly bright. People start hustling about the set, and cameras mere inches away from you now pull back into their waiting positions. 

“That was perfect,” you hear Tenko say through the noise filling the set now.

Your breath catches in your throat, an unsettling feeling beginning to well inside you. Your heart starts pounding at an increasingly rapid pace while you feel panic stretch its icy fingers up your spine.

You feel a warm hand cradling your face, angling it to the side. It’s Dabi. He places his mouth over yours without further ado. 

“You are perfect.” Dabi coos into the kiss, and it happens again— butterflies erupt in your gut, the world around you fading until there's only you and him.

Instinctively, you let go, feeling the tension slowly dissipate and your heart calming down. Dabi smiles as he breaks away from you, and you feel it— a lingering warmth, an unseen connection that spins fragile threads between you both.

A man approaches to help you get out of bed, but Dabi, whose face is still dewy with sweat, moves between you both. He takes the bathrobe from the guy and wraps it around your shivering body before getting dressed himself.

Helping you off the bed, he drapes an arm around your shoulder and leads you past the celebrating crew members from the set until you’re backstage. 

Once in the changing room, he closes the door behind him and leans against it. 

“That was something…” he muses. “You’re a natural. Would you ever consider doing this again with me?’ 

You're caught off-guard, his face radiating a tenderness that fills your heart with something joyful. A warmth spreads across your face, your hands gripping the soft belt of your robe as you nip at your lower lip. “I-I don't know.”

“You should,” Dabi kicks off the door frame and saunters over you with a sinful, obscene sway of his hips. His hand finds yours, fingers interlacing in a silent agreement, pulling you into a tight embrace. “Think about it…”

He lets the words hang in the air for a second. When he pulls away, his arms wrap around your neck, lower half still pressed against you as if you’re not a stranger. He looks down at you like the two of you have been dating for years.

“So, I was wondering… what are you doing later on?” Dabi kisses the tip of your nose. “Do you want to grab a bite to eat and get some drinks?”

“Are you asking me out on a date?” A new desire for him grows inside of you. You smile back at him, reaching up to gently play with his dark hair.

“Maybe?” His lips curl into a devious smirk.

“Is this even allowed?” Chest to chest, your heartbeat slowly catches up to his, as if your bodies react simultaneously to each other's warm touch.

“Maybe?” Dabi repeats, his thumb gently brushing along your lips.

When you look into his eyes, a tenderness softens the rough edges of his sharp features. It makes you wonder, he’s been so sweet and caring after everything that happened today– you actually believe he’s a genuinely sincere and nice guy. You feel your heart quiet when you’re with him, as if you have found peace. 

“Well…” you consider, “I've just thrown all my morals into the wind. So, might as well go on a date with a pornstar, right?”

“You won't regret it.” Dabis laughs softly. “Even though you might not be able to move after I'm done with you—”

“Is that so…” You are torn between scolding him or laughing because he's so cute. “Ok, big boy, whatever you say.”

[blythesarchives]

Just As You Are. | B.B

summary: He tries his best for Valentine's Day.

warnings: Smut | 18+ MDNI | Fluff | CW!Bucky x Fem!reader | Cunnilingus | PiV sex | Light dirty talk | Unprotected sex | Slightly insecure Bucky

a/n: I'm not big into Valentine's Day just because it feels very commercialized to me, but I like imagining it with Bucky. This plot changed so many times lmao but I think I am satisfied with how this turned out. If you're allergic to strawberries, just imagine a different fruit. Not beta read. ;; wc: 4.2k

Bucky stood motionless in the bustling store, his steely eyes fixed with a deep frown upon the endless aisle dedicated to Valentine's Day merchandise.

He didn't remember it being so...big back in the day. The sheer volume of products and options left him feeling completely overwhelmed, his mind drifting back to simpler times when a thoughtful bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolate were considered more than acceptable tokens of affection for your sweetheart.

Now, he watched as frantic shoppers rushed past him, their arms laden with elaborate bouquets, towers of candy boxes, and enormous stuffed bears that seemed to grow more ridiculously sized with each passing year.

There were some shoppers who took a different approach, selecting items for personalized gift baskets filled with practical things like cozy socks or fragrant bath bombs. That seemed more personalized with his old-fashioned sensibilities, but you weren't particularly fond of long soaks in the tub, making that option feel somehow inadequate.

A wave of insecurity washed over him unexpectedly. Despite knowing that you had never once demonstrated materialistic tendencies or pressured him for presents, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he should be showering you with gifts. Traditional values ingrained in him insisted that as the man in the relationship, this was his role to fulfill. His heart warmed slightly at the mental image of you beaming with delight over an armful of fresh flowers or savoring each piece from a velvet-lined, heart-shaped box of premium, ridiculously expensive chocolates.

Truthfully, he felt completely lost about what would be the perfect gift for you. The confident, charming young man he used to be - the one who could effortlessly capture a lady's attention with just a well-timed smile or clever word - seemed like a stranger from another lifetime. These days, the gazes that would drift to him were filled with suspicion and barely concealed hostility.

Defeated and increasingly anxious, Bucky turned away from the crowded store aisle, his mind spinning with uncertainty as he struggled to think of what to get you for this special occasion. As he made his way through the bustling shop, he passed by an enthusiastic florist who was eagerly displaying enormous bouquets of perfectly arranged, vibrant red roses.

The vendor was encouraging every passing customer to purchase one, his sales pitch well-rehearsed and persistent. The sight made Bucky recall a conversation from several months ago, where you had expressed your views on traditional romantic gestures. You explained that while roses were undeniably a sweet and romantic gesture, they felt somewhat predictable and conventional to you. Too ordinary, you had said, preferring instead gifts that showed genuine thought and consideration.

"Sure, roses are beautiful. I think they're a wonderful gift for birthdays or valentine's, whatever. But...I don't know. Everyone gets roses. I would be happy but it would also sort of feel like you didn't really try, since they're so abundant and common. It makes them feel less special. Hopefully that doesn't make me sound snobbish. I'd rather get a more personalized bouquet or...one with my favorite flowers instead." You glanced up at Bucky who was nodding and listening, remembering, for later.

Though the roses were beautiful, their pristine petals catching the store's fluorescent lighting to aid in their deep crimson coloration, Bucky could practically envision the polite but slightly underwhelmed expression that would cross your face if he chose such a common option.

Plus...why were flowers so expensive these days? A dozen roses for almost a hundred dollars? The modern pricing was ridiculous - back in his day, that kind of money could have bought several weeks' worth of groceries. Besides, a lot of the bouquets contained wilted flowers. If he got you a bouquet, each and every flower would be alive and well.

He didn't want to leave without getting you something special, something that would bring a genuine smile to your face. He stood there for several long moments, running his flesh hand through his hair as he considered what kind of gift would truly resonate with you, something that would perfectly balance thoughtfulness with appropriateness while still managing to surprise you.

After spending what felt like hours wandering through the store's aisles and watching other men pick the big red hearts off the shelves without a second thought, he began to carefully examine each heart-shaped box of chocolates, reading every label and ingredient list to ensure he found the exact type of varieties you had mentioned loving. Finally satisfied with a winner, he put it in the basket he grabbed.

Moving through the store, he made his way to the stuffed animal section, where he spent considerable time comparing different plush versions of your favorite animal, wanting to select the one with the perfect expression and the softest fur. That one looked too grumpy, that one looked lopsided, that one wasn’t proportioned right - but he found the perfect one.

Then rather than settling for a pre-arranged bouquet, he thoughtfully handpicked each individual flower, remembering all the times you had pointed out different blooms during your walks together, creating a personalized arrangement that represented all your favorites. Even with the care and attention he put into each gift selection, a nagging feeling of inadequacy crept in - everything he chose, while thoughtful, still felt too ordinary.

Bucky shook his head and paid for the items, ignoring the feeling.

Back at home, he arranged everything perfectly. He individually wrapped each item, positioning them precisely in the basket alongside the plush animal and chocolates. Taking his time with the flowers, he trimmed each stem at exactly the right angle and arranged them in the vase until the composition was just right. When Bucky finally stepped back to assess his work, his heart sank slightly, and he let out a frustrated sigh.

The entire arrangement somehow still didn't feel special or unique enough.

Alpine gracefully leapt onto the counter, her blue eyes focusing intently on the array of gifts laid out. She lowered her head, her pink nose twitching as she investigated each item curiously. "What do you think, girl...good enough?" Bucky asked softly, his fingers running through the ragdoll's silky fur as he gently stroked from her head down along her back.

After her inspection, Alpine cast one final, contemplative glance at the presents. Then, with typical cat-like indifference, she turned away from them, her fluffy tail held high like a banner as she delicately padded across the counter to the edge, and descended to the floor with one smooth leap.

"Bad, huh?" Bucky released a heavy sigh, his eyes lingering on the carefully chosen gifts as waves of uncertainty began to wash over him, his anxiety gradually creeping in and eating away at him.

He didn't have more time to wrestle with his uncertainties as the sound of keys jingling at the front door caught his attention. You made your entrance quicker than he had anticipated, your exhausted form slowly making its way through the doorway after what was clearly an demanding day at work. You kicked off your shoes in a haphazard manner, letting them land wherever they might. The weariness etched across your features told him everything he needed to know about the challenging nature of your workday.

"Hey," Bucky offered in greeting as he made his way over to you in the entryway, his mind racing as he tried to keep you from noticing the carefully prepared gifts just yet. Perhaps if he could buy himself a little more time, he might figure out something better to give you than the basic gifts.

A soft, tired grumble was all you could muster in response, though the gentle warmth in his eyes worked its magic in lifting your spirits considerably. "Hey..." you murmured an actual response, crossing the space between you to wrap your arms around his sturdy frame. He gladly hugged you back, letting you bury yourself against him.

The thought of spending the entire day at home with him had been your secret wish throughout your shift, but responsibilities couldn't be ignored. He had promised to make the evening special, and that thought alone helped you persevere through the long hours of your workday.

Bucky thought fast, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze with those intense steel-blue eyes. "How about a hot bath? I can get one ready for you, make it nice and warm - it'll be perfect for those sore muscles of yours...plus, I know you’ve been on your feet all day." He offered gently, his flesh hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face. A playful smirk slowly spread across his lips as he added, "I could even feed you some fresh strawberries while you relax..."

"Ugh, that sounds so heavenly right now..." You agreed with a soft, appreciative moan, already imagining the soothing warmth of the water and the sweet taste of cool fruit.

Bucky made his way to the bathroom, wanting to create the perfect relaxing atmosphere for you after your long day. He tested the water temperature with his flesh hand until it reached that ideal warmth you always preferred, then clogged the drain.

While the tub filled, he selected your favorite aromatherapy soap, watching as it created billowing clouds of soft, luxurious bubbles that released that soothing scent you loved so much. He also scattered rose petals across the surface - special ones he had purchased with your other gifts. They would slowly dissolve into the water, but for now they created a nice, romantic display as they rested atop the peaks of foam.

In the bedroom, you gradually shed your work uniform, letting each piece fall away with relief before walking into the bathroom to meet him. He remained unaware of your presence for a moment until he turned, and when he did, he took the chance to admire you. Bucky rose up to his full height and approached you, his hands finding their familiar place on your hips. "You're so beautiful, doll..." he murmured, his voice full of affection as he leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your cheek, before adding, "Bath's all ready..."

"It looks perfect," you replied in an equally soft and tired tone, carefully stepping into the steaming bath water and sinking down with a contented moan.

God, it felt absolutely amazing - after countless exhausting days of non-stop work, your muscles were crying out for relief. Your back and neck were especially sore from hunching over your desk for hours on end. The perfectly heated water enveloped your body like a warm hug, melting away the tension and aches that had built up over time. The chosen aromatherapy oils filled the air with a soothing blend of lavender and eucalyptus that relaxed you even further.

"Thank you, Bucky... this is... exactly what I needed," you mumbled appreciatively, slowly sinking lower into the luxurious bath until the fragrant bubble clouds rose around your shoulders like a soft blanket.

Bucky's lip quirked up with a gentle, knowing smile as he reached for a plump strawberry from the delicate pink crystal bowl beside the tub. His eyes sparkled with affection as he held the fruit up teasingly, "Of course doll... now open wide~"

"Tease," you said playfully, leaning for the strawberry he held between his fingers. You gladly accepted the offering, letting your lips brush against the plump, red fruit before taking a delicate bite. The sweetness burst across your tongue as you savored each moment, watching his expression intently. Unable to resist the temptation, you gently caught his finger between your lips, your tongue darting out to taste the lingering juice - a deliberately cheeky move to provoke a reaction.

Bucky's eyes darkened as he watched you, a knowing smile spreading slowly across his face. His fingers twitched slightly at the sensation of your tongue, and he leaned in closer. "Don't start something you can't finish, doll..." he warned in a low, honeyed voice that made you shiver, even in the steaming water. "You know exactly what'll happen. Besides, it's Valentine's Day..." He reached out to trace your jawline with his thumb, his touch feather-light and promising. "...I'll make it all about you..."

You couldn't resist the temptation that coursed through you, causing you to slowly emerge from the water just enough to delicately capture his hand between your teeth and deliver a playful nip. Your lips ghosted across his wrist and laid a kiss, "I think I wanna see what you mean..."

That's how you ended up on the bed with his face between your legs.

Your swollen, sensitive pussy being devoured by the soldier keeping your legs spread open. His tongue flatly lapped at you before he would encase your delicate clit in his lips and desperately suckle. The alternating movements kept you close enough to the brink of orgasm, but he wouldn't let you finish all the way yet.

"Bucky! Pl-please," you cried out desperately as he suctioned to your throbbing clit once more, his skilled tongue working magic against your sensitive bud. Your trembling hands clung tightly to the twisted sheets below your hips, your knuckles turning white from the intensity of your grip. Your cheeks were deeply flushed as tears of pleasure pricked at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over.

It felt so fucking good - Bucky always dove into you like a starved man who hadn't tasted such sweetness in decades, you were a fruit from Eden and he wouldn’t stop until he has had all of you.

Which was kind of true, until you two had started dating and everything changed. Over time, he gradually gained the confidence he needed, becoming more and more comfortable with engaging in intimate acts. The hesitation that had once held him back melted away completely, and once that newfound bravado took over, he became a passionate and attentive lover who knew exactly how to make you come undone.

Bucky growled against you, tugging you even closer as he kept his face against your folds and lapped at you repeatedly. His eyes would peek at your expression from time to time, but he mostly kept them closed, purely focusing on your taste. So sweet and delectable, you were his favorite thing to lap up and devour. He never wanted to stop. This was his favorite thing ever. Being the source of your pleasure and hearing how you whined and squirmed underneath him.

"Come for me, baby...come on. Give it to me." He muffled against you as his tongue continued to move up and down with his repetitive licks, getting your juices and making sure to run over that swollen bud.

Fuck, you were. You were going to.

You moaned loudly as waves of pleasure coursed through your body, the tense burning sensation gradually building deep in your belly while your legs trembled uncontrollably. Bucky kept a firm hold on your legs, keeping himself buried in your pussy as he continued his feast. Heat radiated outward as you began to feel your nerves come alive, electric sensations traveling from your core and flowing down through your limbs to the tips of your fingers and toes. The pressure continued mounting until finally, everything began slowly blossoming and unwinding into an overwhelming, desperate climax.

When he pulled away from your folds, his face and dark scruff were thoroughly soaked with your juices. The smug, satisfied bastard slowly licked his lips and began climbing over your shaking body, leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses from your sensitive belly all the way up to the crook of your neck. "Y'r so soft...god, I love every inch of you," he whispered in that husky, desire-laden voice as his lips grazed the shell of your ear.

"Bucky..." You whined needily, the desperate tone in your voice betraying just how affected you were, but you couldn't bring yourself to care - you were absolutely burning with desire for him. The delicious scratching sensation of his rough scruff against your skin felt absolutely divine, and you couldn't help but nuzzle your cheek against his strong jaw, seeking more of that friction. Your responsive action drew a knowing smile from Bucky as he pressed his body more firmly against yours, allowing his head to respond to your pressure and reaching his hand down to carefully position himself against you.

"Easy, my beautiful girl...I promise I'll give you everything you want and need. My perfect doll...just lay still for me, just like that...looking so gorgeous spread out underneath me..." He praised in that gentle, soothing voice that you normally adored, but in your current state of desperate arousal, his sweet words only served to turn you on even more. Something about it drove you insane.

When he finally breached you, your body arched off the bed and your hands immediately grabbed onto him, mindful not to claw at his heavily scarred shoulder.

The moan that escaped from between your parted lips was abruptly silenced as he captured your mouth with his own. The lingering taste of your pleasure danced on his tongue as it skillfully glided past your own, delving deeper to thoroughly explore every corner of your mouth. A deep, resonant hum of satisfaction rumbled in the soldier's chest and vibrated against your lips as he pressed into the kiss with mounting intensity, perfectly matching the quickening rhythm of the increasingly passionate snaps his hips made against you.

The gentle slapping that filled the room was drowned out by your cries of unison - the two of you spewing groans and moans of all kinds as his cockhead repeatedly kissed your cervix and coated it with his precum. The gummy walls of your tight cunt continued to squeeze and massage his cock with each little movement you made squirming beneath him and listening to his lower pitched sounds of pleasure.

"Bucky...ah, feels so good...feel so full," you whined and fell back onto the sheets, ignoring the gentle bulge that appeared beneath your skin each time he hilted himself inside you.

"So perfect for me, doll...made for me, made for my cock," he whispered with reverence, his voice thick and heavy. He leaned down, pressing hard, passionate kisses against your neck, which you willingly allowed. You tilted your head back, exposing more of your sensitive skin to him as he skillfully left a trail of bites and gentle purple bruises blooming across your flesh.

Prettier than any of those damned flowers he saw today.

"R'member when I bit all over you... 'round Christmas? I was so lost and confused back then and..nngh...all I knew was you. All I could think about was you. All I ever wanted was you...completely all to myself..." His voice came out rough and broken between desperate grunts as his hips pistoned at an increasingly frantic pace, his movements becoming more urgent with each thrust.

"Ah, yes...I remember it...you were so needy," You gasped breathlessly, a small knowing chuckle escaping your lips as you eagerly took him harder.

"Now look who's being needy...f-feel you squeezing around me so tight..." Bucky hissed through clenched teeth as he pushed even deeper inside you, his thick cock swelling noticeably with his rapidly approaching orgasm.

"Come for me, Buck Buck...I want it inside. Want you to fill me up," You reached up to him, yearning for more, pulling him down closer until you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. His silken hair cascaded down like a brilliant curtain, framing his face while he let out pants from slightly parted lips. The cool metal of his hand gripped firmly at the meat of your thigh, his touch both gentle and possessive, chilling the skin beneath it.

Bucky ducked his face down and pressed closer to you, a deep groan tore through his throat as his rapid thrusts finally stilled - you felt his thick member twitching inside you as he coated your pretty velvet walls in his cum. As his orgasm washed over him and made him thrust a few more times for good measure, the overwhelming sensation brought you to yours again.

You both panted, breathing heavily in unison as you relished in the feeling of him still tucked inside you, thick cum oozing out as you let out soft laughs together.

"That was absolutely incredible..." You breathed out in a contented sigh, your voice thick with emotion, "I love you so much..." Your lips tenderly found his in a series of gentle, loving pecks, while your fingers delicately traced patterns across his cheek, savoring the warmth of his skin.

"I love you too, babydoll. And actually, I have something special waiting for you in the kitchen..." He began, his eyes flickering towards the doorway. With a knowing smile, you gently guided his face back to yours, your fingers lingering on his jaw.

"Would that happen to be that beautiful arrangement of flowers and those decadent chocolates I spotted sat next to an adorable plushie?"

"Wait, what? How did you -"

"I saw the setup when you were preparing my bath earlier...sweetheart, you really shouldn't have gone to all this trouble. I feel terrible now." You propped yourself up slightly on your elbows, guilt evident in your voice. "Work has been so hectic lately, I didn't even manage to find time to get you anything..."

He drew you even closer into his warm embrace and gently rolled both of you onto your sides. As his softened length slipped free, you nearly whimpered at the loss of connection, you held the pout back for now. "Doll, you should know by now that I don't need fancy gifts or presents. What matters most to me is having you here, sharing these moments together.” He winked playfully before returning to a more serious tone, “You coming home to me is the greatest gift I could ask for. And you know what? The night's still young - we could curl up together and watch a movie, if you'd like..."

You smiled and nodded, letting out a soft chuckle. "That sounds wonderful, but I really think we should freshen up first...things got pretty messy and you made me feel all sticky." You whispered with a playful lilt in your voice, carefully lifting yourself from the tangled sheets. As you made your way towards the bathroom, your hips swayed flirtatiously, each step a teasing invitation. Pausing at the doorway, you glanced over your shoulder with a mischievous glint in your eyes. "C'mon baby...if you're good, I’ll do that thing you always like..."

His reaction was instantaneous.

Like a coiled spring suddenly released, Bucky leapt from the bed with the same sharp reflexes from his military days - every muscle alert and ready. His blue eyes darkened with desire as a roguish grin spread across his face. "Yes ma'am," he responded, voice husky with anticipation. In two swift strides, he crossed the room and swept you up into his strong arms, making you squeal and laugh with surprise, cradling you against his chest as he carried you eagerly toward the shower.

When your feet touched the cool tile of the bathroom floor, Bucky was already eagerly anticipating another passionate moment together, but you gently placed your hands against his firm chest, causing him to pause. Your eyes met his as you spoke softly but earnestly, "And just so you know, everything you got me was absolutely perfect. I love it all so much. You really shouldn't have gone to all this trouble - just spending the evening together would have been more than enough for me, but...everything you did get makes me feel so special. The arranged bouquet with all those beautiful flowers, the adorable plushie of my favorite animal, and those delicious chocolates...it's all too much. You are perfect."

Bucky felt an overwhelming wave of relief wash over him at your heartfelt words, the tension he hadn't even realized he'd been carrying suddenly melting away. His voice was tender, slightly hesitant as he responded, "O-oh... yeah, of course. I...I really wanted to make tonight special for you in every way possible. I picked all your favorite colors and included those specific flowers you always stop to admire during our walks together...and I made absolutely certain the chocolates only contained ingredients and flavors I know you enjoy...and found you a soft, cuddle buddy to keep you company when I have to be away." He ducked his head slightly, a faint blush coloring his cheeks as he added with endearing awkwardness, "Besides Alpine, of course."

"Yeah, whenever she's in one of her affectionate moods and decides it's snuggle time," you added with a gentle, warm chuckle, your eyes crinkling at the corners. He swore his heart beat faster each time he saw those delicate lines. "You are enough, Bucky." You gazed deeply into his eyes, taking in every flicker of emotion that passed through them, before offering him a tender, reassuring smile.

Your hand came up to cup his cheek as you leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips, feeling the tension slowly melt away from his body as he relaxed against you. Drawing back just enough to meet his gaze again, you whispered to him with absolute conviction so he could feel the words as much as possible.

"You are always enough, and don't you ever doubt that for a second..."

Thanks for reading. -em 🌿

Dividers by @/strangergraphics | Images found on Pinterest.

[cloakedpress]

How to Write Better Characters: Roles, Motivation & Actually Making People Care

Let’s be real: your story can have the coolest magic system, the twistiness of the plot, or the hottest vampire/detective/alien—  

but if your characters are flat?  

Nobody’s sticking around.

So let’s break down how to give your characters real presence in your story by understanding their role, their motivation, and how to make them hit harder on the page.

1. What’s Their Role in the Story?

Every character needs a *reason to exist*. Think of them like parts in a machine. What do they *do* in your narrative?

Here are a few basic types:

- Protagonist: The one we’re rooting for. They drive the plot forward.

- Antagonist: The one in their way. Doesn’t have to be evil—just opposed.

- Foil: Someone who reflects the main character’s traits by contrast.

- Mentor: Offers wisdom, often with a tragic backstory or dramatic exit.

- Love Interest: Romantic tension? Check. But make sure they’re *more* than just eye candy.

- Wildcard: Unpredictable chaos gremlin. Every story needs one.

TIP: If you can remove a character without changing the plot? You probably should.

2. What Do They Want? (AKA Motivation)

This is the *core* of your character. Motivation makes everything feel real. Ask yourself:

- What does this character want more than anything?

- Why do they want it?

- What are they willing to do (or give up) to get it?

Bonus points if their motivation is in conflict with someone else’s. That’s where the juicy drama lives.

Ex: “She wants to save her sister. He wants to save the world. One bomb. One choice.”    Now we’re COOKING.

3. How Do You Show It?

Motivation isn’t just monologues and dramatic speeches. It’s in:

- What they *notice* first in a room.

- Who they *trust* (or don’t).

- The mistakes they keep repeating.

- The lies they tell *themselves*.

A character who’s obsessed with control might organize their bag mid-crisis.  

A character desperate to be loved might make themselves useful to everyone… even villains.

4. Let Them Be Messy

Perfect characters are boring.  

Give them contradictions. Regrets. Bad coping mechanisms. Let them be *wrong*. Let them grow.

Characters who never fail or change = characters nobody relates to.

Let your soft boys punch someone. Let your bad girls cry. Let your villains have a point.

5. Ask Yourself the Hard Stuff

- What would break this character?

- What line won’t they cross?

- Who are they when no one’s watching?

If you can answer these? You *know* your character.

6. Level Up: Relationships Matter

Characters don’t exist in a vacuum. Use dynamics to reveal depth:

- A character might be brave in a fight but terrified of disappointing their mentor.

- A flirty rogue might go speechless around the person they actually care about.

- A villain’s cruelty might soften around their childhood friend.

People are different with different people. Show it.

 TL;DR:  

Great characters = clear role + deep motivation + real emotion. 

Make them want things. Make them struggle. Make them human (even if they’re a dragon princess from space).

Want help building a specific character? Drop their name + vibe in my ask box. Let’s break them open together.

[diz-eaze]

i love you i love you i love you i love you. (yan kalim x fem reader)

content: yandere behavior.

[more under the cut! <3]

hehehe look at him plotting !!

yandere!kalim (post-scarabia arc), for me, is someone who you first deem as an extroverted acquaintance who also happens to be your upperclassman. He yearns to be closer to you, so he does it in the way he knows best; socialization. It's not even noticeable at first - how he slowly worms his way into your inner social circle. You just suddenly acknowledge one day that after class, it's not just the hearshackle trio waiting for you at the entrance of the classroom, but the scarabia housewarden is also there, too.

And it's nothing unusual. nothing to think too much about, really. who doesn't like being kalim's friend? he's energetic, he's optimistic, and he's just so, so nice. he often comes across as naive, sure, but that's just the surface level of him as a person. plus it's hard not to be pulled into his gravitational pull, and who are you to deny a budding friendship?

As the friendship grows and your bond with him strengthens, so too do his feelings. And with less than platonic feelings, a new emotion he hasn't felt before is introduced; envy. It's not an obvious emotion that he shows at first. but when he treks back to scarabia (with jamil trailing a few steps behind) after an afternoon spent with you (and your heartslabyul friends)... kalim feels a green-eyed monster taking form underneath his skin. he is envious of how close you are to the other dorms, he envies your first-year best friends, and he's so envious of how he wasn't the first housewarden you formed a bond with.

it's fine to feel this way, right? there's nothing wrong with jealousy, it's a part of life!

still, he can't bear to stand the constant prickling sensation in his beating heart when he sees people get closer to you. his shiny glazes over and his sunny smile drops into a straight line. it's uncanny to see him this way.

even more so, when he snaps back to how he usually acts after he's successfully detached you from the student you were interacting with.

sigh... this is my first time paneling comics, doing a small drabble writing for this, AND drawing kalim pls don't bully me </3

[riacte]

Unconventional format / mixed media / meta / epistolary fic ideas:

Script format but the characters slowly break fourth wall until they grow self aware and scream to leave but the script confines them.

Mock up notes of an author's fic outline only for a "fan favourite" / "author's darling" character to gain sentience and influence the story. The character changes the outline to suit their own agenda, and their changes are marked with a different colour whereas black text means it's the author's will. Maybe another character using another colour gains sentience. The different colours fight for dominance. Mom says it's my turn with the keyboard hey what the fuck man excuse me I'm literally trying to save my family can you guys let go and let me write your character arcs in peace OH FUCK OFF

Recipe fic. The story is told via those unnecessarily long backstories on a recipe blog in which you learn about someone's grandma or a breakup or literally anything. Bonus points if the actual recipe deals with worldbuilding (what ingredients are available? What utensils are used? How to serve this meal? Woohoo Dungeon Meshi) or in-cheek recipes (eg. "Recipe for making up with your estranged mother - Step 1: Mix patience, nostalgia, and filial piety and let it marinate for ten years. Step 2: Throw that shit into the trash because you're better than that")

Travel fic. A character is lost and trying to find their way somewhere. GPS directions, googling "x place to x place", tickets and dates, train station maps, leaflets. It gets weirder and weirder. You never get closer to your destination. You're walking around in circles. It's always 10 meters away. Where are you going and where have you been?

Receipts. Try to infer what a character is doing judging from the weird things they buy together. Also yipppee inflation tracker. On the other side, maybe it can be about a cashier/ shop owner getting to know their customers and what they order.

Written from the pov of an non-native English speaker, all the English words are italicized whereas their native tongue are the only words not italicized. Inspired by Kupu rere kē by Alice Te Punga Somerville. This is because I got salty about people from Ao3 Reddit saying they won't read a fic in all italics.

Murder mystery / "Among Us" style impersonation fic strictly using the chatfic format. Characters and readers will have to figure out which character has been killed and replaced from the way they text and use emojis. This is also because I got salty about Ao3 Reddit being a wee bit pretentious about emoji usage in fics. Maybe emojis can be important plot devices! Some people prefer to sign off messages with a heart emoji of their signature colour, so won't it be weird if they use another coloured heart? How about someone using lapslock suddenly using proper capitalisation and full stops? Can you tell if someone's phone has been stolen? What if someone's mother is pretending to text like their child? Why is someone suddenly only using UwU speak? Is it a bit, or have they been replaced?

Innocuous second person POV until the last line where it's suddenly revealed to be first person POV all along and the "I" has been stalking and narrating "you".

Other fun bits / Easter eggs / secrets to hide:

Decoding within the text itself. Maybe we get given instructions to find a word in x chapter on page y on the nth line. And when we as readers collect all the words, they form a sentence that spells out an important fact which the characters are oblivious to. Or maybe the in-universe characters find a book with the same title as the irl fic with a bookmark in it, and if you go to where the bookmark is stuck irl, you'll find the murderer plainly stated. The rest of the fic is about the readers having hard confirmation of who the murderer is while characters don't know.

A phrase is subtly repeated throughout the text of the fic and is spelled out with the letter that begins a sentence. It gives off the effect that the narrator is screaming and crying into the void (to the readers in the fourth wall) while trying to avoid detection. Bonus points if the same word is repeated for pages and pages to the point the lack of sentence variation feels weird and clunky.

Morse code!! I love morse code! Using onomatopoeia to convey the dots and dashes! The sound of rain pattering on the tin rooftop— drop, drop, drop. A low whistle of a train rumbling in the distance. He slowly sharpens his knife, creating a shiiing sound. A lengthy, high pitched squeal from his kettle. A dog barks. A sharp knock. His heart thumps. Dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot. SOS. Maybe a character's death scene spells out the name of their mysterious murderer. Maybe a character is reminiscing their deceased loved one and the scene spells out what the deceased person would've wanted to tell them— "LIVE ON" or "I LOVE YOU" or something.

[dawngyu]

THE ARCHIVE

pairing: choi soobin x reader

"Here. Please read each clause carefully dear."

The papers were handed in your hands, making your heart pound, each beat a hammer striking painfully inside your ribs. Your fingers tremble against the pen, gripping it so tightly your knuckles ache, but the pressure doesn’t help you—nothing ever will. Your eyes trace the final lines, the words smudging under the sting in your eyes.

You have given extensive thought behind your decision and give "Brighter Days Inc." the exclusive permission to remove this person completely from your memory:

☐ Yes ☐ No

warnings: reader discretion is advised. neuro-science fiction au, set in the year 2125, romance, angst, psychological drama, character!death, depression!, anxiety!, stages of grief, flashbacks, self-destructive!reader, self!harm, accidents, everything written is a work of fiction. if any of the warnings above might be triggering for you, please step back. let me know if I missed anything.

wc: 13k — playlist.

notes: inspired by parts of ariana’s we can’t be friends music video aka eternal sunshine of the spotless mind... concept is there, but the plot itself will take a different path. oh, and buckle up.

a big thank you to my beta reader.

How shattered must your heart be, to long for oblivion over a name once uttered like a prayer?

"Sweetheart."

Warm hands find your waist, circling you with a gentle pull, long fingers tracing slow, reverent patterns across your bare skin. A soft squeeze follows, then, warm—featherlight kisses trail from your neck to your ear, each one taking time to settle on your skin. Your name slips from his lips, barely more than a breath, before he tucks himself closer, body melting into yours.

"Wake up, sleepyhead."

You laugh softly when you feel him press another kiss behind your ear. He always wakes you up like this—unhurried, endlessly affectionate. And no matter how much you loathe early mornings, he somehow makes them worth waking up for.

Turning over, you’re met with his familiar smirk, eyes already tracing every inch of your face like it’s the first time he’s seeing you. His hands find your cheeks, cradling them gently—like he always does. As if he hasn’t held you a thousand times before. As if you haven’t been his to hold since high school.

"It's a crime to be this pretty when you just woke up, don't you think?" he teases, his nose bumping against yours before he gives your lips a quick peck.

"It's too early for your silly jokes, Soobin," you mumble, voice still heavy with sleep as you reach for him, burying your face against his shoulder blades. His warmth is familiar, comforting. Your eyes slip shut again, and he hums softly, his hand tracing slow, soothing patterns on your back.

"I'm not joking," he murmurs.

"Okay," you whisper back, not quite awake but not quite asleep either.

A beat of silence. Then—

"Are you sleeping again?"

"No."

"You’re going to be late."

"Uh-huh."

He exhales a quiet laugh, shifting beside you, and when you finally lift your head, his face is already turned toward you, bathed in the gentle glow of morning. His dimples appear with a smile—one he always saves for you, like tiny craters in the universe of his face. You reach out, pressing a finger into the tiny hollow of his cheek, and his grin only widens.

How does he never grow tired of looking at you like this?

"Come on, let’s eat, yeah?" he coaxes, pinching your cheeks.

You let yourself watch him—watch the way his eyes soften, the way he always waits for you, the way his love sits so effortlessly in the space between you.

"I love you," you whisper.

His fingers brush your cheek, his smile turning impossibly fonder.

"I love you more."

He somehow managed to pull you out of bed, though not without a few sleepy complaints. You lazily threw your hair into a ponytail—an attempt at looking somewhat awake. The moment he caught sight of it, though, laughter spilled from his lips, his dimples deepening with amusement.

“What is this?” he teased, reaching out to play with the loose strands. "A masterpiece of chaos?"

"It's ugly, isn't it?" You pouted, lips jutting out just enough to make his teasing falter. Panic flashed across his face before he quickly cupped your cheeks, his thumbs brushing over your skin as he pressed frantic kisses all over.

“No. You’re beautiful,” he murmured between each kiss. “Always beautiful.”

You let him win that small battle, if only because the warmth of his touch made surrendering easy.

It's always easy with him.

"Put some butter and milk in it," Soobin says, watching you whisk eggs in a bowl. He’s perched at the kitchen table, chin resting in his hand, his gaze fixed on you as you move around the kitchen. The pancakes on the stove have just started to sizzle.

"You like them better that way," he adds.

"Oh, right!" You laugh, hurrying to grab the missing ingredients from the fridge. You mix them in just the way he likes, and when the pancakes are golden and ready, you set the plates down in front of both of you, fetching the utensils.

"Thank you, love," he hums, cutting into his pancake as you take your first bite. A satisfied groan leaves your lips as the warmth of the food soothes your hunger.

"Nothing beats pancakes for breakfast," you sigh. "You and your obsession with them."

He chuckles, watching you with amusement, his elbow propped on the table and his chin resting in his palm. "Good job, chef."

You roll your eyes, dramatically bowing. "You're welcome."

He grins before his expression softens. "You have plans later, right? Be careful out there, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"And—"

Before he can finish, the sound of the doorbell cuts through the moment.

"I’ll get it," you say, pushing your chair back.

He nods at you with a smile, watching as you disappear toward the door.

You step toward the door of your apartment, fingers curling around the handle before pulling it open.

"Wonyoung, good morning!" you greet with a soft smile, but the way her eyes widen—just for a fraction of a second—doesn’t go unnoticed. She hides it quickly, clearing her throat as she shifts the bags in her hands.

"Morning," she says, stepping inside, her gaze immediately scanning you.

Her gaze sweeps over you, taking in the messy hair, the oversized shirt that’s swallowed you whole—the same one she saw you wearing last time. The deep shadows under your eyes, the pale exhaustion etched into your skin.

"Are you okay?" she asks, careful, cautious.

"Yeah, I am," you answer without hesitation, as if saying it fast enough will make it true. You turn to grab the house slippers meant for her, but your fingers hesitate when you notice Soobin’s slippers still neatly tucked by the door.

He didn’t wear them? But the floor is cold.

Shaking the thought away, you straighten up. "I'm having breakfast with Soobin. We made extra, by the way. You can eat with us."

Silence.

Wonyoung just looks at you, her expression unreadable, her lips parting slightly before closing again. There’s hesitation—pain, even—as if she’s searching for the right words.

"What's wrong—?"

You don’t get to finish.

The bags slip from her hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud as she strides toward you. Before you can react, her arms wrap around you, pulling you in tight. The force of it makes you stumble slightly, but she doesn’t let go. Her grip is desperate, as if she’s holding onto something fragile, something already breaking.

You feel her take a deep, shaking breath before she whispers, voice barely above a whisper.

"Y/N… Soobin’s been gone for two years now."

Panic grips you as your breath catches in your throat. Your head snaps toward the table—the very spot where you left him—only to find it empty—a plate of untouched food, sitting there like a ghost.

Everyone in the world fears something—even those who swear they don’t. And at the core of it all, there’s death. It is inevitable and final. It’s like spending years studying, only to fail every job interview. Like working yourself to the bone for months, only to walk away empty-handed. Like pouring your heart into a meal, only to take a bite and realise it tastes terrible.

But for you, fear isn’t just about endings. It isn’t just about pain. What haunts you more than death itself is the thought of being forgotten—or worse, forgetting.

Forgetting is terrifying. Yet, as you sit there, clipping your nailbeds, lost in thought, forgetting made you see him. You saw him this morning, standing there, just as he always had. And without thinking, you breathe.

For that fleeting moment, he’s here. Because you forget that he’s gone.

"Y/N."

You look up from the table, your fingers stiff against the wood. Your mom's eyes are swollen, glassy with unshed tears, rimmed red from exhaustion. She looks at you with so much pity it makes your stomach churn. "Are you even listening to me?"

"I am, Mom."

She exhales sharply, dragging a hand down her face. "I said we should go back to Dr. Park for another check-up. And maybe… maybe we should finally consider what she’s been recommending—"

"No." Your voice is firm, cutting through the air. "It’s just a waste of money—"

"That’s why I’m working two jobs, dear." Her voice shakes as she reaches for your hands. You flinch, but she doesn’t let go. Her grip is warm, trembling.

"You’ve been hallucinating again." She swallows hard. "I thought time would make it better. I really did." Her breath hitches. "But it’s been two years now. Your dad... he’s sick. He can't even get up on the bed, and—"

"You don't understand, Mom." Your voice trembles as tears well in your eyes. Crying has become second nature—easier than eating, easier than sleeping, easier than existing without him. "How am I supposed to act? I'm trying, I promise I am."

"Y/N." Your mom wipes her own tears, her breath unsteady. "It’s hard for me too. He was my son."

You drop your gaze, staring at the table, at the empty space in front of you, anywhere but at her.

"It haunts me," she whispers, "how deeply he loved you. He’s always here. Always with you. Always worrying about you."

The words steal the air from your lungs. Your chest tightens, the room tilts.

"But do you really think," she continues, voice breaking, "that he wouldn’t understand? That, of all people, he wouldn’t want you to keep going?"

The chair screeches against the floor as you stand abruptly. Your mother flinches at the sound. You turn to leave, but her voice stops you just before you step away.

"He loved you more than his own life," she says softly. "Do you really think it wouldn’t break his heart to see you like this?"

You bite your lip as you step out of your parents' house. Wonyoung had dropped you off earlier, she didn’t trust leaving you alone. No one does anymore. Everywhere you go, people watch you with that same look—pity, like you’re a glass figure they’re waiting to see shatter.

Like you’ll be the next one to disappear.

Your chest tightens as tears prick the corners of your eyes, blurring the edges of the world. A hiccup escapes, sharp and unexpected, and you clamp a hand over your mouth as if that might keep everything else from spilling out. You fumble with the car door, your fingers trembling against the handle. It’s only been three months since you managed to get behind the wheel again, but even now, the familiarity of it feels like a fragile lifeline—something that says I’m still here. I’m still trying.

Two years. Two years since his funeral. Two years since you last stepped into your office. Two years of nights that felt endless, of mornings that felt pointless. Two years of watching the people around you crumble under the weight of your grief, their hearts breaking because yours refuses to heal.

And for two years, the doctors have been whispering the same thing, their voices clinical, detached.

The procedure of erasing him from your memory completely.

Your knuckles whiten around the steering wheel as you pull out of the driveway, heart pounding harder than the engine. Every turn, every streetlight, every crack in the pavement feels like it carries his shadow. But there’s only one place where it feels bearable—one place where you can almost convince yourself he’s still there.

Choi Yeonjun’s eyes swept across your face, taking in the tear-streaked cheeks, the vacant gaze, the way you trembled just standing there. He didn’t say anything, just stepped aside and pushed the door open a little wider. You walked past him, your steps sure, like you were following an invisible thread pulling you toward the one place you needed.

"Do you need anything?" You shook your head. Because what you need isn't here anymore.

And then you slipped inside. His room.

Two years had passed, and Yeonjun never touched a thing. Dust had settled, time had moved forward, but this room remained frozen—trapped in the moment before everything shattered. They had been roommates for years, but after Soobin died, Yeonjun never found the will to replace him. Never found the strength to erase the evidence that he had once been here, that he had once been real.

No one was ever allowed inside.

No one but you.

You crossed the threshold like a sinner entering a church, hands trembling, breath unsteady. And when you sat down on the left side of the bed—his side—your chest caved in as you sob.

This was where he always slept. Where he curled into you on restless nights. Where he pressed sleepy kisses to your temple, murmuring half-formed dreams against your skin. The sheets no longer smelled like him. Time had stolen that, too. But the ceiling above was the same one you woke up to with him beside you, and if you closed your eyes, you could pretend.

Pretend that if you reached out, you’d feel his warmth. Pretend that if you called his name, he’d answer. Pretend that you weren’t alone.

But pretending could only take you so far.

You never found the strength to open the door again. You curled into yourself, gripping the blanket like it could hold you together. And when sleep finally came, it was with his name spilling from your lips.

A name that no longer had a future.

The knocking pulled you from the depths of sleep, insistent. You groaned, the sound barely more than a rasp, your throat raw from last night’s tears. Your eyelids felt swollen, heavy, reluctant to open. "Yeah?"

"It's afternoon," Yeonjun said through the door. His tone was careful, but you could hear the quiet concern woven between the words. "You’ve been sleeping for over twelve hours."

Shit.

You knew that wasn’t normal. But then again, nothing about you had been normal for a long time. Some nights, sleep was a stranger you couldn’t reach no matter how exhausted you were. Other days, it swallowed you whole, dragging you under until the hours blurred into nothingness. Staying in bed felt easier.

"I'm sorry," you murmured, "I'll come out in a minute."

Yeonjun hesitated. You knew he wanted to say something—to tell you that you didn’t have to apologize, that he understood, that he wasn’t judging you. But in the end, he just sighed. "Okay."

You listened as his footsteps retreated down the hall.

With a heavy heart, you forced yourself to move, peeling the blanket away like it weighed a thousand pounds. Every part of you ached—not just physically, but in a way that settled deep into your bones, into the spaces between your ribs. The bathroom mirror reflected a version of you that you barely recognized. Hollow eyes, a face drawn thin by grief, lips pressed into something that was neither a frown nor a smile—just existence. Surviving.

You turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto your face, letting the chill bite into your skin. Your fingers gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white, as you sucked in a breath.

And then you saw them. On the shelf behind you; Soobin’s shelf.

Your hairbands.

The sight of them made you waver. Because it was proof, wasn’t it? Proof that once, you had a place here. That once, he was here to tease you about leaving them everywhere, to slip them onto his own wrist absentmindedly, to hand them back to you with a laugh.

"You always lose your hairbands, baby."

Soobin's voice was soft and teasing as he pressed lazy kisses along your cheek, your temple, anywhere he could reach. You tried to ignore him, focused on brushing your teeth, but he never made it easy. His hands slipped under your shirt, palms warm against your bare skin, tracing absentminded patterns over your stomach. He always did that—always found some excuse to touch you.

"So," he murmured, grinning against your jaw as he pressed your cheeks to his. "I bought a whole stack of them."

You paused, raising an eyebrow at his reflection in the mirror. "A whole stack?"

"Mhm." His fingers tightened slightly, possessive. "So now you have one less excuse to leave—and one more reason to come back."

Your hairbands. Like you, were waiting for someone who was never coming back. You shake your head, snapping yourself out of it. Then you heard knocking again. "Yeonjun. I said I’ll be out in a minute."

A pause. Then, softer this time—

"It’s been an hour since you last said that. Are you okay?"

You exhale, the breath shaky, uneven. Time has slipped through your fingers again, and you hadn’t even noticed. But that’s nothing new.

It happens more often than not.

You sit with a book in your lap, determined to do what they say might help—immerse yourself in another world, let fiction be a temporary escape. But you blink, and somehow hours have passed, and you’re still stuck on the same page, the words forgotten.

You eat lunch, fork moving mechanically between your plate and your mouth, only to glance outside and realize the sky has darkened, the day gone without your permission.

You tell yourself you’ll go out, that today, you’ll meet Wonyoung like you promised. You put on your shoes, even grab your coat. But then the door never opens. And before you know it, she’s the one standing there, knocking, asking why you didn’t come—why you never showed up.

You know it’s getting worse. And the worst part? You don’t know how to stop it. You don’t want to stop it.

Because it means moving on.

Moving on has always felt like erasing him. Like accepting a world where Soobin is nothing more than a memory—left behind.

And the thought that one day, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday—everyone, even you, will stop mourning him?

That terrifies you more than anything.

You eat slowly, each bite feeling heavier than the last. Yeonjun had made you bacon and eggs—simple, warm, something that should’ve felt like comfort. But the food is cold now, left waiting for you just like he was. He eats in silence, but you feel it—his eyes keep flickering toward your wrist, checking. He doesn’t say anything.

It yanks you straight back to those first few months after Soobin’s death.

"Y/N?" Yeonjun’s face is sharp with concern as he pushes open the door. He had knocked—once, twice—but you hadn’t answered. That alone was enough to send his heart into a spiral.

"I brought you some food—" His words cut off the moment his eyes land on you. You’re sitting at the edge of the bed, shoulders curled inward, your body eerily still. But then he sees it—your wrist, the red staining your fingers, spilling onto the white sheets like ink bleeding through paper.

His breath catches. And then—

“What the fuck are you doing?” The words tear from his throat again, raw and panicked. The bags slip from his grasp, hitting the floor with a muffled thud, but he doesn’t care. He’s already rushing toward you, dropping to his knees, reaching for your wrist with hands that won’t stop shaking.

“What are you doing?!” He shouts—not out of anger, not at you—but because he’s terrified.

It scares him. God, it scares him. What would his best friend say?

"I—I don’t know," you sob, voice wrecked. Your body trembles under his hold, and the words spill out between uneven breaths. You just saw it and you couldn't stop yourself. "I don’t know what to do anymore."

Yeonjun clenches his jaw, his own tears burning behind his eyes. "You must not do this," He’s trying to be strong for you, but his hands betray him, quivering as they hold onto you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away completely. Because you might. Because you want to. "Please, Y/N. Please."

You were so beautiful in Soobin’s love, and now it clings to you like a disease.

"I know it’s hard," he chokes out, pulling you into his arms. "Fuck, I know. But think of his face." He pleads. "Whenever you see your wrist, whenever you look at your skin—think of him. Do you ever want to hurt him?"

"Jjunie." Yeonjun's eyes lift to meet yours. "You don’t have to keep looking at my wrists anymore,"

A breath leaves him, slow and measured, as if he’s been waiting to hear that. He tries for a smile, small. "It worked like a miracle, didn’t it?"

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. "He always is." The smile that flickers across your lips feels foreign, like something borrowed from a version of yourself that no longer exists.

"My dad…" you hesitate, fingers curling into the fabric of your sweater. "I—I need to go back to work."

Yeonjun watches you carefully, as if afraid you’ll change your mind. He nods. "It’s only about time, Y/N."

Silence stretches between you before he speaks again, voice careful, "Are you considering the treatment?"

You don’t answer.

Yeonjun didn’t kick you out. He never would.

In the afternoon, the two of you sat on the couch—long enough to fit three, but only occupied by two. And yet, without thinking, without speaking, you both left a space between you. A space for him.

Infinity War played on the screen, a movie you’d both seen more times than you could count. It was muscle memory at this point—the dialogue, the fight scenes, the inevitable heartbreak.

The credits rolled, and the room felt heavier.

"Soobin always bawled his eyes out here," you whispered, voice trembling. You laughed, but it cracked in the middle. "Like a baby."

Yeonjun exhaled shakily, his own throat tightening. "It makes me wonder how such a tall man could cry that easily."

You nodded, wiping at your face as tears slipped free. "He’s a loser." Your sob broke through before you could stop it. "He’s my loser."

Yeonjun pressed his lips together, but it was useless. His own tears fell before he could even blink them away. "Fuck," he muttered, voice thick.

Neither of you moved.

Because some absences can never be replaced.

"It's time for you to move on," Yeonjun says, his voice steady but careful. "You tried going back to work, but you can’t. You should be out there, living your life."

A fresh wave of grief crashes over you. "It feels like I'm betraying him, Jun." Your voice breaks, and before you know it, you're fully sobbing, the weight of it pressing down on your chest like it might crush you.

Yeonjun exhales sharply, his hands clenching into fists. "I feel like he's going to haunt me any day now for letting you stay like this, and he'd probably call me an idiot for not shaking some sense into you sooner." he half-jokes, but it’s bitter. It’s pained. The two of you laugh, but it doesn’t reach your eyes, dies as quickly as it comes.

"But if you're worried about him—about who will take care of his… grave," Yeonjun hesitates as if the word itself could break you. "I promise, I’ll do that. His family will, too. He won’t be forgotten, Y/N. Ever." You hate it. Hate that he’s making sense. Hate that every word he says feels like it's prying you away from Soobin, piece by piece.

"Your father, your mother, your siblings... they need you back," he presses on, his voice gentler now. "And you… you need to go on with your life. That treatment, it’s the only thing that can help you now."

You shake your head, barely able to breathe between the sobs. "I can't let him go."

Yeonjun swallows hard, his hands trembling as they reach for yours. "You’re not letting him go," he whispers. "He's already gone."

And then, softer, like he’s begging, "And I know, if he were here… to talk to you one last time, he would beg you to keep living."

It took him two years to say it, but Yeonjun cried with you that day, his own grief spilling over as you sobbed into the worn-out cushions of the sofa. Because he, too, was once afraid—to let go, to move forward. But he knows now, knows in the deepest part of himself, that Soobin, the kindest soul he had ever met, the person who loved you deeply, would understand.

Yeonjun will spend his lifetime visiting Soobin’s grave, honouring him in the quiet ways he can. For Soobin. For you.

Even if he has a family of his own one day. Even if his hair turns grey, and his legs grow too weak to stand. Even then, he will still go. And he’ll pass that promise down to his children, to his grandchildren, so that Soobin’s name is never forgotten.

But if he lets you waste away like this, there will be no future to carry on. And the guilt would eat him alive because Yeonjun knows—more than anyone—what Soobin would have wanted.

It’s cruel, cruel that he had to pull the names of your family into this, had to remind you of the people who are still waiting for you to come home. But it’s the truth. And if you can’t find the strength to fight for yourself, then at least let them be the reason you try.

You step out of the car, your breath hitching as your eyes sweep over the familiar neighbourhood—the one you used to visit so often, the one that once felt like a second home. Now, after two years, it feels like stepping into a past life.

"Y/N!"

You barely have time to react before Soobin’s older sister is pulling you into her arms, her laugh warm, her embrace familiar. It nearly unravels you.

"I missed you," she murmurs.

You swallow the lump in your throat. "I missed you too, unnie."

And then your eyes land on the small boy in her arms—the baby who was just two the last time you saw him. Now four, grown but still soft with childhood. His wobbly cheeks, the way his dimples deepen when he shifts shyly under your gaze—

It’s too much.

"Hi," you say, voice barely above a whisper.

"Hi," he replies, eyes wide, cheeks flushing as he clings closer to his mother.

You look away. Because he looks too much like him. Because for a second, your mind plays cruel tricks, and you almost convince yourself that if you just turn your head, Soobin will be right there, smiling at you like he used to.

But he's not. He never will be.

"Come inside," his sister says gently, as if she understands the storm inside you. "Mom knows you’re here." And you nod, forcing your feet to move, even as your heart screams for you to turn back.

In the first month after Soobin was gone, his mother stayed by your side. She held you as you cried, made sure you ate, whispered that she understood, because she had lost him too.

In the following months, she kept visiting, kept checking in. But as time passed, she began to pull away. Subtly, at first. The visits became less frequent, the calls shorter. And then, one day, they stopped altogether. Your messages, your calls—they went unanswered. His family, the people you once thought of as your own, had slowly closed their doors to you.

Except for his sister.

She leads you inside, her expression unreadable as she gestures toward the dining table.

And there she is. The woman you once called mother.

"Mother," you bow, the word slipping from your lips before you can stop it.

She doesn’t even turn to look at you. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that?" Her voice is clipped, distant. "And why are you here?"

You swallow, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you. "Because I wanted to see you. I wanted to talk to you."

Finally, she rises from her chair, her gaze locking onto yours. And it is nothing like before. It is cold. Empty. Unforgiving.

“Get out, Y/N,” she says, her voice devoid of warmth. “Don’t come here anymore.” Your chest tightens. You don’t even realize your hands have started shaking.

"Mom, don't be like this," Soobin's sister cuts in, her voice soft but firm.

And for just a moment—a brief, moment—you see it. The way her lips press together. The way her shoulders tense. The way her eyes, for just a second, glisten as though they, too, are on the verge of breaking. She blinks the tears away before they can fall, turning away from you, like it’s the only way she can keep standing. She walks away without any second glance.

“I’m sorry,” Soobin’s sister whispers.

You force yourself to smile, though it trembles on your lips. “It’s okay,” you murmur. “I just… I just really need to talk to her.”

You spent the hour with Soobin’s sister, unraveling everything you had kept inside. Every dark thought, every ounce of guilt, every desperate attempt to hold onto him. And she listened. She held your hand, pulled you into her arms.

But time moves forward, even when you don’t want it to.

You check the clock, exhaling. “I’m going to try talking to her again. I have plans after this, too.” She doesn’t stop you. But the way she squeezes your hand before letting go, it’s as if she knows how much this is going to hurt.

As you walk through the house, memories seep into every corner. His presence is everywhere. The framed pictures lined the walls, the dent in the couch where he used to sit. It’s overwhelming. It steals the breath from your lungs, forcing you to press a hand to your chest just to steady yourself.

You don’t belong here anymore. And yet, you can’t bring yourself to leave.

The kitchen light is on. The soft rhythm of a knife against the cutting board fills the silence.

She’s there.

Soobin’s mother stands at the counter, slicing vegetables with practised precision. You swallow, stepping forward, trying to find your voice. She doesn’t look up.

“Didn’t I tell you to leave?”

"Mom, I missed you." Your voice trembles, barely above a whisper, and for a moment, her hands still. The steady chopping ceases, but she doesn’t turn. She keeps her back to you, her shoulders rising and falling with each controlled breath. "I came here because… I wanted to let you know that I think it’s time. I’m going to get the treatment."

Your own arms wrap around yourself, as if bracing against the cold creeping into your bones. "It will alter my memory. There’s big a chance I’ll forget you, too."

The words shatter something inside you. "But I wanted to say it—just one last time. Thank you. For everything. For giving birth to Soobin. For raising him into someone who could love me so deeply, who made me feel safe, who made me feel like I belonged here. Thank you for accepting me, for loving me. And I love you. I always will. I just… I just hope you can forgive me for what I’m about to do."

At your last words, she turns. And for the first time in a year, you see it—the grief she’s buried, the pain she’s carried alone. Her eyes, red and wet, spill over as she closes the space between you, pulling you into her arms.

You don’t hold back. You collapse into her, sobs wracking through your body as she holds you like she used to. As if you were still hers. As if you always would be.

Her hands run soothingly over your back, her voice breaking. "My daughter… I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you had to go through this."

She clutches you tighter. "I thought… if I pushed you away, if I kept my distance, maybe you’d find a way to stand on your own. I thought if I pushed you away, maybe it would force you to move forward. Maybe it would break whatever was keeping you trapped in the past. It felt like it was my fault you couldn’t move on. Our fault. That the love my son left behind has been anchoring you instead of lifting you. And I’ve been so afraid, afraid that his love, instead of saving you would destroy you." She cries, "I prayed for you every single day. That you would find the courage. That you would choose to keep going."

You shake your head against her shoulder, your grip on her tightening. "I understand. I do. I just—" Your breath hitches. "I’m scared. I’m scared to forget him."

She exhales shakily, her lips pressing against your hair. "Forgetting… it’s easier than suffering for the rest of your life." Her hands cup your face, her thumbs brushing the tears away even as her own continue to fall.

"You won’t lose him. Not really. Whatever Soobin left in this world, it’s you." Your breath shudders as she presses a kiss to your forehead.

"I want you to live, sweetheart. To build a life that he would be proud of. A new one, filled with love, with hope. And maybe, one day, we’ll meet again—whether you remember me or not. And even then, I will love you. Always. Just like he did."

It was a hard goodbye—one that clung to your skin like the scent of home you’d never return to. Their arms around you had been warm, their voices soft, their smiles trembling. And as you drove away, watching Soobin’s family grow smaller in the rearview mirror, you forced yourself to smile, to wave back.

But the moment they faded from sight, the mask crumbled.

Your hands tightened around the wheel as your breath hitched, but it was useless. You pulled over, burying your face in your palms, sobs wracking your body.

You knew you would never see them again.

A shuddering breath escaped you as you wiped your tears with shaking fingers, swallowing against the grief clawing at your throat. You couldn’t fall apart now. Not yet.

Because there was still one more goodbye to say.One more person waiting for you. One who had left but never truly rested. Because for two years, you hadn’t found the courage to let go.

To free him.

You don’t know how you managed to bring yourself here. Your legs felt heavy the whole way, like they knew what your heart refused to accept—that every step forward was another step closer to goodbye.

The grave is pristine, not a speck of dust in sight. Someone else had been here. Someone else still comes. And for a moment, a tiny splinter of relief wedges itself into your grief. He’s being cared for, even without you.

You stand there, your throat tightening, your lips parting—then closing again. The words are trapped somewhere deep inside you, tangled between the memories and the pain. What do you even say? How do you speak when just looking at his name carved into stone is enough to make your chest cave in? How do you even start? What do you say to someone who can’t answer back?

And then your eyes fall to the base of the headstone. White roses. Fresh. Untouched.

Your breath stumbles.

White roses—his favourite. The same ones he gave you that night, trembling fingers offering a bouquet, his eyes filled with so much hope. Now, they sit beside his grave, a brutal echo of the past.

And you wonder—when did forever become something so short?

You swallow hard. "Hey," you whisper. Just one word, and already, you feel yourself crying. "Are you somewhere nice?"

"I really… I really hope you are," your voice trembles, your vision blurring. "God, I cry so easily now. You’d tease me for it, wouldn’t you?" A broken laugh escapes your lips, but it fades as quickly as it came. "I’m nothing like the person you knew. I'm not that woman anymore. I’ve changed." You take a shuddering breath. "All because you left me."

The confession spills out before you can stop it, "You left me here alone, and I didn’t know what to do. Because you were my world, and our plans—" Your voice cracks. You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head. "No. No, Soobin. I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean any of it. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry."

Your knees buckle, and you let them. You fold into yourself, pressing your palms against your face as the sobs finally come, wrenching their way out of you. "I’m weak," you choke out. "I’ve been nothing but weak without you."

Time slips away. You don’t know how long you sit there, trembling, letting everything have its way with you. At some point, people come and go, visiting the graves nearby. They stay for a while, whispering prayers, placing flowers, saying their goodbyes. And then, one by one, they leave.

But you don’t.

Because you know—this is the last time you’ll ever be here.

What does it truly mean to forget?

Is it letting go of the bad memories, even if it means losing the lessons they left behind? Erasing the trauma, even if it forged the strength that kept you standing? Wiping away the heartbreak, even if it unmade the love that once felt endless? If forgetting means unravelling the version of yourself shaped by every moment... then is it really freedom? Or is it just another kind of loss?

And if you don’t forget—who carries the weight of those memories with you? The nights spent in quiet conversation, the laughter that once echoed in familiar streets, the warmth of his hand in yours. Does one painful ending justify the erasure of everything that came before?

It doesn’t. Because memories do not vanish. They are not erased like ink wiped clean from a page.

The streets still remember the way you walked together. The wind still hums with the echoes of his voice. The people who once saw your love still hold its remnants, even in passing glances. And perhaps, this is the only way to keep it beautiful. Your memories, deserve to be left as they are. You should not taint it any further.

"I decided to do it," you whisper, your voice barely carrying over the wind. "I’m finally doing it, love. It took me so long, but… I will."

"I don't want you to think that I'll forget you. Because you're my life." A shaky breath escapes your lips, your fingers tracing the edge of cold stone as if it were his hand, warm and real, just one last time. "But you don’t have to worry about me anymore," you murmur. "You can rest now."

Your eyes lift, meeting the name carved into eternity—Choi Soobin. A tear slips down your cheek, catching on your lips as you whisper, broken and raw—

"I love you. And I’m sorry."

Sorry that it took this long. Sorry that you held on when you should have let go. Sorry that no matter how much time passes, some wounds never really heal.

Your wounds will never heal.

The overhead lights burn against your swollen eyes. You blink, but it only makes the sting worse. You thought they would’ve dried by now. That at some point, your body would just refuse to keep grieving.

Do people have a limit? Is there a point where you simply run out? Or does the body just keep producing sorrow, as long as there’s pain to feed it? Has anyone in history ever cried so much that their body just… gave up?

Maybe not.

Or maybe, if you stay like this long enough, you’ll be the first. Because this is all you know how to do now.

Cry. Cry for him. Cry for yourself.

Cry because it’s the only thing that makes the weight in your chest feel even a little less suffocating. Because if you stop, even for a moment, you’re terrified you’ll realise just how empty the world is without him in it.

You're not strong enough.

"Are you sure you don’t want me to come in?" Your mother’s hand is warm as she pats your back, enough for you to let out a breath you were holding.

"Yeah," you whisper. "You can wait for me in the waiting area." Your eyes flicker toward the entrance as another person steps in. She carries a box, full of things and when your gaze meets hers, you swear you see your own reflection staring back.

Haunted.

Your own box grows heavier in your hands.

"I’m a big girl, you know," you murmur, forcing the words out as if saying them makes them true.

Your mother gives you a small smile before kissing your cheek. "I’ll be here," she says softly. "After all of this, I’ll be here to pick you up."

Something tightens in your chest. Such simple words, so ordinary, yet they make your throat close up. One less worry, a hundred more to carry.

But she’ll be here after.

No matter what happens behind those doors, no matter how much of you is left when it’s over—your mother will be here, waiting on the other side.

And that should be enough, right?

You take a step. Then another. Three steps before something in you falters, pulling you back. You turn around, and your mother, standing right where you left her. Her eyes meet yours, and one of them glistens now, like she’s holding something back. She’s trying to be strong for you.

"Does it have to be today, Mom?" Your voice wavers, barely above a whisper. "I mean… can we, can we just—" The words die in your throat. You swallow hard. You promised him.

You promised.

And if you don’t do it today… you might never do it at all.

“Honey, we can always come back.” Your mother’s voice is soft. She’s in front of you now, hands warm on your shoulders. “We can reschedule, and—”

“It’s fine.” You shake your head, refusing to meet her eyes. If you look at her, if you see the way she’s looking at you, you might shatter right here, in front of her. So you turn away. The door is just a few steps ahead. White. Sterile. All you have to do is cross it. You can do it. You have to do it. Because—

You promised him.

"Miss Y/N?" The sound of your name barely registers. You don’t even remember sitting down. One moment, you were outside and now—now you’re here. In this cold, sterile waiting room, surrounded by people clutching their own silent burdens. Boxes. Everyone has one. Resting on their laps. Some are dressed in stiff work clothes, like they came straight from their jobs. Others wear the softness of home... sweatshirts, slippers, a kind of exhaustion that no amount of rest could ever fix.

No one speaks.

No one looks at each other for too long.

It doesn’t matter where you came from. It doesn’t matter who you were before this moment.

You’re all here for the same reason.

"You need to sign the waiver. Please read each clause carefully dear. The nurse will call you once it's your turn." The papers were handed in your hands, making your heart pound, each beat a hammer striking painfully inside your ribs. The relentless ticking of the clock thumps in your ears, a fierce reminder of the gravity of what you’re about to do. Your fingers tremble against the pen, gripping it so tightly your knuckles ache, but the pressure doesn’t help you—nothing ever will.

You sigh, biting your lip so hard you taste a bit of blood. Your stare drifts ahead, settling on a woman a few seats away. Her eyes are red, swollen. She isn’t crying anymore, but she looks like she hasn’t stopped in days.

You follow her stare, down to the box in her lap. It’s small. Too small. A bib, baby rattles, tiny clothes meant for someone who never even saw their first birthday. Your throat tightens. You force yourself to look away. Swallowing hard, you check your own papers. Your box sits beside you, shut tight. Your mother had suggested covering it with a cloth—to make it easier, to keep you from looking at it. And it worked. Because if you had to see what was inside…

You don’t know if you’d still be here.

Your hands tremble as you stare down at the waiver, the words blurring in and out of focus. You read the clauses again. And again. And again. Your eyes trace the final lines, the words smudging under the sting in your eyes.

You have given extensive thought behind your decision and give "Brighter Days Inc." the exclusive permission to remove this person completely from your memory:

☐ Yes ☐ No

You shakily checked what you knew... he'd want for you. You need to think this is what he would've wanted.

“Y/N?” The nurse’s voice is gentle, but it still makes you flinch. She stands in the doorway, dressed in white, looking at you. You wipe away a tear, but another one slips free before you can stop it. “You can come inside now.”

“Okay,” Your legs barely carry you as you stand. Your trembling hands clutch the box, holding it so tightly.

Inside, the room is cold, sterile. Three people wait—one dressed in blue, one who looks like the doctor, and the nurse who fetched you. The chair in the middle looms, surrounded by wires, screens filled with numbers and statistics you don’t understand. But the moment your eyes land on the headrest, on the equipment waiting there—your stomach drops. Your body moves before you can think. A step back, then another, until a hand gently stops you.

The nurse reaches for your box. Your fingers twitch as they slip away from it, “Let’s get you on the chair,” she says softly. You nod. You don’t trust yourself to speak. You started crying again. Not with sound, not with sobs... just endless, silent tears slipping down your face, one after the other.

No one tells you to stop crying. No one even reacts. You wonder how many people they’ve seen like this.

How many they’ve seen as wrecked as you.

Her hands are warm against your shaking ones, steadying you just enough to guide you down into the chair. You let her. You don’t have the strength to resist. The doctor moves quickly, securing straps around you—across your wrists, your chest. Another band wraps around your finger, likely for your heartbeat. It’s already racing. You don’t need a machine to tell you that. The person in blue starts placing wires against your temple, the cold press of metal settling on the right side of your head. It sends a shiver through you, but you don’t move.

You barely breathe.

“Okay, so now—” The doctor’s voice is calm, clinical. “As you’ve read, you’ll need to recall the moments tied to the things you brought. We asked you to choose items that hold the strongest memories because only then can they be altered. These machines will help bring them to the surface. You don’t have to force it—we’ll go slow, one step at a time.” A pause. “Are you ready?”

Your throat closes. Your hands curl into weak fists against the armrests. All you can do is nod.

The man in blue moves quietly. You barely notice him at first, lost in the weight pressing down on your chest—until he reaches for your box. The cloth is lifted. Your breath catches.

The first item is pulled free, and the moment your eyes land on it, something inside you crumbles. "Wa-wait," A sob rips through you, raw and unrestrained, your whole body trembling. The nurse kneels beside you, her eyes unbearably soft, understanding. "It will be much easier after this," she murmurs.

You swallow back another sob, hiccupping through shallow, gasping breaths. It's ridiculous, isn’t it? That at your weakest, you're placing your trust in strangers. That you can't even find the strength to speak. But this isn’t for you.

For him. For your family.

For him.

Your nails dig into the synthetic material on the armrest. You close your eyes, surrendering to their instructions, to the machines humming around you. A sharp beep echoes in the room, signalling the process to begin. A single tear slips free, tracing a path down your cheek, and despite the agony twisting in your chest, you manage the smallest, most broken smile because you see his face.

Memories. It all flashes.

THE PEN

"Let's take a 30-minute break, and then we'll go over the discussion again, okay?" Your ten-year-old eyes lock onto your homeroom teacher, a sigh slipping past your lips. Math has never been kind to you. Numbers blur together, equations twist into impossible knots in your head. If you had it your way, subjects like this wouldn’t even exist. You’d much rather read—preferably a hundred books. Or better yet, a hundred manga.

You reach for your bag, already deciding that a "break" means exactly that. No memorizing. No thinking about numbers. Your brain deserves rest. With a small pout, you pull out your current manga, flipping through the worn pages with practiced ease.

Your friends prefer watching anime, gathering around their phones or talking about the latest episodes. But your mom—she's strict about screen time. Too much of it, she says, will rot your brain. So, you stick to reading. At first, it was just a substitute, a way to keep up with your friends. But over time, it grew on you.

You're barely on the second page when a shadow falls over your desk.

"Uh, Y/N? Do you have, uh… an extra pen?"

You glance up, mildly irritated at the interruption, only to be met with the tallest boy in your class—Choi Soobin. A transfer student. You’ve only been classmates for a few months, and until now, you’ve barely spoken.

"I don’t," you reply flatly.

His eyes dart to your open pencil case, where at least five pens sit in plain sight. "But… you have so many," he points out, looking almost betrayed. "Please? I swear I’ll give it back!"

You sigh, flipping another page of your manga, already regretting this conversation. "Fine."

He grins, reaching straight for the glitter pen.

"Not that one—" Your head snaps up. "That’s off-limits, it’s my favourit—"

"Wait, is that Inuyasha?!" His voice practically jumps an octave, eyes wide with excitement as he plops down in the seat beside you without a second thought. "I love this series! I read them all the time!"

Your annoyance falters, replaced by something close to surprise. You glance at him, then at your manga, then back at him. "It’s my favourite," you say, flipping the page. "I have all the volumes."

His eyes widen. "Whoa. Lend me some?"

You raise a brow. "And what do I get in return?"

"Uh… strawberry milk?"

"I hate strawberries."

"Hand massages?"

You pretend to consider it, tapping your chin. "I’ll think about it."

He nods eagerly, leaning in a little. "Okay, but—serious question. Kikyo or Kagome?"

"Kagome," you answer without hesitation. "I pity her." At that, he studies your face.

"But Kikyo…" he murmurs, gaze dropping for a second. "I pity her more." His voice is softer now, "Because she doesn’t get to be with Inuyasha anymore. And I think… that’s sad."

For ten whole minutes, the two of you went back and forth—voices overlapping, hands flying in exasperation—until your classmates abandoned all pretence of studying just to watch. Some whispered bets under their breath, stifling laughs as you and Soobin yapped at each other like two kids fighting over the last piece of candy.

And then, finally, Soobin sighed, slumping in defeat. "But at the end of the day," he muttered, rubbing his temple, "Kikyo is Kagome, right?"

You scoff, shaking your head. "That’s not how it works." You roll your eyes, turning back to your manga. "Loser,"

And then—he laughs. Not just a chuckle. A real laugh, the kind that makes his eyes scrunch up until they almost disappear, deep crinkles forming at the corners. His dimples dig so deep it’s like someone pressed a pencil into a soft dough, and his cheeks, full and round, look annoyingly pinchable. You catch yourself staring, warmth crawls up your neck, spreading to your ears.

That day, for the first time, you let someone else use your glitter pen.

THE POLAROID CAMERA

Your feet dangle lazily in the air as you scribble in your notebook, your laptop propped open in front of you. You scroll through pages, searching for answers, when a notification pops up.

Meet me at the playground?

You sigh, fingers hovering over the keyboard. But I’m doing homework…

I’ll let you copy mine.

Your lips twitch. Okay. Be there in 10 minutes.

Excitement bubbles in your chest as you throw on a hoodie and a pair of shorts, not even bothering to check if they match. You bound down the stairs, brushing past your mom just as she calls after you. "Be careful—!"

"I’m meeting Binnie, Mom!" you shout over your shoulder. Her resolve crumbles instantly. She sighs, but there’s a small smile in her voice as she mutters, “Be home before dark!”

The walk to the playground is short. When you arrive, you spot Soobin awkwardly lingering by the swings, kicking at the dirt with the toe of his shoe.

"Soobin!" His head snaps up, and the moment he sees you, a grin spreads across his face.

It’s been three years since you first met, three years of him becoming your best friend. Everyone at school knows it. High school doesn’t feel as scary because he’s always there—hovering, teasing, sticking by your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. People assume you’re together, which is ridiculous. He’s your best friend. Sure, he goes everywhere with you, sure, you’ve fallen asleep on the same couch during sleepovers, sure, his family adores you, and your mom—well, sometimes it feels like she likes him more than she likes you. But again, he's your best friend.

You slow your pace, tilting your head playfully. "What’s up? Finally giving in and letting me copy your homework?" You wiggle your eyebrows, smirking as you catch the faint pink dusting his cheeks—something that happens more and more these days.

But instead of rolling his eyes or firing back with a sarcastic remark, he just exhales. "Happy birthday," he says. "Happy 13th birthday."

Before you can react, he holds out a neatly wrapped box. Confused, you take it, fingers fumbling with the ribbon before you lift the lid. Inside, is a brand-new Polaroid camera. The exact one you’ve been rambling about for weeks. You gape at him. "No way."

Soobin shrugs, scratching the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at you. "You wouldn’t shut up about it," he mumbles. "Figured it’d be easier to just get you one instead of listening to you whine forever."

Your throat tightens, something warm spreading through your chest. You can't stop yourself from hugging him. His hands stilling on his sides. "Shut up," you whisper. "And thank you."

If you weren’t pressed against him, your face buried in the fabric of his hoodie, the hoodie you gifted him, you would’ve seen the deep flush creeping up his neck, turning his cheeks a fierce shade of red.

THE TEDDY BEAR

“Stop staring.” You nudge his foot under the table, twirling the lollipop in your mouth—the strawberry ones. You used to hate the flavour, the fruit too, but it was impossible to keep up when it’s his favourite. “Am I ugly or something?”

Soobin hasn’t stopped looking at you since you showed up at his house. Not the kind of stare that lingers, but the kind that keeps sneaking glances every five minutes, like he can’t help it.

You cut your hair. The long strands that used to reach your back now barely brush your shoulders. Because I’m turning 18 tomorrow, you told him earlier. And of course, he laughed.

“Okay, okay,” he finally says, chuckling. You’re sprawled out on his bed now, while he’s still at his desk, spinning a pen between his fingers. “Do you wanna sleep over tonight?”

You freeze. Hands dropping from your face, you stare at him. “Why?” you ask, voice laced with suspicion. “Seriously? I’ve spent the midnight of my birthday with you for almost… five years now?”

“Four years.” — “What?”

“It’s four, not five.” He pushes up his reading glasses—the ones that somehow make him look even more handsome. Not that you’d ever admit it. He leans back in his chair, casual as ever. “Stay over, okay? Let’s play League.”

You scoff. “So you can bully me the whole time? Yeah, no thanks.”

“I’ll go easy on you.”

You grab a pillow and chuck it at him. He catches it effortlessly, smirking. “That’s worse!”

You stayed. One pout from him, and you caved. You acted annoyed, but in truth, you just didn’t want him to know how easily he could sway you. You will do anything to hide the fact that he had you wrapped around his finger, whether he knew it or not.

And so, you played. You laughed until your stomach hurt, cursed loud enough that Soobin’s sister pounded on the door, yelling at you both to shut up. But it didn’t matter. Nothing outside that room ever really did when it was just the two of you.

Your birthdays used to be simple, just another day with family, another year passing by. But ever since Soobin came along, they became something special. Something that felt irreplaceable. And the thought of him not being there, of waking up to a birthday where he wasn’t the first person you saw, made your throat tighten in a way you couldn’t explain.

Maybe you didn’t want to explain it. Maybe you were scared to.

"Let's go out to the balcony," he says, shutting off his computer with a final click. You glance at the clock—11:45 PM. Fifteen minutes till you turn eighteen.

"Why?"

"Just because." He nudges you forward, hands settling on your shoulders, his touch impossibly light. No matter how much taller or broader he’s gotten over the years, he never holds you too tightly. It’s always careful. And that’s why your heart stutters in your chest every time.

You step outside, the night air crisp against your skin. The trees sway below, dark silhouettes against the dim glow of the streetlights. You wrap your arms around yourself, glancing at him. "So… are we spending my birthday just standing here?" you tease. "Shouldn't we be doing something? Eating ice cream, maybe?"

He smiles, "We’ll do that after," he says, already stepping back inside. "Wait here."

You're confused as he leaves you outside. Through the thin curtain, you see his shadow moving; shuffling, hesitating. "Soobin, don’t tell me you got me a cake or something," you call out, teasing. He doesn’t answer right away, and that alone makes you smirk. "So you did get me a cake."

"Sh—no. Yes. Ugh, I hate you," he groans, but when he steps out, there it is, a cake in his hands, eighteen candles flickering in the night breeze. He clears his throat, awkwardly starting, "Happy birthday to you…" His voice is unsure, barely above a murmur, but it’s enough. You smile, and as cheesy as it sounds, your heart clenches in your chest. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of the moment settle over you.

Please let forever be like this.

You blow out the candles, and when you open your eyes, he’s grinning. "I baked this, by the way."

"Wow, looks amazing," you breathe, taking the cake from him. The effort, the slightly uneven letters of your name written on top—it makes your throat tighten. You don’t say anything, just sit down beside him, forks in hand, digging straight into the cake. The wind picks up slightly, ruffling your hair, but neither of you cares. You talk, laugh, and steal bites from each other’s sides, like time doesn’t exist.

"Y/N," he says, your name rolling off his tongue softer than usual. His gaze lingers, watching as you hug the big white teddy bear he got you. Your fingers clutch the plush fur, cheeks pressed against it, lips curled into a quiet, content smile.

His chest tightens.

"Eight years... For eight years, I, I've been," He falters, blinking, momentarily losing himself in the way your eyes widen at him. God. You’re beautiful.

"Hmm?"

He exhales sharply, fingers twitching at his sides. His heartbeat stumbles over itself, but before he can think, before he can think of the script he rehearsed over and over, before he can convince himself to hold back—

"Could I please be your boyfriend?"

THE SILVER METAL BAND

"Sweetheart."

Warm hands find your waist, circling you with a gentle pull, long fingers tracing slow, reverent patterns across your bare skin. A soft squeeze follows, then, warm—featherlight kisses trail from your neck to your ear, each one taking time to settle on your skin. Your name slips from his lips, barely more than a breath, before he tucks himself closer, body melting into yours. "Wake up, sleepyhead. It's almost midnight,"

You laugh softly when you feel him press another kiss behind your ear. Turning over, you’re met with his familiar smirk, eyes already tracing every inch of your face like it’s the first time he’s seeing you. His hands find your cheeks, cradling them gently—like he always does. As if he hasn’t held you a thousand times before. As if you haven’t been his to hold since high school.

"It's a crime to be this pretty when you just woke up, don't you think?" he teases, his nose bumping against yours before he gives your lips a quick peck. "I love looking at you,"

"We're seriously keeping up with the tradition?" you mumble, voice still heavy with sleep as you reach for him, burying your face against his shoulder blades. Your eyes slip shut again, and he hums softly, his hand tracing slow, soothing patterns on your back.

"Happy 25th birthday, baby," he murmurs. Then, softer—like he’s letting the words settle between you before he dares breathe again, "I love you." His voice pulls you from the edges of sleep, and when your eyes flutter open, you find him already watching you.

Is there anything in this world more beautiful than love? More sacred than being loved?

"Thank you," you reply, smiling. He sits up beside you, and you chuckle softly as he fumbles for something on the floor beside the bed. "What did you get me this time?"

But then your breath stumbles. White roses. A small black box in his hands. Your heart clenches. "Soobin,"

"I’ve been thinking about how I should do this," he starts, chuckling nervously, though his fingers tighten around the box as if anchoring himself. "I thought about renting a place, throwing a party, taking you to some fancy dinner, or even an overseas trip." His gaze finds yours, earnest. "But the truth is, nothing makes me happier than waking up beside you. Nothing feels more right than this—just us, here, like this. So I chose this moment, this place… because I want it forever."

His voice trembles, his hands unfolding the box before you. The silver ring with a single diamond sitting atop. "So please," he whispers, his throat tight, his eyes searching yours. "Could you—will you—marry me?"

“Fuck.” The word rips from your throat as reality slams into you. The room is chaos—voices rising, bodies moving, the cold bite of metal and plastic pressing against your skin. The doctor’s hands fly across his keyboard, adjusting something you don’t understand, while the nurse grips your shoulders like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You’re crying.

You don’t remember when it started, but the tears won’t stop. Your breath comes in sharp, panicked gasps as your hands scramble to your chest, fingers clutching desperately at the thin chain around your neck. The ring is warm against your skin, pressed into your palm, solid and real. His ring. The one he slid onto your finger with shaking hands.

“Please,” your voice cracks, “please—just let me keep this.”

The nurse exchanges a glance with the doctor. Their hesitation is suffocating. “We need to take it,” someone says—calm, detached. Like this is just another part of the process. Like it doesn’t matter. “It goes with the rest of your belongings.”

Your heart seizes. The box? What else was in the box? You try to remember, but your mind is a blur of static, you can't. You can't remember now. “No,” you sob, curling around it, pressing it to your lips, your chest, anywhere that might keep it safe. “Please. Not this."

The nurse looks at you with something that almost feels like pity. A softness in her eyes that only makes your chest ache more. “You’re almost done, honey,” she murmurs, her voice gentle, coaxing. “A little more. You can do this. Just close your eyes. You just have to close your eyes.” Your hands won’t stop shaking. The tremors run up your arms, through your ribs, settling somewhere deep in your throat. You feel the prick of a needle, the slow push of something cold into your veins. It soothes the sharp edges, dulls the panic—but not enough. Not enough to stop the tears from slipping down your cheeks. “Close your eyes,” she whispers again.

You do.

Your hands are in his. The car hums beneath you, the city lights flashing by in a blur, but all you can focus on is him. He drives with one hand, the other wrapped around yours, bringing it to his lips every time you hit a red light. Soft, lingering kisses against your knuckles, “How many babies would you want?”

You nearly choke on your drink, coughing as you turn to him. “What?”

He laughs, eyes flicking toward you for just a second before focusing back on the road. “I mean… I’d love as many as we can have. But of course, it’s your body, baby. You get to tell me.”

Your heart flutters. “We don’t even have a wedding date yet.” Another red light. Another kiss against your hand.

“I know,” he says, voice softer now. “It just crossed my mind. Last night, I dreamt of a little girl… she looked just like you.” He pauses, his thumb brushing against your skin. “She was so beautiful. Like you. And I—”

His words are cut off by the violent, shattering force of metal colliding with metal. The world twists—spins—flips. A scream rips from your throat as the car is thrown into chaos, gravity shifting, glass cracking, the deafening sound of impact swallowing everything.

In the middle of it all, his hand finds yours. Instinctive. Desperate.

Then—stillness.

A ringing in your ears. The distant sound of voices, footsteps pounding against the pavement. Shadows moving outside the wreck. Someone is calling, you think it's for an ambulance. Your chest heaves as you groan, the taste of blood thick on your tongue. Pain radiates from everywhere, your head throbbing as you press trembling fingers against your scalp. Everything hurts.

You turn, breath shaky, searching. Soobin.

You look to your right and he’s already looking at your face. Pale, dazed, blinking too slowly. "Y/N, are you okay?" His voice is hoarse, weak, but when you nod, he exhales a shaky, "Thank fuck."

His grip tightens around your hand. You can barely feel it, your body is numb, adrenaline rushing through your veins. But you squeeze back. Hold on. You breathe. It’s going to be okay. The ambulance is coming.

Then your eyes drop. And your stomach lurches. "Soobin?"

A jagged piece of debris—large, sharp, too deep—juts from his stomach, trailing up his chest. Blood blooms around it, staining his shirt, spilling over his hands where he grips it like he’s not sure whether to pull or hold on.

Your world tilts again. This is just a dream. "Soobin, what—what—how the—"

There’s so much blood. Too much. Your hands press against the wound trembling, trying to keep it from spilling out, but it’s everywhere—warm and sticky between your fingers, staining your skin, pooling beneath him. You’re sobbing, whispering frantic words that don’t make sense, but you can’t even hear yourself. The panic is eating your face, roaring in your ears as you struggle to breathe. “How should I—”

Then his fingers find your face.

His touch is weak but certain, cradling your cheeks, forcing your wild, tear-filled eyes to meet his. His voice is hoarse when he speaks, but stronger than it should be. “Look at me.” His grip tightens, thumbs brushing your tears away. “Baby, shhh, look at me.”

You shake your head, choking on a sob. “Soobin—”

“I don’t wanna see you cry.”

You’re unravelling. He’s bleeding out beneath you, and you can’t do a damn thing to stop it. “Help! Please, someone help us!” you scream, voice cracking. There are people—so many people—but no one can touch him.

His breath stutters, but he still holds onto you. “Y/N.” Your eyes blur with tears as you grip his hand, pressing his palm tighter against your cheek. “Look at me, yeah?” His lips tremble, but he’s still here, still fighting to keep you calm. “Just keep looking at me. Please.” His forehead rests against yours. “It doesn’t hurt when you’re looking at me. We’re gonna get help soon. You're gonna get help soon, okay?”

The last memory crashes over you, pulling you under. Your chest feels heavy, unbearably so, but then… slowly… it gives. The weight that has kept you drowning eases, just enough for you to take a breath. The sound of machines hums beside you. A final tear slips down your cheek.

It feels like the end.

You close your eyes, just for a moment, just to see him one last time—the Soobin you knew like the back of your hand. And then, you see his face. That soft, lopsided grin that always made your heart stumble. His voice is a whisper, just a breath against your skin.

“I’m proud of you.” Your lip trembles. “You’ll be okay.”

"Congratulations, it's successful."

The doctor shakes your hand, his grip firm, reassuring. You smile, nodding along. The nurse beside him looks at you with warmth, and before she can react, you throw your arms around her. She lets out a small gasp before melting into the hug.

You feel light. Weightless.

They tell you the treatment worked. They tell you your mother is waiting outside. You nod again, absorbing their words, but for a brief moment, your fingers drift to your neck, expecting something to be there. But it’s bare.

You push the thought away as you step outside. The air feels fresh against your skin, and then you see her. Your mother. She looks thinner than you remember, her cheeks a little sunken, her eyes holding something you can’t quite place. Had she lost weight?

"Hi, Mom," you say, smiling. She looks at you—really looks at you—and her lips part. She smiles back.

"Oh, honey," she breathes, pulling you into her arms.

You giggle, warmth spreading through your chest. "What’s wrong?"

She pulls back just enough to cup your face, shaking her head. "Let’s go home, okay?" You nod, letting her guide you toward the entrance. Everything feels new, yet oddly familiar, like a dream you barely remember but somehow miss.

You're about to step outside when someone walks in. A bouquet of white roses in their arms. Your breath catches, feet falter. Your head turns instinctively, eyes following the flowers, something deep in your chest stirring, something you can’t name.

Your mother notices. "What is it?"

You blink, exhaling softly. "Nothing." You force a small smile, eyes lingering on the roses. "Those flowers… it’s beautiful."

"Yeah, I'll go home after class, Mom," you say, balancing your phone between your shoulder and ear as you adjust your bag. "Plus, I'm nineteen. An adult now. I can take care of myself."

Your mom chuckles on the other end, the kind of laugh that says she doesn’t quite believe you but won’t argue. "Alright, alright. Just don’t stay out too late."

"I won’t." She sighs, but you can hear the smile in her voice as she bids you goodbye.

The campus is buzzing with energy, students milling about for the event. It’s a collaboration between three schools—art students showcasing their work, others just here to admire. Beside you, Wonyoung loops her arm through yours, eyes scanning the crowd. "Girl, I’m getting us drinks," she announces. "Wait for me here."

You roll your eyes with a laugh. "Okay, okay. Don’t take forever." She winks before disappearing into the crowd, leaving you standing in the middle of it all.

Your eyes drift over the canvases, taking in the strokes of colour, the textures, the stories woven into the art. And then, you stop. Something about this one halts you mid-step. Oh. It’s a painting of—

“You’re a fan of Inuyasha?”

The voice beside you is warm, curious. You turn, finding a tall boy with black specs watching you, his hands tucked into his pockets. He shifts slightly when you meet his gaze, and after a beat, he offers you a small, hesitant smile. It’s barely there, just a quirk of his lips. And yet… his dimples poke through anyway.

He’s cute.

“It’s my favourite,” you reply, tearing your eyes away from the painting.

He nods, a quiet hum escaping him. “Mine too.” Then, after a pause, “Kikyo or Kagome?”

You blink at him. He stares at you, and something in your chest stirs.

Not deja vu—no, it’s not that fleeting, ghostly sense of repetition. This is different. Deeper. It feels like a memory you never knew you had, something tucked away in the quiet corners of your mind. Like a song, you don’t remember learning but somehow know all the words to. Like a book misplaced on a shelf, rediscovered years later—its pages worn, its story intact, as if it had been waiting for you to return.

It feels like something preserved, sealed in the vault of you.

Something... archived.

"What's your name?"

taglist: I love you @.beombunni @.lovingbeomgyudayone @.virtaideen @.hyukascampfire @.fancypeacepersona @.bamgeutori @.lilbrorufr @.beomieeeeeeeeeeees @.xylatox @.yunverie @.imlonelydontsendhelp @.moagyuu @.soobinbunnie5 @.usuallyunlikelyfox @.txtzyallinme @.younbeanz @.fatbixchwithanopinion @.bakudon @.readinmidnight @.flowzel @.zaynspidey @.joieouioui @.kiyof @.tubasmiracle @.bamgyuuuri @.heechwe @.takimakiiiii @.whatblop @.frankghgr @.lostgirlysstuff @.philijack

[etheraltides]

BITTER SWEET ᥫ᭡࿔

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x kook!thornton!Reader

Summarize: Rafe Cameron, a rising name in the business world, desperately needs a date for the wedding of the year. With a major investment deal on the line and his image at stake, he finds himself reluctantly turning to the last person he ever expected for help: Topper’s little sister, a girl he’s bickered with since he could remember.

Warning(s): cursing, Rafe being Rafe.

A/N: English isn’t my first language and I did my best to edit it all - so if something escaped me, please, let me know. Feedback is more than welcome .ᐟ

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ��� ౨ৎ˚₊ Chapter two: shopping for disaster ˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

Rafe Cameron sat in his car outside Topper's house, the black SUV gleaming under the midday sun. He glanced at his watch for the third time in less than ten minutes, annoyance bubbling beneath the surface. Rafe had dismissed all his meetings in the afternoon and a few in the morning to make sure he'd be there in time so she wouldn't have an excuse to back away from it. He hadn't expected her to take her sweet time, but he should have known better.

Rafe should've known you weren't be civil even if you accepted it. Which, to be honest, still surprised him. He was ready to have the door slammed on his face but it seems not even you could say no to some easy money.

His phone buzzed with a text and for a moment, he thought it was saying you'd be down in five, but it was just Topper reminding him about their gym session tomorrow morning, having no idea what his best friend and sister were plotting behind his back. He sighed, shifting in his seat, the leather creaking under his movements in a way that had his annoyance growing. Why was it taking so long for you to get ready? You weren’t going for some fashion show, just to buy stuff downtown.

"Fucking bitch" Rafe muttered under his breath, hitting the horn a couple of times. He was already regretting all of this. The longer he sat there, the more the idea of bringing you as his fake girlfriend felt like a terrible decision. You'd probably jump at every chance to mess with him like you were doing now.

Just as he was about to give up and head home to, hopefully, contact a few clients, he spotted a car pulling up. He hadn't seen this one around before and by the low price, it surely wasn't your family’s. From the rearview mirror, he saw the loser push his aviators up, leaning in to kiss the girl. Rafe's stomach twisted as Topper's sister slid out, your hair tousled and a satisfied smile playing on your lips. Gross.

The sight of her closing the passenger door sent a jolt of irritation through him, mixed with something he couldn't quite identify. You looked carefree, laughing at something the guy said, and for a moment, Rafe felt like an intruder on a private scene he had no right to witness.

"Seriously?" he muttered under his breath, slamming closed the door of his truck. Were you hooking up while he was waiting in the sun?

You turned around towards the voice, your smile fading when you caught sight of him. His jaw clenched and his gaze sharp.

"Rafe?" you asked, surprise etching your features as you adjusted the strap of your bag, the casual air of confidence slipping slightly. You hadn't noticed his car when the touron parked. "You're early."

If Topper heard about this, you'd be dammed. You had told him you'd be sleeping over a friend.

"Or you're late.” he replied, crossing his arms, unable to keep the edge out of his voice. "What was that all about?"

Your brows furrowed, the glint in your eyes replaced by defensiveness. "I had... plans. Not that it's any of your business."

"Plans? Is that what you call it?" Rafe shot back, frustration bubbling to the surface as he ran a hand through his buzzcut. "You said we'd leave at noon. Did you really think it was okay to keep me waiting while you were off with some random douchebag? I fucking canceled my meetings to be here on time because you wanted to go shopping for shit!''

"As if you care, idiot." you snapped, the challenge in your voice clear. "I'm doing you a favor, remember? You have no right to question me about my plans and he wasn't a douchebag."

"Because I thought you'd have some decency!" he countered, irritation lacing his tone as he struggled to keep his voice down, walking closer to you. He points towards the car was minutes ago. "That asshole didn't even open the door for you when he dropped you off."

"Well, it was better than sit around and wait for you!" you shot back, an eyebrow raised defiantly as you wrapped your hair in a messy bun, feeling too hot from all this arguing in the sun. "It's not like you're the perfect image of being on time."

He shook his head, trying to tamp down the rising anger and something deeper that he always refused to acknowledge. "Let's just go, alright?" he muttered, opening the passenger door for you with an exaggerated sight.

You arched a brow, starring at him while he stood there with the door held open, for you. Whatever. You shook your head, clenching your jaw as you moved to the passenger seat, only to realize a second too late that you needed to change into something… well, better. The door was already slammed closed and Rafe was already on his seat.

Rafe started the engine and pulled out of the driveway. The radio was off and you had your arms crossed over your chest, looking to the window with an almost unnotiaciable pount on your lips. He didn't even give you time to shower and change. How could you go shopping in a t-shirt and jean shorts? Rude. Brute.

"Do you even have a plan for this?" you asked after a few minutes in silence, watching the front of the boutiques.

"Yeah, I figured we'd just wing it" he replied, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. Did Topper know you were hanging around with broken tourons now? If not, he'd make sure to tell him later.

"Wing it? You're kidding, right?" you laughed, but the sound had a sharp edge. A superiority that crawled under his skin. "People love to gossip at these events. If we just act like we're a couple, someone will definitely ask questions."

"Fine." he snapped, annoyance dripping in his voice as he parked the car in front of one of the many expensive stores of the island. "What do you suggest then, Mrs. Director of Fake Dates."

He hopped off the car and you rolled your eyes, grabbing your bag. You muttered a thank you as he opened the door for you, stopping in the sidewalk.

"Where did you say the wedding was again?" you furrowed your brows, not really remembering this piece of information. "Well, anyway. We need a backstory. Something believable. How about we say we've known each other since we were kids? You're my brother best friend. We had a falling out last summer and decided to give it another shot. Cliché. People eat that shit."

"Italy" He shrugged, following you as you decided which store would be first. You stopped in your tracks, looking at him with arched brows.

"Did you just say Italy as if in Europe?" you blinked, taking a deep breath as you nodded at yourself.

“How many fucking Italies do you know?” He snorted as his head turned to look at you, dumbfounded. You forced a smile, showing him the middle finger.

"Don't worry. It's just for one weekend, I told you." He held open the door of the boutique you stopped in front of, pushing you inside by the shoulder. "Let's keep the details of the story short, alright? The less people know, the better.”

“All right, Mr. Boring. Time to find me a dress that won’t embarrass you.”

Rafe followed you inside, mentally preparing himself for the impending chaos. The store was bright and stylish, filled with an array of dresses and heels. You immediately dove into the racks, pulling out pieces in vibrant colors and flowing fabrics, not sparring him a second glance.

Fuck, he could already feel his pockets hurting.

“Help me out here,” you called over your shoulder, an armful of dresses piled high. “You’ve got baby arms but let’s see if they can handle this.”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes as he picked up a few dresses. “I don’t have baby arms,” he retorted, but the smirk on his face betrayed his amusement. Baby arms, really?

“Are you serious right now?” you teased, glancing back at him with a playful challenge in your eyes. “Maybe I should get you my workout plan instead of a dress.”

He shot you a glare, but the corner of his mouth twitched in a reluctant smile before he caught himself. “Just get what you need, and I’ll carry it, but don’t expect me to play your little games.”

You grinned, the mischievous light in your eyes making his heart race. Because you were infuriating. “Oh, but you’re going to play. It’s part of the deal.”

You’d already been through several rounds of dresses - each one met with a casual nod or a half-hearted comment from Rafe as he scrolled on his phone. A sleek black gown had caught his eye for a moment, and the deep red one had nearly made him lose his cool, but he managed to keep his reactions under control. He wasn’t about to give you the satisfaction of knowing just how much he was affected. You already were infuriating enough without him feeding your ego.

But then you stepped out in a blue dress. It wasn’t just any blue dress—it clung to you figure like it was made for you, the fabric flowing and shimmering as you walked. It hugged your figure perfectly, accentuating you curves in a way that made his breath hitch. The neckline dipped just enough to draw the eye, and the slit running from the edge of the dress to the top of you thigh was nothing short of provocative. Rafe felt his heart race, an unfamiliar heat burning in his veins.

He caught himself staring, quickly snapping his gaze back up to your face. Get it together, Cameron. She was annoying, infuriating, and the last person he should be looking at like that. Yet here he was, shifting in his seat, a strange heat building in his chest as you spun around and gave him a look that practically dared him to say something.

“What do you think?” you asked, your voice teasing but soft, as if you already knew the effect the dress was having on him.

He cleared his throat, trying desperately to summon one of his usual sarcastic remarks. “It’s… fine,” he managed, though his voice didn’t carry its usual edge.

You tilted your head, eyes gleaming with amusement as you starred at him through the mirror. “Fine? Just fine?” You pouted and turned around. You stepped closer, and he could feel the air between you grow thicker. “You’re not even looking.”

“I’m looking,” he muttered, his eyes betraying him again by glancing down at your legs before he moved it to his phone. He hated how easy it was for you to get under his skin. Every part of him was screaming to look away, to say something snarky and put you in her place, but for once, he couldn’t find the words. You looked too good. He hated it.

“No witty comeback? Wow, I’m impressed,” you teased, taking another step forward, the fabric of the dress shifting with your movement in a way that only drew his attention more.

He swallowed hard, doing his best to remember why you annoyed him so much. You’re frustrating. You’re a pain. He forced himself to think of every little thing you’d ever done to irritate him, but the sight of you in that dress made it nearly impossible.

“At least you’re as hot as you are annoying,” he finally muttered under his breath, shaking his head in a vain attempt to hide the fact that his pulse was racing.

You raised an eyebrow, clearly delighted with his response. A surprise chuckle escaped your lips. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Rafe huffed, trying to regain some composure. “Don’t get used to it,” he said, though the slight crack in his voice betrayed him.

“Too much for your business crowd?” you asked, spinning around in front of the mirror, your tone laced with amusement.

“Nah, you’ll fit right in,” he said, though his mind was screaming the opposite. Too much. Way too much. Too much for his own sake.

As you turned back to the mirror, adjusting the slit in the dress, Rafe allowed himself one more glance, feeling a mix of frustration and something else bubble up inside him. He preferred you when you were just annoying.

“I’m not carrying you out when those heels become too much,” he tossed out, trying to steer the conversation back into a safer territory.

You laughed, not missing a beat. “Don’t worry, I can handle myself. But it’s nice to know you’re concerned.”

“Concerned?” he scoffed, rolling his eyes. “More like I just don’t want you slowing me down.”

But as you disappeared back into the fitting room, he leaned against the wall, running a hand through his hair in frustration. You were supposed to be his best friend’s little infuriating sister helping him with this. Yet with every passing second, it felt like you were becoming something else entirely. He couldn’t shake the way his gaze lingered on you, how he was beginning to dread the moment you’d step out of his line of sight. When did you turn human and stopped being a complete bitch?

Maybe it’s just been too long since Rafe got laid. Yeah, that was right. Between throwing his dad’s ashes and building a name for himself in the business world, Rafe barely had time to find some release. He’d fix it tonight.

Rafe was already at the counter, signing off on the receipt for all the dresses you’d tried on and decided that would be used in the weekend. His jaw clenched as he tried to ignore the numbers.

“Well, that was fun,” you quipped, an exaggerated smile as you leaned next to him, telling the lady that he’d be carrying all the bags.

Rafe shot you a look, muttering, “Fun? For you, maybe.”

“Come on, Rafe,” you teased, “one of the conditions for me agreeing to this whole thing was that you pay for everything.”

He scoffed, sliding his black card back into his wallet. “Yeah, trust me, I’m well aware. Still doesn’t make it any less painful.”

“Don’t be such a baby. We’re practically made of money,” you said, glancing at the bags filled with dresses for the wedding weekend. “Besides, you should be thanking me. You’re the one getting something out of this.”

“Yeah, I’m getting a headache.”

You rolled her eyes, nudging him playfully - a bit too hard. “You’re so dramatic.”

He offered you the fakest smile you’ve ever seen before shoving half of the bags to you.

As you stepped out into the street, Rafe hesitated. Against his better judgment, he found himself saying, “You hungry?”

You blinked, clearly surprised. “Why, Rafe Cameron, are you actually offering to buy me food after spending all that cash on dresses?”

“Don’t push it,” he grumbled, starting to walk toward a small café nearby. “But since we’re supposed to be convincing everyone at this wedding, we might as well figure out the rules over lunch.”

You followed, a surprised smirk playing on your lips. “Rules? You mean besides the one where you’re my personal ATM for the weekend?”

“Yeah, that one too,” he said dryly as they found a table outside the café, placing the bags down not so gently.

You sat down, menus in hand, and for a brief moment, they both seemed content to sit in silence. Until you broke it.

“Okay, so first rule,” you glanced up from the menu. “No kissing.”

Rafe raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “Why would think I’d kiss you? I’m not desperate”

“We can hold hands, lean in, whatever. But no actual kissing,” you insisted, tone firm. “This is strictly business.”

“We can hold hands, lean in, whatever. But no actual kissing,” she insisted, her tone firm. “This is strictly business.”

“Strictly business, huh?” He smirked, shaking his head. “You say that, but you’ll be the one swooning if we get too close.”

You let out a laugh, clearly unimpressed. “Please, Cameron, if you were half as charming as you think you are, you wouldn’t need a fake girlfriend in the first place.”

“Oh, I’m charming enough. You’re just stubborn and blind.” He leaned in a little, lowering his voice. “Admit it - you’re at least a little curious what it’d be like.”

Your smile faltered just for a second before it was replaced with a disgusted face, “Curious? About you? Only to see how much more annoying you can get.”

Rafe’s gaze flickered down to your legs as you shifted in the seat, his jaw tightening as he caught himself. Annoying. Infuriating. But damn if you’re not hot, he thought, biting back a comment. His expression hardened, trying to snap himself out of it. He really needed to get laid, quickly.

You crossed your arms, leaning forward a little. “Second rule: no jealous boyfriend act. I don’t need you scaring off guys at the wedding.”

Rafe rolled his eyes. “Why would I be jealous? Get over yourself.”

“Yeah, okay,” you leaned back in your chair. “Just remember, this isn’t real. No need for the possessive act.”

“I got it. Fake dating. No jealousy,” he repeated, the sarcasm dripping from his voice.

“And no trying to use this as an excuse to annoy me,” you added with a pointed look. “Topper won’t be knowing about this. Ever.”

Rafe barked out a laugh. “Annoy you? That’s practically the only fun part of this arrangement.”

“Right, because you’re soooo fun to be around,” you shot back, rolling your eyes dramatically.

“Look, just follow my lead, alright? I’ll make sure we don’t look like complete idiots in front of my business associates,” he said, picking up his menu.

“I’m not the one who looks like an idiot,” you muttered under your breath, pretending to read the menu.

He snorted, clearly hearing you, but chose not to respond. The air was filled with silence again as they waited for the waiter.

Finally, you set your menu down and locked eyes with him. “Okay, but one more thing.”

“What now?” he asked, exasperated.

“No flirting with other girls while we’re there. I’m not covering for you if you get caught in some hotel scandal.”

Rafe raised an eyebrow, half amused and half annoyed. “Please. I should’ve known you were the jealous type.”

“Oh, sure,” your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just stick to the plan, Rafe. We get in, play our parts, and get out without embarrassing ourselves. You can handle that, right?”

Rafe leaned in slightly, his smirk still in place. “I don’t know, princess. You seem pretty good at embarrassing yourself. Might be contagious.”

You glared at him but couldn’t hold back a small smile. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re still here, so what does that say about you?”

You opened you mouth to respond, ready say that it made you the kindest person in the world, but the waiter returned just in time to take your orders. As you waited for the waitress to come back with your order, you pulled your phone to scroll, had seen enough of Rafe’s face for the afternoon.

You tried to think of the best way to survive this fake dating arrangement with as little emotional damage as possible for one weekend. Maybe you’d end up killing each other first.

“Can you…” you took a deep breath, nibbling on your bottom lip while you looked around before meeting his gaze. “Not tell Topper about what you’ve seen earlier?”

“The douchebag?” Rafe arched a brow, his jaw tensing as he remembered the encounter, your hair tousled.

“He isn’t a douchebag but yeah, that.” you let out a long sigh, sipping on your juice.

“I’ll think about it. Let’s see how you will do during the wedding, huh.” He offered you one of these smug smirks that made you want to punch his face. Of course he wouldn’t make things easy for you.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ TAGLIST: @megiiite @melsunshine @maybankslover @wearemadeofstardust0 @lilithblackkk

[writers-potion]

Storyediting Questions to Ask

As You Read the First Draft:

Are there place that surprised you as you read your first draft? - Why do you suppose that is? - Is there material there you'd like to expand?

What are the character really doing in this story? - Might they have issues you haven't explored fully yet?

Look to the places that drag. - These might be scenes where you have avoided dealing with something deeper. - What are the characters really thinking in these places? - What are their passions, frustrations, and desires?

Imagine alternative plotlines. - How might your plot be different if ti headed off on another tangent from various points in the story? - You don't have to follow them, but they might suggest other streams that can flow into the main plot.

Think About Structure:

Does you story play out naturally in three acts?

Is there an immediate disturbance to the Lead's world?

Does the first doorway of no return occur before the one-fifth mark?

Are the stakes being raised sufficiently?

Does the second doorway of no return put the Lead on the path to the climax?

Does the rhythm of the sotyr match your intent? If this is an action novel, does the plot move relentlessly forward? If this is a character-driven novel, do the scenes delve deeply enough?

Are there strongly motivated characters?

Have coincidence been established?

Is something happeing immediately at the beginning? Did you establish a person in a setting with a problem, onfronted with change or threat?

Is the timeline logical?

Is the story too predictable in terms of sequence? Should it be rearranged?

About Your Lead Character:

Is the character memorable? Compelling? Enough to carry a reader all the way through the plot?

A lead character has to jump off the page. Does yours?

Does this character avoid cliches? Is he capable of surprising us?

What's unique about the character?

Is the character's objective strong enough?

How does the character grow over the course of the story?

How does the character demonstrate inner strength?

About Your Opposition:

Is your oppositing character interesting?

Is he fully realized, not just a cardboard cutout?

Is he justified (at least in his own mind) in his actions?

Is he believable?

Is he strong as or stronger than the Lead?

About Your Story's Adhesive Nature:

Is the conflcit between the Lead and opposition crucial for both?

Why can't they just walk away? What holds them together?

About Your Scene:

Are the big scenes big enough? Surprising enough? Can you make them more original, unanticipated, and draw them out for all they are worth?

Is there enough conflict in the scenes?

What is the least memorable scene? Cut it!

What else can be cut in order to move the story relentlessly forward?

Does the climactic scene come too fast (through a writer fatigue)? Can you make it more, write it for all it's worth?

Does we need a new minor subplot to build up a saggin midsection?

About Your Minor Characters:

What is their purpose in the plot?

Are they unique and colorful?

Polishing Questions:

Are you hooking the reader from the beginning?

Are suspenseful scenes drawn out for the ultimate tension?

Can any information be delayed? This creates tension in the reader, always a good thing.

Are there enough surprises?

Are character-reaction scenes deep and interesting?

Read chapter ending for read-on prompts

Are there places you can replace describing how a character feels with actions?

Do I use visual, sensory-laden words?

For a Dialogue Read-Through:

Dialogue is almost always strengthened by cutting words within the lines.

In dialogue, be fair to both sides. Don't give one character all the good lines.

Greate dialogue surprises the reader and creates tension. View it like a game, where the players are trying to outfox each other.

Can you get more conflict into dialogue, even emong allies?

If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! 📸

[omgeto]

☆ GHOSTING — GETO SUGURU X READER

summary: after being made aware of your long term ex boyfriends plans to 'fix' the world, you knew that you had to try and stop him. but seeing him for the first time in a decade; all the love, the hate, the heartbreak comes right back to you both and you realise you care about him a lot more than you thought.

wc: 4.7k (of pure goodness....)

cw: afab!reader, mdni, angst to fluff (kinda) cult leader ex boyfriend!geto, kinda sorta canon (its the day that geto yk...) he eats you out like its his last meal, half hate fucking, full making love, and a whole lot of geto being culty and cunty. this one has a plot people!!

authors note: guys yk I love a good exes to lovers fic so the argument in this one hits different and the whole idea of you and suguru breaking up just before he runs off to run his cult really gets to me, so I hope you enjoy this one.

geto suguru hasn’t seen you in years, in almost a decade, and is still reeling harshly from how you left him when he needed you. but somehow he finds himself rushing to meet you when he gets the four word text from your number—which is still saved in his phone under ‘my girl’— saying, ‘we need to talk.’

he knows exactly what you want to speak about, he could easily put together why today of all days you’d want to see —after vanishing him for just over a decade. he figured gojo probably gave word to you, as from when you’ve been young and growing up together, you’ve all known that if gojo couldn’t get through to him, you could.

he opens the door to your apartment, knowing that you wouldn’t have locked it—you always had a habit of leaving it open for him. and there you are, standing in the dimly lit room, waiting for his arrival. the years have etched subtle changes onto your face and in your demeanour, but the essence of who you are remains unchanged. time may have separated you, but in this moment, it feels as though it has never passed.

“you can't do this,” is the first thing you say, your voice steady despite the unexpected surge of emotions upon seeing him again. you didn't think seeing him after all this time would affect you, but it did. his hair is longer, his frame more imposing, but that unmistakable smirk remains, a haunting reminder of the man you once knew.

“wow right to the chase,” he chuckles bitterly, his presence taking up the room as he enters the room further, “i forgot you never really had a thing for beating around the bush.”

you meet his bitter chuckle with a steady gaze, your resolve unwavering. the years of separation have done nothing to diminish the intensity of your connection, the push and pull between you two.

"it's not the time for games, suguru," you reply, your tone serious. "you know why i called you here."

he sighs, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly. the weight of his plans, the burden he carries, is evident in the lines etched on his face. "i figured you'd call sooner or later."

the room seems to shrink as the gravity of the situation hangs between you. the man you once knew, the one who could make your heart race with a smile, now stands before you, shrouded in darkness.

"i won't let you go through with this," you say firmly, your eyes never leaving his. "there's another way, suguru. there has to be."

for a moment, his façade cracks, and you catch a glimpse of the person he used to be, the one who believed in a better world. but then the hardness returns to his eyes, and he steps closer, his presence overwhelming.

"you always were too idealistic," he mutters, almost to himself. "but i can't turn back now. the world needs this change."

"what happened to you?" you snap out, your words laced with a bitter edge that hangs heavily in the air. it's a question that carries the weight of your years of frustration, anger, and confusion. but you knew what happened to him; everyone knew.

his reaction is immediate, and the room seems to tremble with his anger. his gaze narrows, and the atmosphere becomes charged with tension. "you don't get to ask that," he spits out, his voice dripping with bitterness. "you left, remember? you abandoned me when i needed you the most."

“it wasn’t like that,” you argue, leaning forward, your body tense. “by the time i left you were already gone, being physically present in a relationship doesn’t mean anything if your mind is fucking checked out all the time. at that point i was just dating a shell of you.” 

“is that how you justify it?" he retorts, his anger unabated. "you think leaving was the solution?”

you clench your fists, your own anger rising to meet his. "i did what i had to do to protect myself, suguru. you were spiralling, consumed by your own darkness. I couldn't save you"

his eyes blaze with a mixture of fury and hurt. "you think i needed saving?

“you still need saving,” you scoff gesturing to him standing right in front of you, “just because you couldn’t save—”

“don’t even go there,” he interrupts, his hand raising to stop you. he knew you were talking about riko, “i’ve made peace with that.”

“oh have you?” you accuse, “since it seems to me, you’ve been on a killing spree, ever since.”

“other people died y’know,” he hisses out, “remember haibara? he was your fucking friend, but you weren’t even there.”

“this isn’t about me,” you say disregarding his comment, regret seeping through you, “you think i haven’t kept tabs on you since i’ve been away. who have you become?”

he glares at you, his anger evident. "i've become what the world needs," he snaps, his voice heavy. "someone willing to do what it takes to change things."

"and is killing a village full of people the way to do that?" you challenge, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and sorrow. "killing your..." You pause, overwhelmed by the thoughts and images of what he's done. "was killing your parents worth it?"

his expression hardens, and for a moment, you see a glimmer of regret in his eyes, but it's quickly masked by his resolve. "i had to make sacrifices," he says coldly. "it's a small price to pay for a greater cause."

“you can’t truly think that,” you say, taking a step closer to him, your fists still clenched at your sides. “how did it feel killing them then? to take away the lives of your own parents who were innocent?” you probe, you knew that there was some part of him that must feel bad.”

“you’re about… ten years too late to be trying to have this conversation with me,” he shrugs, the turmoil that geto felt when he first set out on his mission has ceased. the guilt he felt for killing his parents, even the grief he had for something that he caused, wasn’t a factor for him anymore.

your frustration boils over as you press him further. "so, you've become heartless, then?" you challenge. the room seems to tighten around you as you await his response. "a cold-blooded killer who's convinced himself that the ends justify the means?"

geto's gaze narrows, his patience dwindling. "it's not about being heartless. it's about doing what's necessary to achieve our goals."

"your goals," you emphasise, "not mine. and not the goals of the innocent people you've hurt along the way."

he sighs, exasperation creeping into his voice. "you always had a way of making everything so complicated, questioning every choice. you left because you couldn't handle the real world."

you shake your head, unwilling to accept his justifications. "no, i left because i couldn't stand by and watch you become a monster."

“so i’m just a monster, yeah?” he retorts, stepping towards you, his anger evident across his face, you could see your words triggered him, and as he gets closer you could feel your facade faltering. 

your heart races as he approaches, and you raise a hand instinctively, palm out, to signal him to stop. "don't come any closer," you warn, your voice trembling with a mixture of fear and anger. there was no rational reason to be scared of him, you’ve known him for years, and despite everything that he’s done —what he’s become— there was still a part of you that believed that he wouldn’t hurt you.

but geto ignores your plea, his determination unwavering. he grabs your hand firmly, his grip surprisingly gentle despite the intensity of the moment. his dark eyes bore into yours, and he speaks in a low, taunting tone, "why? are you scared that with me being this close, you're going to realise that you loved a monster? that you're still in love with him?"

you grit your teeth, refusing to let him get under your skin. "suguru, you don't get to manipulate me with your twisted version of love," you retort, your voice laced with defiance. "i won't let you use my feelings against me.

his words hit you like a punch to the gut, and you're torn between the conflicting emotions swirling inside you. the memories of the love you once shared, the pain of his transformation into something unrecognisable, and the lingering attraction between you all crash together in this charged moment.

you try to pull your hand away, to regain control of the situation, but geto's grip tightens, preventing your escape. his face inches closer to yours, and despite your better judgement, your breath hitches. “manipulation, huh?” geto muses, his mouth so close to yours that you feel his breath faintly brush across your lips. you look up at him through your lowered eyelashes, and in that fleeting pause, so small that it’s almost imperceptible, you find yourself considering the gravity of your actions, if only for a moment.

the feeling of doubt is short lived, as you press your lips against geto’s, his mouth immediately moulding into yours. the kiss is searing, as you push your bodies against each other, he releases your hand from his grip, his hands move to cradle your head, holding it in place as he deepens the kiss, bruising your lips with his.

everything about geto is familiar, the taste of him, the warmth of his mouth, the way he consumes you. his tongue explores yours, wrestling for control as your arms scratch at him trying to tug off his robe. you wanted him to feel you, all of you—your touch, your lips, your hurt, your anger, the love that you still have that you thought was small. but after seeing him, kissing him, you realise is still an overwhelmingly large part of you.

you pull apart to catch your breath, staring hard at each other, but there’s barely a moment wasted before your back on eachother. kissing each other feverishly, as you rip off each other's clothes, he pushes you hard, your back slamming against the nearest piece of furniture as his mouth latches onto your neck. his kisses cascade down your body, stopping at your breasts as he unhooks your bra, tossing it aside.

“i missed these,” he murmurs, as his lips descend onto your tits, his face nuzzling at your chest as he sucks and pulls at your nipples with his teeth. “and i missed this,” he continues to mumble, his hands cupping your clothed pussy, his finger lightly caressing your slit. 

you arch forward into his touch, wanting to feel him more and chuckles saying, “even after all these years, you still respond to my touch just the same.” his fingers plunge into your panties, brushing against your clit and he smirks as your lips part a stifled moan escaping your lips—proving his point.

“s-shut up,” you hiss out, as you slowly start to gyrate against his fingers. although it was obvious from the way you were already soaking your underwear, you didn’t want to admit how good he is actually making you feel—you just couldn’t give him the satisfaction. geto raises his eyebrows at you in amusement, as he watches you bite your lip trying to contain your moans, as his fingers inch into your inviting pussy.

geto’s body moves down yours as he removes his lips from your tits, continues to press kisses down your stomach, as he drops down to his knees —his eyes level with your cunt. he presses a kiss to your covered pussy, before sliding off your panties. his mouth is just about to latch onto you but he pauses looking up at you, his gaze unwavering, “you want this right?” you nod slowly, your anticipation brewing as your eyes lock onto his, “use your words.”

you release an exasperated huff, but he remains steadfast, his raised eyebrow a silent declaration that he won't act until you tell him what he wants to hear. the room seems to pulse with tension, the growing desire between you mounting with each heartbeat.

your hands slide it’s way into his hair, pushing your fingers through his scalp, as you grin, you voice is low and sultry as you say, “i want it.” his mouth envelopes your pussy and you push his head into you deeper, forcing your nose into your arousal. he inhales you, taking in your scent as he presses his face in your cunt. 

“such a pretty pussy,” he mutters lowly, you could feel the vibrations spread through your pussy. his tongue strokes down your slit, before pushing into you, he twists and slurps at you trying to suck out all of your juices. 

geto nibbles at your clit, tugging at it with his teeth before bringing his fingers back to cunt. shoving two fingers in roughly. you pull his hair harshly, the feeling of his mouth sucking on your clit leaving your mind blank. “ah f-fuck,” you cry out, as geto’s strokes grow more intense.

“c’mon let me hear you more,” geto prompts, pulling away slightly from your pussy, his lips plump and coated from your wetness. he grabs one of your legs and hikes it over his shoulder, the angle allowing him to force his fingers into you further, curling them up in your pussy as he goes back to shoving his face in your sobbing cunt.

you grind your pussy in his face, working with him in getting you off. both of your movements were frantic, geto is eating your pussy with such eagerness, hungrily trying to drink all of your cum. “i’m close s-sugu i’m—” you choke out, feeling yourself slipping down the wall you pressed against, but geto holds you upright, his large hand keeping your thigh hooked over his shoulder and roughly pushing you up against the wall.

geto grins against your cunt, your moans and cries is a sound he didn’t realise how much he missed until he heard them now. you laboured breathing, stammered sentences told him that you were reading cum, but he just had to push you further. so he adds one more finger, sending it straight to your spot, twisting and pushing it in your pussy so hard that tears brim your eyes. he was so relentless, you always loved that about him, how he knows your body in and out, he knew exactly where to touch, and just how far he should push to have you becoming a mess for him.

you couldn’t take him anymore, so you cum, hard. your pussy releasing ropes and ropes of cum, all over geto’s fingers and his face, and he laps at it, munching all your cum with excitement. “i know you can give me more than that,” he muses, pressing his thumb down on your clit, rubbing at it aggressively as you cum. your eyes roll back, as he repeatedly flicks at your cum, and before you know it, you're squirting all over his face.

geto’s eyes widen, and he doesn’t stop playing with your pussy, until you bow your head in submission, worn out from all the cum you’ve released over him. your hands slide out of his hair, as you try and catch your breath and geto peppers your cunt and your thighs with kisses finally letting your thigh come off his shoulders. “damn your pussy’s still as sweet as ever.”

“stop with the talking,” you mumble, as you pull him up to his feet, your lips forcing their way back onto him. your hands frantically explore each other's bodies as you drag him to your bedroom, pushing him on your bed. “i can’t fucking stand you,” you mutter to yourself, your denial evident, as you straddle him, pulling his dick out of his boxers.

you pause briefly at the sight, his thick, long dick staring at you. you hear geto chuckle at your reaction, your eyes meet his with a challenging look exchanged between you, he raises his eyebrow at you, a silent dare on whether you’ll actually be able to get the control that you’re aiming to have. 

you hover over his dick, your pussy still dripping, geto bites his lip in anticipation as you tease him, slowly edging yourself down onto him. your pussy greedily, takes in his dick as you force yourself down on him as immediately fills you, stretching out your cunt with one push. you start to ride him, hard and fast, rocking your body forward as you bounce up and down on him, your hand pressing down on his stomach to keep you steady.

geto sits up, stifling a moan as he feels your cunt clench around his dick with everyone of your movements. he tries to thrust up into you, but he just can’t match the relentless rhythm you had, “f-fuck,” he exhales, a moan escaping his mouth, and you smirk —you have him just where you wanted him.

“you alright there suguru?” you mock, the grin spread across your face unmissable as you grind yourself down against him, tightening your pussy around his pole as you slid up and down. the bite on his lip hardens as he pulls it further between his teeth to suppress another moan.

but geto doesn’t submit for long, his hand slaps you across your tits and his fingers pinch your nipples, twisting and tugging them, causing you to arch your back as you wail. “d’you r-really think you run shit here?” he groans, flicking at your nipples with every word, “you’ll never be in control, not with me,” he taunts.

“oh really?” you retort, as you still continue to move your ass, meeting his hips. you can feel him start to pick up his pace, trying to match yours, his hips slightly thrusting upwards, his dick pushing into you deeper.

“yeah,” he says confidently through gritted teeth, one of his hands pulling away from your nipples and onto your ass, harshly grabbing one of your cheeks to steady himself as he drills into you further, “because you’re still my girl.” 

you still at his words, you knew he didn’t mean it but you couldn’t help but react to the name that he always used to refer to you as. geto could see your eyes become vacant, as you think back to the memories when you were truly his girl. you used to revel in that —the feeling of being his. he takes advantage of your pause, your rhythm halted as he takes over, now setting the pace as he charges his dick into you, stuffing you further. 

“suguru f-fuck you’re so—” you sob out, as he breaks down your wall, his strokes hitting your spot perfectly. your body buckles, crumbling at the force that geto was using as he repeatedly thrusts into you, his hand pushing you in further so his dick can get an even better angle in you.

“i’m so what?” he retorts, knowing you wouldn’t be able to string an answer together from the way he is fucking you dumb. geto couldn’t deny that he is getting some joy out seeing you all drunk on his dick, reduced to nothing but moans and incoherent sentences, he liked being the one to break you down. “am i still a monster, someone you can’t stand being around?”

you sloppily nod your head, trying to keep some resolve, but your efforts are pointless since all the insults and accusations you were spouting earlier are now futile, you lost your care in getting him to do the right thing, all you want now is for him to stay like this — inside of you. 

“s-shit i can’t take it a-anymore im gonna cu—” you force out, clenching yourself around little his dick hard as you feel your orgasm building up. but geto’s movements stop for a second as he pulls his dick out of you, flipping you over, your back landing hard on your bed. he leans over you, his focus fixed on you, but at this point, his eyes don’t hold the same heartache, and hurt that they did when he first stepped into your house. the geto that is looking at you now, is the one who’d always look at you everyday, ten years ago —with love and longing.

he strokes his dick down your aching pussy, teasing you with it, but just before he puts it in, his hand caresses your face cupping your chin as he says, “when i said you were still my girl, i meant it y’know?” and your lips part in surprise at his admission. “although it hurt me, when you left me, you just never stopped being my girl.”

“suguru i-i don’t know what to say,” you stammer, and you didn’t realise until he swipes under your eye, that you were crying. there was so much more to your relationship with geto than just some highschool romance, you loved another, and no one could tell you otherwise. 

“tell me that you are,” he prompts, now pressing kisses to your tear stained face, his lips moving down to yours, “tell me that you are still my girl,” he finishes in between kisses. his hopeful eyes still remain on yours, and you could feel him slowly inching his dick into you.

you wrap your legs around his back, your arms hooking around his neck as you pull his head next to yours, your mouth near his ear as you whisper, “i am still yours.” he pushes his dick back into you, his strokes deep and slow. it was different from before, there was no competition or hate between you as you fucked, you didn’t have a point to prove other than the fact that you still loved each other. 

geto’s moans are loud, he has nothing to hold back as he growls lowly in your ear. the way he holds you, and takes his time kisses you and fucking you as if he was accounting for this potentially being his last ever time doing so. “i’ll never get enough of this.”

“then don’t go,” you whine, and your words hold a deeper meaning that you both knew but won’t acknowledge knowing it is pointless to discuss any further. you pull him into you deeper, your thighs clenching around him as your hold tightens. 

the feeling of you pulling him in, has him clenching his eyes as your pussy takes him in, his mouth takes yours in a powerful kiss, before he mumbles “you gonna let me cum in you, leave you with every last bit of me.” you don’t even respond, just deepening the kiss, your head shaking in agreement.

you both cum together, geto spraying your walls as he sinks his face into the crook of your neck, sinking his teeth into your exposed flesh as he continues to shoot ropes of cum inside of you. you claw at his back as you feel all of him enter you, your cum mixing with his as you cry out in full pleasure.

his forehead rests against yours, as the last bits of his cum enter you and neither of you say anything, all that can be heard is just heavy breaths coming from the both of you. you didn’t know what was to happen now, there was still so much left unsaid, unresolved and things have changed now that geto is literally stuffed inside of you.

geto is about to pull out of you finally, but you stop him muttering a faint, “stay,” and he does. he knows he had somewhere to be, things to do that are bigger than the both of you, but he just couldn’t leave when you ask him to stay. he manoeuvres your body so that you now lay atop him, comfortably cockwarming him as he thumb brushes gentle strokes down your arm.

“y’know i’ve got these two girls, who i think would love you,” he muses.

“what? did you manage to become a father whilst i was away?” you tease.

“something like that, yeah,” he mumbles, a small smile forming on his face as thoughts of nanako and mimiko flash through his mind — they’re a bittersweet reminder of the new life he’s built without you, one that you wouldn’t be able to fit in. it wasn’t that long ago that you’d have thoughts about geto fathering your own kids, dreams of somewhat of a domestic life that you’d now never get to have with him.

“well maybe i can meet them,” you say non-committedly.

“yeah maybe…” his voice falters, as you both know that it would never happen.

“do you enjoy it then?” you ask, “this ‘new’ life of yours.” you could tell just by the brief mention of nanako and mimiko and the way he carries himself that he does enjoy his life, but you were hoping that he’d still answer no.

geto hesitates for a moment, his gaze drifting to the ceiling as he contemplates your question, “i…” he begins, his gaze returning to yours, “i won’t lie. it’s different, and there’s moments i find true solace in it, this has been my life for a long time now, so it’s just something i’ve really gotten used to.”

“and you’re happy to go back to it, after this?” your question is loaded, and you feel dumb for even asking but when you did call him over to get him to not go through with his plans, of course your motivations have slightly changed, but your goal is still the same. 

 “i don’t think you should ask me to make a choice, knowing that im not going to choose you,” he grits out, he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings, but 

“you’re not gonna win you know, satoru wouldn’t let it happen,” you couldn’t help yourself, the rejection he just gave you stung, and you wanted him to feel what you felt.

but geto doesn’t bite, he knows you’re hurting—that he’s the cause of it, so he lets you hurt, his hold tightening comfortably as you sulk in his arms. geto places a kiss on your temple, ignoring your comment as he concludes, “let’s just not, okay?”

geto stays with you until your breathing settles into a steady rhythm, and you don’t notice him slipping out of you. he cleans you up and tucks you into your bedsheets, giving you one final stare as if he’s trying to keep a mental image of how you look when he’s last seen you. his lips meet yours in a final, chaste kiss and he mutters a promise that he didn’t think you’d hear, but you do, stirring awake as his lips leave yours, “i’ll see you again… eventually.”

you wake up to an empty room, the warmth of geto's presence replaced by a stark emptiness. the realisation hits you like a wave of cold water – he's gone, leaving nothing behind but soiled sheets and a hollow ache in your chest. there's no note, no message, no trace of his ever being there, except for the lingering scent of him that clings to the air. you know that someone will eventually inform you of the outcome of the night, but deep down, you already suspect that his last promise to you will end up being broken.

AN: first like proper proper real juicy fic that ive written in a long time imo and its just like this took me so long since im soooo sensitive about my geto fics and im just like overly critical about my angsty and fluff and plot fics and my smut and JUST EVERYTHING but I managed to get it all done and I think some parts of this really hit hard. the ending is ofc bittersweet since if we go by canon, he goes and yuta beats his fuckinggg ass and he dies wtf but... the true ending is really up to your imagination. (not really) like dont even think about the ending just focus on the fact that they NEVER TELL EACHOTHER THAT THEY LOVE EACH OTHER BECAUSE UR SO IN LOVE THAT YOU ADMITTING THAT UR STILL 'HIS GIRL' IS ALL THE CONFIRMATION HE NEEDS. my finished an are sooo long why because I FUCKING CAN SO I HOPE YOU ENJOY, PLEASE LMK UR THOUGHTS AND SLAY ALL DAY also thank you @kazushawty and @biscuitsngravie for reading and supporting me 🥹🥹

[theealbatross]

Sebastian x Reader: i love you, it's ruining my life (One Shot)

Plot | Sebastian has the worst insomnia known to man and you are not dating him. Tags | none, fluff, slytherin!reader, bad english accent attempt by me, repressed feelings, unhealthy attachment, codependency, teenagers trying to process trauma together, mentions of nightmares, they are both 17 years old [A/N : FUCK JK ROWLING!!!!!!! Also I just needed to write something and somehow a depressed Slytherin boy was just the one to cure my insane writer's block. Enjoy!]

I am not dating Sebastian Sallow, is what you kept saying yet no one seems to ever believe you. Even Natty, bless her kind soul, gave you a look so incredulous as the words went out of your mouth that you couldn’t help but be confused yourself -- were you dating Sebastian?

“I’m not trying to be nosy, my friend. I’m just concerned.”

“About what?” This has been the third person this month with that same irritating expression on their face. Pity.

“I thought … you were always together that I just assumed there was … something.”

You blinked, trying not to let your face slip, afraid that your ever observant friend would read too much into each emotion.

“Well, there’s nothing. So you and the others can –”

“There are others?!”

You widened her eyes, telling Natty to drop it and she wisely did. “The rest of you can stop reporting his rendezvous to me. Understood?”

“There you are!”

Merlin, will the cruel gods of fate ever give you a break?

The deep voice from the door cut through half of the conversations in your table as Sebastian jogged towards you. “Morning, pet.”

He casually grabbed your head gently, pressing a kiss on top of it, before settling down by straddling the chair so he was facing you. “Hey Natty, got lost?”

It wasn’t unheard of for students to not stick to the assigned tables on their houses but it was still odd, especially for someone like Natty who much preferred the company of like-minded people. Always said that the quiet and whispers in the Slytherin table made her uneasy.

Natty looked from you, to him, to the arms that was hidden under the table but was no doubt placed on your waist, subtly but insistently pulling you closer. You silently pleaded for her to ignore it which she thankfully did with a sigh.

“Not at all, Sebastian. Just trying to keep our friend company before you undoubtedly steal her away for the day.”

He didn’t even pretend to be offended by the accusation, only chuckling good-heartedly. “You can be welcome to tag along just for today.”

“Wouldn’t want to intrude. And with the trouble the two of you get into I’d be grounded by my mother for the rest of my life.”

The three of them laughed at that. The conversation thankfully flowing easier and away from the initial topic. Once Ominis arrived and Poppy was called over it was like fifth-year again. The initial circle you had formed has always been a source of comfort, no longer having to have your guard up all the time especially as easy conversation flowed between each other.

“I got some new books for you, just got delivered an hour ago. We should read it tonight.”

You fed him a piece of bread in your hands, knowing that his growing appetite has not been satiated by the plate he made for himself but he would be too lazy to make a new one and would just rather take bits and pieces from your own. “Just for me, huh?”

He grabbed a tuft of grapes before feeding you one as well before he demolished the entire thing. You couldn’t help but giggle when he spat out a small branch that managed to sneak into his mouth.

“It’s that new muggle series you love, paid off one of Ominis’ servant to line for it so you wouldn’t have to sneak out of Hogwarts like I know you had planned to tonight.”

You could feel your face heating up at the fact that he knew you too damn well. “You know I don’t like you spending money on me, Sebastian.”

“Well, you’re gonna be reading it to me so technically I’m spending money for me.”

You gave him a look but he quickly evaded it by feeding you another pair of grapes.

Sebastian had been haunted by nightmares after last year’s events. Ones so bad that the nurse feared he would be a bit too dependent on sleeping potions at such a young age. Thankfully, the two of you had found a solution together, after a late night studying in the Undercroft reading your notes aloud hoping it would stick into your head a bit better – you had turned to find your companion snoring away beside you.

At first, the two of you thought it was the history lesson that put him right to slumber so you borrowed tons of history books in the library for him to read before he slept but an enchanted note later and you were dragging your sleepy self and a blanket out of your chambers as you read about the History of Magic in his bed.

It was that night that you had been eternally grateful that he had no other roommate but Ominis. Especially when you found out that Sebastian was apparently a horrible koala when asleep.

“That’s just –”

“What are you two whispering about?”

You actually jumped, pushing Sebastian away as if the soft voice behind them reminded you of how they had actually drifted closer than what was appropriate.

“Arieta,” Sebastian greeted her with a raised brow, seemingly confused why the Ravenclaw was this far off the room not even all that affected that his new girlfriend just caught him being a bit too comfortable with another girl.

“Sebby!” she shrieked prettily, quickly recovering and pulling on his arm. “We have History of Magic together, remember? You know I can’t survive that class without your shoulder to sleep on.”

She can hear Ominis choke on a laugh yet Arieta shot you a look like it was your fault.

“I, uh,” Sebastian turned to your table, now fully aware that everyone was staring at him with various expression on their faces. “Right, let’s go.”

Ever the gentleman, Sebastian was quick to grab the books in Arieta’s arm as she held on to his hand and dragged him towards the doors.

“Arieta, huh, wouldn’t have pegged her as territorial one,” Natty chuckled, you chucked a grape at her. “What? I am only speaking my mind. Might have to watch out for that one or she might just drag poor Sebastian away from –”

Just before she finished her sentence Sebastian came bounding down the path once again stopping just beside you, catching his breath. “Hey, you’re mine tonight, okay? No adventures.”

His wording left so much to be misinterpreted that even Poppy’s eyes nearly popped out of her head, damn near resembling those mooncalfs she loves so much.

"I stand corrected," Natty muttered.

“Sebby!” Arieta screamed at the end of the hallway.

Merlin’s beard.

“I’m coming!” He threw her an impatient look before holding on to your chin so you were looking at him and forcing you to nod. “No adventures.”

This time the embarrassment of the absolute mess that was unfolding before your unfinished breakfast have overwhelmed your brain that you could only nod with him.

“No adventures.”

Sebastian smiled, one of those real, bright ones that makes your body malfunction and your heart to stop beating. Pressing one last kiss on the top of your head and managing to wave to your shared friends he was off and gone through the double doors.

The entire table was left in silence and you had hoped they would let this go but Natty couldn’t give you that mercy as she cleared her throat.

“Well, now I got even more questions.”

You’re not dating Sebastian Sallow you just think about him a lot.

You weren’t as daft as the rest of them have probably assumed. You did think there was a lot more than friendship between Sebastian and you. But with all the things that the two of you had been through it was difficult to pinpoint what it exactly was aside from their unusually intense loyalty to each other.

Was it a trauma bond? Was it just their kindred spirits refusing to let the one soul who understood them go? Did everything that they went through, the secrets they keep, the curses they threw to protect each other become the bloody ribbon that held the unhealthy attachment they had to each other? It could be love. But it could be a whole lot more complicated than that.

That’s what they were. They were complicated.

After the nightmare that was your fifth year the two of you had kept to yourselves with Ominis in tow, trying to keep as low as profile as possible and give your poor professors a break. With your newfound infamy as the ‘Hero of Hogwarts’ (blergh) and the dark secret you three were desperately keeping for Sebastian, the best you could hope for was to blend in with the rest of the nameless students in Hogwarts.

That agreement got shot into hell when your dear friend Sebastian Sallow proved to be one of the best beaters in Hogwarts’ long, long history. It was a dare that exploded in your own face to try out and irritate Imelda but when he had accidentally proven to be a bit too good at it their mutual friend clutched at him with her demanding claws and put him through the ringer until he got spat out decent enough to be one of the soldiers to secure the honor of their noble house and win the Quidditch cup this year.

Piled on top of that development was his connection to the Gaunt family, the Hero of Hogwarts, and the rumor of his hefty trust fund waiting for him the moment he turns 18 – Sebastian Sallow, just as the gods intended, became the most eligible bachelor of his age.

And thus your hell begun.

The silent charm he always had with him grew with his stature. He clearly enjoyed the attention after having hid his pretty bloody face behind dangerous books all year last year that it was almost like he was compensating for the hearts he could’ve broken. Every moon it was a different girl looped around his arms and every month it was a different friend reporting to you that your presumed ‘boyfriend’ was found snogging a goddamn Gryffindor in the Three Broomsticks.

It was annoying, confusing, and you were getting sick of it.

“Over here.”

Before you could find the source of the voice you knew all too well, a door had already opened and you were quickly pulled into an empty room – well, room was being generous as it was more of a storage space than anything.

“Sebastian!”

“Shh,” you gawked when his opened palm muffled your voice as he firmly presses it on your mouth. The unmistakable sounds of footsteps and a softer call of his name echoed the hallway outside the door. When the footsteps faded and disappeared, he had the nerve to give you a lopsided grin that turned your face red in irritation. Definitely in irritation.

Nothing quite like being forced to face the boy who had been running around your head all day.

“Sorry bout that, pet,” he chuckled, leaning on the wall an arms-length way from you. “I’m not too good with break-ups, especially when they say no.”

“Must be horrifying,” you sniped shortly, also pressing your back on the nearest wall to give you as much space as possible – it would just be absolutely mortifying to faint because your heart was beating too fast it was like it was trying to escape. “Are you gonna explain why you’ve kidnapped me in this dingy room?”

“Come on now, don’t be short with me. I just wanted to hang out with you ‘s all.”

“You want to hang out with me …. Inside a closet?”

He shrugged, “I never see you anymore these days.”

Ah, the nightmares must be back. She tries to swallow down the bitter taste in her mouth.

“That’s not my fault, Sebastian.”

At least he looked guilty. And absolutely miserable.

In the few weeks you had taken your eyes off him it would seem he had another growth spurt. Do boys just not stop growing ever? Looking up at him was starting to get painful. Plus, all those drills they run to prepare for every game had done nothing but well for his physique. You couldn’t help but run your eyes to his broad chest and shoulders before you caught yourself and nearly screamed in horror.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Rough hands grabbed one of yours. He bent his knees so he could look in your eyes as you now outright refuse to meet his, in anger for the absolute shit friend he had been the past months or in embarrassment that you so casually checked him out you’re not quite sure. “I … I got distracted but I missed you. You know I prefer your company over any other.”

Those damned brown eyes, not even the poor light in the windowless room could dull its effect on you. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Your harsh words did not match with the growing smile on your face you failed to suppress. He mirrored your grin, “Do you still have classes?”

You shook your head.

He damn near vibrated in glee. Merlin, you did miss him.

“Let me steal you away.”

In a flash, Sebastian grabbed a hold of your hand to survey the hall one last time before dragging you out of the room and into the nearest Floo. You barely caught the surprise and anger in his ex-girlfriend’s eyes as she gawked by the stairs before you got swallowed up by a green flash of powder.

“Boathouse.”

You’re not dating Sebastian Sallow because this is definitely not a date.

You wouldn’t think the Boathouse would be a romantic place but with the lack of students, the dimming sun and a gorgeous boy leading you in the inside of it for privacy – you couldn’t help but think that anyone who would pass by would be well within their right to think you had become another notch in Sebastian Sallow’s belt.

You’re not sure how you feel about that. A greater witch would’ve been offended but maybe you’re no better than the knots in his belt.

“Sit here.”

Sebastian spread out a worn-out black robe on the ground, patting on it expectantly. Before you could do it yourself, he was already kneeling beside you and removing your shoes and socks. The intimate act forced you to hold your breath, making sure you controlled your face so your jaw doesn’t fall to the floor as he slowly pulled on your socks, gently plopping them on the edge and letting the Black Lake’s water tickle your feet as they dangled.

When you were settled, he nonchalantly laid his head down on your lap. Gods, help you.

“Comfortable, aren’t you?”

He made a dramatic noise of satisfaction, even wiggling in your lap to show his assent. A giggle slipped out of your mouth at the absolute gall of him, your hands naturally falling in his soft, thick, brown hair to play with it.

“What had you been up to, pet?” he mumbles, eyes never leaving your face although you find yourself unable to do the same as you opted to look around the architecture of the Boathouse you rarely visit.

“Nothing much,” you shrugged. “Although I did find that swimming in the Forbidden Forest’s Lake was surprisingly relaxing.”

He hummed, not even surprised at your little antics when you leave his line of sight. The boy had definitely pulled you out of worse situations than roaming around the Forbidden Forest. “You should take me some time. Merlin knows relaxing is what I need.”

A scoff escaped your mouth as you rolled your eyes.

“Yeah, right after I duel your newest girlfriend for the honor of getting to take you out.”

He poked your side at that, “As entertaining that would be you know all you have to do is send me an owl and I’d trek up to Maurenweem for you.”

Your face clearly showed you didn't believe him and he frowned. Carefully, you ran a finger in-between his brows where a frown formed to relax it.

At this angle you could see the toll the sleepless nights he must’ve been having had on him. If the bags on his eyes was any indication it must’ve been a few nights now. You ran your hands on his hair earning you a satisfied hum as he dangled his hand on the edge of the ledge to play with the water below.

“When was the last time you slept?”

He popped one eye open but your gentle touch proved too much as he closed it again with an even longer hum. “A few hours last night.”

“You should’ve woken me up.”

He gently shook his head, grabbing your free hand so he can hold it by his stomach.

“I didn’t wanna bother you.”

“Oh please, Sebastian.”

He chuckled at that, gripping on your hand tightly as he let out a heavy breath. “The nightmares … I thought it’s been better. Barely had any a few months ago. But now it’s just gotten worse.”

The confession broke your heart. Sebastian was not a vulnerable person; despite his usually easy and cheerful demeanor he was quick to wall himself in at the first sign of trouble. You would bet galleons of gold he still feels horrible of all the things he put you through and it was truly in desperation when he had called you over to help him through his insomnia. Which was also why you had welcomed the responsibility with open arms.

“Care to tell? Is it still about Anne?”

His estranged twin has been forefront of most of his darkest nightmares but he shook his head again and for that you were thankful he was spared that at least. “Solomon? Ominis?”

He opened his eyes; it was full of overflowing guilt and fear. And when it seemed he could no longer keep it to himself he sighed, “It’s about you. That’s the reason why I couldn’t …”

The revelation had your blood freezing. “What?”

He sat up, now facing you and taking both of your hands. “I’m only telling you this because you are my best friend and to remind you that none of this is ever your fault. You haven’t done a thing wrong, in fact, I can’t think how I would’ve gotten past any of this if it wasn’t for you.”

You held on to his hands tighter. “Sebastian, you’re scaring me.”

He shook his head, pulling you closer as if to comfort. Why was he comforting you when it was him who had been terrorized by this dream version of you. It was irrational to be mad but how could you not be when apparently you had become one of his problems while you were simultaneously desperately trying to fix it.

A palm on your cheeks pulled you out of your self-loathing.

“All of my dreams … it was of the people I love leaving me. Anne never forgiving me for the rest of my life, Ominis turning me in …”

“Oh, Sebastian,” you buried a sob on the crook of his neck, your hand roping around his back so you can rub on his back comfortingly while he lets everything out.

“And … and every time it happens my brain drives itself insane thinking of plans of what I would do if those nightmares came true. That’s the reason why I couldn’t sleep.” You looked up at him through your lashes but never leaving your spot even as he brings your legs out of the water and over his until you were in his lap.

“But then … they turned to you.” His voice dropped so low you almost shivered. “And for the life of me I just couldn’t … see an out of that. If I lost you – If you gave up on me I … I think I’d turn myself in Azkaban myself.”

“Sebastian I would never –”

“I know that,” he whispered. “But I still can’t – I can’t let it go. I can’t let go of these doubts and fear.”

This time he rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “That’s why I keep hanging out with all those girls.”

You raised your head in confusion, taking a better look at him.

“I thought if I loved you less, my nightmares would be kinder.”

The breath got caught in your throat. What is he – does he mean –

“But I couldn’t do that either,” He sighed, rubbing a hand on his face, clearly frustrated. “So I’ve decided. I’d rather go insane, let the nightmares do their worst because I am done pretending I don’t love you. I’m done avoiding you, I’m done pretending you aren’t the only light in my life. I’m done. And I love you.”

A fully grown crying Mandrake could drop from the sky and you don’t think you would’ve heard it over your own heart. You could barely comprehend anything but that his grip on your waist was so tight it was almost painful and that his pleading, terrified eyes was in the perfect angle that the late dying sun made it look like it was in a golden fire.

And that Sebastian Sallow … is in love with you. Just as madly as you were with him.

“I’m not forcing you into anything. I needed to let it out. If you want, I fully intend to formally court you until –”

“I love you.” You could no longer bear to put him in such misery. As long as you were alive, he would not question the adoration you’ve felt for him that just kept growing since the first day he had taken you to Hogsmeade. “I love you, Sebastian.”

Just for a moment there was quiet then he burst out laughing. “Thank you, darling." His body visibly shuddered as he sighed in relief, burying his face in your chest. "I’ve already planned to throw myself off the highest cliff in Hogwarts if this had gone south.”

You wrapped your hands around his neck, accepting the gentlest kisses on your neck. “Don’t say that. I plan to be your girlfriend for a very long time.”

His body shook from laughing, this time a kiss under your jaw, “Not that long I hope?”

You frowned, pulling away from him, though his unrelenting hold prevented much space to be in between the two of you. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” his thumbs rubbed circles on your thigh, now seemingly shy. “If all goes well, I had hoped to be engaged by the time we graduate. You won’t be just my girlfriend then.”

"You bastard," You gawked, laughing at his proclamation. The happiness was overflowing in your chest that you couldn’t help but just squeeze him into you hoping maybe that your souls would fuse with each other.  “You haven’t even kissed me yet and you’re already pre-proposing?”

He licked his lips, his sleepless eyes now full of vigor. “Ah, we gotta fix that, don’t we, pet?”

“We’re dating.”

Natty sighed in relief.

Poppy clapped.

Garreth passed Imelda a silver coin.

"Excuse me," Ominis muttered, standing up. “I'm gonna request a room change to the Headmaster.”

[keferon]

You all flatter me! Now I am all pumped up to continue on the TF mecha au train. Ratchlock has me in a chokehold. You can't compliment me like that, It goes to my head! I haven't writen anything in like 12 years 😭. Also Yes yes to all the angst. I thrive on it more then the fluffy moments. Jazz and Deadlock/Drift are lining up nicely for a possible meeting. But first Deadlock WILL bath in blood! Wanna see?

****

Ratchet will not let Deadlock follow him around. Nope. Instead he keeps Deadlock on strict bed rest /he's learning human terms in his free time/ with the oh so sweet promise to weld him to the wall if he doesn't listen. He knows better to not test Ratchet, he'd do it no hesitation. Deadlocks fangs and claws only cause a raised eyebrow and wave of a slipper near well... anywhere in Ratchet's swating or throwing range. Since both of them honor their word/glyphic, they made a deal that if Ratchet comes home on time then in return Deadlock will be on his best behavior.

They use every extra moment together to learn, heal, and plot together. Deadlock's wounds are fully healed by now. He is ready to be the guardian knight he vowed to be for Ratchet. Ratchet's knuckles still ache which makes his hands shaky at times, especially when cold, but his squishy perseveres like a true warrior. Deadlock has learned that revving his engine to build up heat and letting Ratchet rest against his chassis helps with those trimmering aches the bioengineer tries to rub out.

He wants to give any comfort he can to Ratchet while he's working in that cursed lab with those ungreatful sacks of slags. He has photos of each one of those fraggers saved in his proccesor. The list only grows the longer they wait to leave. If he can work around Ratchet somehow, he'll cross them off at some point with a deep satisfaction while doing it. Ratchet has been as sly as a turbofox. He's been sidestepping, talking around, and out ranting the higher ups for a while. Deadlock is so proud of him for not backing down or falling silent. Right now Deadlock has the tv playing a sitcom while tinkering with his long range blaster. His audial fins flick as the door opens and closes. Ratchet looks at the show while shrugs his winter coat off, "So has Sam confessed his undying love to the ice cream vender Carly yet?" Ratchet asks walking over to the lazy-e-boy chair.

Deadlock reaches out and taps his back before he can sit down. "Refuel first." He reminds him before going back to tightening some wires. He smiles at the grumble and is pleased when Ratchet listens to him for once and heads to the kitchen, "and no the episode ended with him getting hit by a waste disposal truck. Now it's a filler episode. Jack is trying to get out of going to an Amica Endura's beach party. He is playing up a illness called the pox."

Ratchet comes back with a warm plate of food. Deadlock nods pleased with the portion. Ratchet rolls his eyes and sits down, "They did that same plot with Raphael four seasons ago." He grumbles and bats at Deadlocks claw when he tries to ruffle his hair, "If they drag this out for three episodes like last time I am popping in a different show." Both are content, they banter and complain about the show while Ratchet eats. When Ratchet reclines his lazy-e-boy chair Deadlock puts his weapon away, "They are transferring some of us to a different base in the morning. You know First Aid. They are putting him on a transport to the sister base north east of here. Called the Alpha Blade Strikers."

Deadlock tilts his helm, "That's the one that was visiting here? The commander of that base is the one you knocked out for slagging you off right? You mentioned the base being cursed." He asks leaning forward a bit, his servos tingling for revenge.

"Yes, same place and person. Don't believe in any of that cursed stuff but a lot of talk does go around about it. Mostly one pacific mecha being the main cursed object. First Aid was stressed to tears about being transferred. He had just gotten comfortable here with his friends. I feel a bit bad for the kid." Ratchet mumbles rubbing his face with his unbandged hand.

Deadlock gives a soft smile, "From what you've told me, he keeps his helm down. I am sure he will find friends or leave when he can. But if you are worried I am not opposed to taking him with us."

"We do not kidnap people, Drift. He wouldn't want to come along anyways. He wants to 'do his part for human kind'. Besides it takes him a while to get use to change and the possibility that we may be hunted down once we leave would most likely send him into cardiac arrest." Ratchet tilts his head back gives Deadlock a stern look, "On the topic of leaving we'll need to do that sooner then planned. Something isn't right, I don't like how hyper focused Pharma has gotten with quintessons corpses. Now he is showing intrest in you. He wants to know how I programmed a mecha to be powered by an AI system so flawlessly. It's driving him up a wall to not know. You know, since a mecha has never moved around without a pilot and can not talk. He keeps begging the higher ups to let him 'partner up with me' or let him take over the 'project' since I am just 'playing around with you'."

"Right fine. No kidnapping the youngling. But do not assume we will be the ones being hunted." Deadlock hums amused but turns serious when Pharma is brought up. That name is at the top of his 'don't let Ratchet catch on' splat list, "But me being 'imprinted' on you is keeping them from letting him get his quintessons gut covered servos... Err hands sorry, on me."

Ratchet nods rubbing his face again with a tired sigh, "I made certain they know you'll attack anything that isn't me." Deadlock can tell Ratchet is fighting a yawn. He lays down behind the chair and rumbles his engine. Ratchet's lips twitch with a smile hearing how smooth it's running now, "Pharma has never been a good listener though. Just be on guard okay kid... he's ploting something." Ratchet mumbles soaking up the heat coming from behind him. He tilts his head back against the head rest looking up at Deadlocks handsome, smug, sharp fanged grin, "He tries touching you, you can kill him. Don't let him into your system. I fear what he'd do. Probably make you even more loony and unbearable." The bioengineer yawns his voice full of fondness that makes Deadlock's spark sing.

Deadlock purrs as he gently pets Ratchet's head with a, claw retracted, digit. Ratchet's eyes grow heavy missing the most feral, down right demonic, energon hungry look Deadlock has at the permission to off Pharma, "He will not harm me. But I can tell he has worn on you today. You are more drained then grumpy, your insults are lacking any heat. Recharge Ratchet. I will reconfigure our supplies and time line while you regain your strenght. Then I'll show you in the morning. You can edit it while you fuel." He chuckles as Ratchet grumbles and mumbles at him. His squishy can't fight the cozy warmth and soothing pets. Deadlock's humming engine makes a familiar white noise that has grown to mean safe to Ratchet. In no time Ratchet is out cold. Picking up a blanket with a careful pinch he lays it on top of Ratchet and follows him into recharge.

-- --

They are so close to leaving. They have a place picked out and a time. Their supplies are packed and hidden away with a close friend of Ratchet's. The thing still keeping them on base is Ratchet's need to clear out all of his research. He doesn't want anyone to have anything of his, to have a chance to twist it into something that would cause more harm and death. It's been a tedious process but Ratchet has been deleting his work bit by bit so no one catches on.

Four days before their chosen leave date Ratchet walks into his lab only to be escorted to a debriefing room. One he has have never been to. Deep under the base. He had tried getting anyone to speak up about what's happening but the escorts, six of them for fuck sakes, don't even look at him. His gut instinct is screaming DANGER the deeper they go. His skin is crawling with uneasiness and he is fighting his fight then flight instincts. He taps at the small circler tracker he has in his winter coats collar as subtly as possible. Hoping it looks more like a nervious tick then a trigger to call for help. Hopfully they aren't to far down for it to work. The group stops at a vault door and Ratchet cuts off a growl growing in his throat when one of the 'escorts' pulls out some heavy duty cuffs. "Tell me what reason you have for those or their not going on Spike." He warns fists clenching at his side. He huffs at the click of a gun and someone has the balls to press it into his back.

The young soldier, Spike, frowns and waves his hand at the others behind Ratchet, "Ratchet please it's just procedure. You have saved a lot of our lives don't make us be rough. We don't want to be. Just put them on so I don't get yelled at later." Ratchet narrows his eyes, frown tightening. Spike groans, "I don't know what they want. No one told us anything. Please I am just doing what I was told."

Ratchet can tell Spike is holding his breath, pleading silently for Ratchet to listen. Ratchet does let a growl slip when the guns barrel grinds into his spine. His head snaps around and he glares hard enough to cause pause, "Cut that out, I know exactly how far to shove that to not kill you but make damn sure you wish I did." He snarls as he holds his wrists up to Spike. The comment earns him muffled chuckles and a few glares. Cuffs on Ratchet walks into the room. Spike shoots him an apologetic look as the door closes behind him. With a heavy exhale Ratchet takes in the room. A concrete floor, circular shaped room with thick metal walls. Cameras line the ceiling edges. His exhale catches in his throat as the metal walls start rolling up to reveal bullet proof glass filled with quintessons in various stages of dissection and tests. "We have another sublevel secret lab bellow our sublevel secret lab. Of course we do." Ratchet mumbles flatly to pissed off he didn't know this base was more fucked up then he thought then to be scared.

Speakers crackle on and an annoying whine comes through, "Not the reaction I was hoping for. Come on Ratch buddy show a bit more emotion then that. Less grump more begging maybe? At least shock." Pharma's voice chimes around him in an irritating way.

"Looks like all of this has been going on for a while. Why bring me into this now Pharma?" Ratchet says calmly since that seems to piss Pharma off more. He looks at his cuffed wrists and his blood runs cold as the hair on his neck stands on end. Goosebumps cover his arms making him shudder under the heavy coat, "I am not here for shop talk."

"Mmhmm, I am going to miss that snarky brain of yours Ratchy. But you did do a lot of things that put the base in danger. Security has taken notice of a lot of data, intel, cameras and video footage being tampered with." Pharma almost has a mocking sing songy tone to him. Strange, Ratchet knows he didn't tamper with anything that would jeopardized the security of the base. Definitely not the cameras or video footage, "You know what you've done and what we do to traitors. I already have received the ok to take over your work. The good commander is allowing me to say goodbye to you since we were such good old friends. Don't worry. I'll take good care of your Mecha." Yeah, Pharma sounds real choked up about all this, Ratchet rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, he'll take care of you Pharma." Ratchet keeps his tone and body language nonchalant as he studies the cuffs. He takes note of the little bit of gap, if he dislocates his thumbs.. "Only thing that's annoying about all of this is I'll be late getting home."

"I swear you are boring me to death on purpose Ratchet!!" Pharma snarls as a thud noise rings through the speakers

"Oh could I be so lucky?" Ratchet sighs sounding hopeful. He stiffens as the room lights turn red and multiple hisses of compressed air being released surrounds him. A robotic voice rings out a warning that the test subjects are being released. Ratchet whips his head around stepping in a circle as snarles and screeches drowned out the warnings. Ratchet steadies his breathing as best he can as his hands trimble and heart beats wildly. Deadlock would be livid if he doesn't go down giving it his all to get back to him. Ratchet would be just as pissed to, "I'll do what I can but you better hurry kid..."

-- --

"You weren't suppose to do that Pharma." A flat voice speaks up from behind Pharma after picking up the chair he had kicked away. Pharma scoffs and grumbles, "You are not even going to ask him what he ment by being late to his quarters?" The chief of security drones on.

"Be sure to capture all angles. I want detailed shots of it all." Pharma growls removings his hand from the release butten he hit hard enough to crack. "You are being paranoid per usual. Don't tell me you never heard the rammblings of a dying man?" Pharma sighs, with a dramatic flick of his wrist he walks out of the room.

"No, but I imagine I will soon enough." The security director mumbles under his breath. Reaching over the chair he resets the cameras.

OH. OH THEY ARE FUUUUUUCKED

OH THEY ARE SO SO INCREDIBLY FUCKED THEY ARE GONNA GET SPREAD EVENLY ALL OVER THE FLOOR AND I WANNA SEE IT SO B A D

Next

[flowerywoso]

the babysitter || irene paredes x reader

Summary: You've had a thing for Irene ever since you started babysitting for her. When she comes home after a night out with the team, you realize that your feelings might not be as one-sided as you thought they were. Pairing: Irene Paredes x Reader Words: 3,992 Warnings: 🔞, smut with plot Notes: I haven't written anything in quite awhile (I honestly wasn't planning on writing ever again but here we are), so this might be a little rough! Please don't hesitate to let me know (politely, please!) if you notice any horrible grammatical errors or notes to myself that I somehow forgot to take out. Do not post my works on Ao3. And I am horrible at titles.

You peek your head into the room once more, carefully easing the door open and, just as quickly, shut, once you determine that the toddler is definitely still asleep. It’s a habit you adopted after your friends began to have their own children, and one you’ve maintained for the kids you babysit. Tiptoeing back down the hallway, making sure to keep your footfalls as quiet as you can, you plop back down on the sofa, settling into the corner and taking a sip of your sparkling water, grabbing your novel and flipping it back open as you wait for the boy’s mother to return home.

It’s not that much later, only long enough for you to finish a single chapter of your book, before you hear the sound of the front door opening and closing, announcing Irene’s return from the Barcelona squad’s night out. You don’t get up from the couch, merely setting your novel aside and uncrossing your legs, letting one dangle off the cushions.

She enters the room quietly, the low heels she’d left the apartment in abandoned on the mat by the front door so they don’t click on the wood floors, and when you look up you can see the flush on her face. You're not sure if it's the result of the chilly evening air or of her night out, but either way it's enough to make you swallow around a lump in your throat. The top and pants she'd left the house in are just as enticing now as they were several hours ago, and you wonder as she walks further into the apartment how you manage to stay sane around her.

“Hola,” she says quietly, setting her purse down in the center of the coffee table and taking a seat beside you on the sofa, sighing in relief as she relaxes into the cushions after a long night out. Your heart, as it so often does in the presence of the older woman, skips a beat as she comes nearer to you.

“How was everything?”

“All good,” you reply, beginning to recount your evening with Mateo. As always, the toddler had been easy, listening to you as well as one could expect a two-year-old to, and had fallen asleep on the sofa halfway through an episode of Bluey, only stirring briefly when you carried him to bed.

“He ate most of his dinner,” you relay with a smile, shaking your head at the memory of how the toddler had wrinkled his nose at the "yucky green" you'd provided for him, far more enthusiastic about the special treat that was the chicken nuggets unearthed from the freezer. “We had a bit of a struggle with the veggies, but other than that he was a perfect angel, like always.”

Your words bring a smile to the older woman’s face, and you can’t help but stop in your tracks for a moment, transfixed by the way her lips perk upwards, faint lines around her eyes becoming visible. You’ve seen her take an extra minute in the bathroom more than once after you arrive in the evenings, trying to conceal the bags beneath her eyes or the smile lines beginning to form at the corners, but you think that each and every part of her face is a work of art. 

You had no idea, when you first started babysitting for her, just how quickly your feelings for the older woman would grow. In the stolen moments at the beginning and end of the nights, before one of you walks out the door, you've learned more and more about Irene Paredes the person, not just the footballer, and something about her kept drawing you further and further in. You couldn't pinpoint it exactly, but you knew that you wanted her.

“Did you have a good night?”

Irene shrugs, shaking her head with a fond smile as she tells you about the Barcelona squad’s night out. She had mostly stayed on the sidelines alongside the other older players, keeping an eye on the girls closer to your own age as they enjoyed themselves, but Pina and Cata had managed to coax her and Alexia into having a drink and dance before she had excused herself.

The thought of Irene on the dance floor makes your heart pound, imagination beginning to run wild.

You’ve never been to Manuela’s, but from the way you’ve heard Irene describe it, there's absolutely no shortage of beautiful women. You know from the bits of information she’s given you that the Barcelona girls normally stick with one another, even while they’re out, but you’ve never been able to help yourself from wondering if any of the beautiful girls who frequent the club have tempted her enough that she’s taken one of them to her bed.

It's that thought, the unpleasant idea of her tangled between the sheets with a nameless, faceless girl from the club that makes your chest hurt. Before you fully notice what you're doing, you open your mouth and begin to speak, some jumbled mixture of thoughts spilling from between your traitorous lips.

"I mean if... If you ever wanted to stay out later... If someone..."

You trail off, clamping your lips shut as you realize just how inappropriate what you're implying is. You cringe, cursing yourself as you watch for her reaction, wait for her to get up off the couch and hand you your bags, let you know that now might be a good time for you to go home.

But she doesn't. Instead, all the older woman does is fix you with a questioning gaze, seemingly losing herself in thought for a moment.

She’s seated closer to you than she normally would be, than she ever has been before, and for a moment you wonder if she can hear your heart as it pounds in your chest, speeding up as she enters your space. You aren’t sure if it’s your imagination, the way her eyes seem to have fixed on you, tracing the details of your flushing face, eyes following your bottom lip as you nervously run your teeth over it.

“No,” she says at last. “None of the girls there have ever been who I wanted.”

Something about the word there catches your attention as it leaves her mouth, and you're certain that you must be losing your mind. Because there's no way, no way in the world that she wants you the way you want her.

The older woman reaches out and brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and you’re fairly certain that you’ve stopped breathing. Her hand pauses by your left cheek, which you're absolutely certain is flushing redder than the cap on her cherry flavored chapstick.

And suddenly, before you can even fully process the fact that her soft but strong hands are cupping your scarlet cheeks, the older woman is leaning forward and pressing her lips to yours.

You must have imagined this moment a thousand times, but never in your wildest dreams had you imagined it would actually come true. The older woman’s mouth is soft but insistent against your own, exploring your lips with hers, and every coherent thought you’ve ever had is a distant memory as you move with her, kissing her back.

Kissing Irene is even better than you imagined it would be - and you could fill a planner with the amount of times you’ve imagined this exact scenario. Her mouth is gentle, but there’s an edge to her kiss that contains a promise, the knowledge that she’s capable of being anything but.

When your lips finally part, after what feels like both an eternity and no time at all, you let out a little gasp, pupils blown wide as Irene stares into your eyes, both of you trying to process what has just happened. Even though she’s the one who kissed you first, Irene seems just as shocked as you are. But, behind her wide eyes is the same feeling you know she can easily spot in your own.

Desire.

“I… Fuck.”

You’re the one who leans forward this time, lips pressing against the older woman’s, the faint flavor of alcohol on her lips mixed with a hint of cherry from the chapstick you’ve seen her spread across her mouth more than once. The taste of her lips is intoxicating, and you can feel it going straight between your legs.

This kiss is deeper than the first, your arms wrapping around her strong shoulders to pull her closer, wanting to feel her body against your own. You part momentarily, gasping for air and only managing a brief breath before she’s kissing you again, every movement raising the stakes. You whine as her lips meet yours once more, hands coming to rest on your hips, pulling you closer. The older woman uses her own lips to pry yours open, her claiming tongue slipping into your mouth and beginning to explore further.

You let her take control of the kiss without protest, the arousal between your thighs intensifying exponentially with every second her body spends this close to your own. 

“Fuck,” she gasps, breaking away from your lips only long enough to grunt in your ear. “Fuck, I want you so badly.”

All you can do is nod, shaking your head up and down in agreement, because you don’t think you’ve ever wanted another person this badly in your entire life. 

“Irene,” you whine, pressing impossibly closer to her. “Please.” 

“Can I touch you?”

You’re nodding again before the question has even fully left her lips, and the older woman’s pupils go dark with how eager she is for you. She kisses you again, her football player’s strength showing as she pushes you backward onto the sofa, hands working their way up under your shirt. She doesn’t bother with the clasp of your bra, instead slipping her hands beneath the fabric to cup your breasts. Separating her lips from yours with a low groan, Irene immediately begins tracing a path over the sensitive skin of your neck, sending a further wave of shivers up and down your spine. You moan quietly, remembering that you two aren’t alone in the apartment, but tilt your head anyway, granting her better access to your throat.

Advantage is rapidly taken, the Barcelona player letting a hint of teeth scrape across the delicate flesh of your throat as she rolls one of your nipples between her fingers, moaning quietly at the way you arch, pressing your chest further into her touch. 

Your nipples aren’t normally this sensitive, but something about the way Irene rolls and tugs at them makes the two buds feel as if they’re direct links to your most sensitive spot. Her touch is magical, and all you want is more.

As if the older woman can read your mind, the hand not busy exploring your chest slides further down, slipping under your black leggings and making you gasp, bringing a hand up to muffle your own sounds as long fingers begin to rub at your pussy over your panties. 

There’s far too much fabric between the two of you, and every thread feels like a cage. You need it off, need the last bits of separation between your heat and her touch gone, now. 

“Off,” Irene commands and, needing the barrier gone just as badly as you do, she doesn’t wait for you to obey before she’s hooking her own fingers in the waistband of your leggings, yanking them down over your legs. Your panties are removed in the same motion, both pieces of fabric coming to rest at your ankles. You try to kick them fully off, but only manage to completely free one leg before the older woman is pushing her way between your thighs, eagerly beginning to explore your bare pussy.

Her experience is clear from the first touch of her slender fingers against your naked heat, and you can’t help but press closer, spreading your legs further to give her better access. The older woman draws in a sharp breath as she circles your clit gently with one finger, exploring, watching for your reactions, the others gathering the rapidly accumulating wetness at your entrance. Irene's touch is electric, and the older woman finds herself becoming rapidly obsessed with the way your clit seems to plead for her touch.

With two of her fingers, Irene traces the outline of your pussy, hyper aware of just how wet you are, how your hole is begging silently for her fingers inside as she continues to rub your clit.

You let your eyes fall shut, eagerly anticipating just how good it will feel when the fingers you can sense lingering just shy of your entrance finally slide home, burying themselves inside your welcoming cunt. You’re practically pulsing with it, with how badly you need her inside, need to know just how she’ll fill you, what previously unknown spots inside the tips of her long fingers will be able to brush.

“Where do you want my fingers, bebita?” 

You whine, shifting your hips in an attempt to get even closer to her, to get her to slide her fingers into your throbbing heat. The digits, wet from your own slick, only withdraw further away from your needy hole, and you nearly sob with how badly you need the older woman, need her touch. 

Obvious as it may be, this nonverbal expression of how desperate you are for her to take you isn’t enough to satisfy the older woman, and she rubs your inner thigh soothingly. 

“Use your words, baby,” she coaxes. “Tell me where you need my fingers.”

The idea of using your words seems borderline impossible at the moment, your brain simply too overwhelmed with the reality of just how close her fingers are to slipping inside, but you can tell that you won’t get what you need until you do.

“My pussy,” you manage to whine, trying to stay as quiet as possible while pulsing with the need for her. “Please, Irene, I need your fingers in my cunt.”

Your words, base and simple as they are, are enough to get you what you need, and when Irene finally slides her fingers home, you can’t conceal the moan that tears its way free from your throat. You’re wet enough that the stretch of going from zero to two fingers inside your cunt brings nothing but pleasure, and you have to bite down on your lip to stop yourself from moaning aloud when you feel the ridges of her fingers settle against your walls, the older woman pausing for a moment to let you adjust to the feeling of her digits inside.

Irene has to swallow a wrecked noise of her own as she finally slides her fingers inside your soaking pussy, the sensation of your silky walls against her skin sending her brain into overdrive. The sound of your voice, desperation tinging your whispers as you plead for her to move, to fuck you, is absolute music to her ears, and she doesn’t hesitate to comply with the enticing request. 

Her pace is slow at first as she starts to move, the older woman eagerly exploring every curve and contour of your cunt, leaking around her fingers. It’s so warm and inviting, and the older woman has no idea how she’s lasted this long without knowing what feel like inside.

Once she’s sure you’ve fully adjusted to the stretch of her digits inside of you, Irene speeds up her thrusts, curling her fingers in search of the most sensitive spots hidden inside your pretty cunt. 

It’s clear when she finds what she’s looking for, because your cunt clenches down around her fingers and you squeeze your pretty eyes shut as pleasure rocks your body. 

“Oh,” she says, voice a whisper that tickles your ear and makes you shudder happily. “Is that where you need me?”

You nod desperately, the entirety of your reality reduced to the sensation of her fingers against the sensitive tissue inside you, stroking it insistently as her thumb comes to brush against your swollen clit. As she fucks you with her fingers, the older woman tests out different motions on your bud with her thumb, searching for the pattern and pace to take what’s left of your breath away. 

You can’t help but let out a cry as she presses a little harder, circling your needy clit at just the right angle. Irene quickly presses her lips to yours again, reminding you that you’re not alone in the apartment.

“Shh,” the older woman says, swallowing your noises with her own tongue, collecting each one. “You’ve still gotta be quiet for me, bebita.”

You nod in understanding, kissing her back desperately, bringing a hand up to tangle in her hair. You can be quiet, no matter how good it feels, you can be quiet, just so long as she doesn’t stop what she’s doing between your legs. Irene chuckles against your lips, redoubling her efforts between your legs. Her talented fingers thrust in and out of your pussy, each time hitting the spot that makes you see stars.

“That’s it, baby,” she whispers, lips right beside your ear. “That’s it, take it for me. Take it, just like that.”

You toss your head back, more than willing to comply. Every cell of your body feels like it’s on fire, and you want nothing more than for the burning to consume you completely. 

Your orgasm arrives without warning, Irene’s thumb on your swollen clit combined with her talented fingers inside your cunt sending you crashing over the edge with a fury you haven’t felt in a long time. You have to bite down on your lip to keep in your sounds as your it overwhelms you, nails digging into Irene’s bare shoulders. You can feel the older woman’s smile as she kisses your neck, fingers still moving gently inside you, working you through your climax, helping you ride it for as long as you can.

You shudder, aftershocks still shaking your body as you begin to come down from your peak. She slides her fingers out and you bite down on your kiss-swollen lip to keep yourself from whining at the loss. It takes another minute before you're able to gather yourself, fully opening your eyes and taking in the sight of the gorgeous older woman above you.

Irene presses another kiss to your lips, this one gentle, and you can feel the smile on her face as you give a final shudder, sitting up and leaning into her.

"How was that, bebita?"

"Fucking perfect," you reply, unable to conceal a grin of your own as you note how flushed her face still is. Knowing that touching you has her seemingly almost as worked up as you are sends a thrill through your body and you reach for the button of her jeans, aiming to return the favor, only for the same pair of hands that had just brought you to such an incredible orgasm to push yours down, Irene’s lips brushing against your forehead.

“Don’t you worry about me, baby,” she says, and you feel your heart sink with sudden disappointment.

“Are you sure?”

Irene wraps an arm around you, pressing a kiss to the side of your head, clearly oblivious to the way your shoulders sink. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I promise. Don’t worry about me.”

You blush, wanting to protest that getting to touch her would be just about the furthest thing away from a worry- dream or fantasy come to life would be a more accurate description- but a sudden wave of shyness overcomes you, the whiplash of going from the high of your orgasm to the valley of being denied an opportunity to make Irene feel as good as she’s just made you feel making your throat close up.

“O-Oh,” you say quietly. “Okay. I just…”

You trail off, not sure what to say to that. It feels like, without meaning to or realizing what she’s done, the Barcelona defender has just tossed a bucket of ice water over you.

“I… I guess I should head home then,” you say quietly, trying not to let her hear the hurt in your voice, reaching down and pulling your leggings back up over your calves and thighs until they rest around your middle. Your panties aren’t quite soaked, for the pure fact that they had been around your ankles soon after her lips first met yours, but they’re still wet enough that putting them back on isn’t exactly comfortable. 

And more than that, you don’t want to leave. Your body is still purring with the aftermath of your orgasm, the last thing you want to do right now is leave her apartment and walk the few blocks home to your own. The route between your apartment and Irene’s is one you know well, lit with plenty of streetlamps and well-frequented on a Saturday night, so any anxiety you might feel can be connected purely to leaving her after what’s just happened, without being certain where you stand. 

Irene opens her mouth and you pause with your hand on the knob, waiting, hoping that she’ll say something, offer her bed to share for the night. 

“Let me know when you get home safe,” she says quietly, and you can’t help the way your chest clenches with a strange sort of pain. You hadn’t really expected her to offer for you to stay, not with the amount of eyes that could be watching someone like her at any given moment, but you still can’t help but wish she had.

You nod in response to her question, clutching your bag close to your side as you shut the door behind yourself, beginning the short walk home.

...

“Fuck.”

The second the door shuts behind you, the defender wishes she could throw it open again and call you back in.

She had wanted to, especially after watching you come apart under her touch, seeing how pretty you looked as your orgasm overwhelmed you. The words had been on the tip of her tongue, but you had beaten her to it, reaching for the door handle and exiling yourself before she could even offer, and she hadn’t offered any protests. 

Peeking in the door, ensuring that Mateo is still safe and sound in his bed, the Barcelona player tiptoes quietly down the hall, two doors down, and pushes her own door open and shut behind her.

As she pulls off her top, letting it fall to the floor, quickly followed by her pants and bra, Irene curses herself, pulling back the covers and slipping into the too-big bed on her own. It feels cold compared to the contrast of your warm body against her own, and her chest pangs with the regret of not asking you to stay the night. 

Back in your own apartment, you slide beneath your own covers, mind racing at a million miles an hour.

No matter how your chest might ache at the fact that you’re here, alone in your own bed, the memory of the older woman’s lips on yours, of her talented fingers bringing you to orgasm right there on the sofa, of muffling your moans in her shoulder, still sends a familiar jolt of electricity between your thighs. With a soft whine, you reach for your the bedside drawer where you keep your vibrator, turning it up before pressing it against your still-swollen clit.

Blocks away, Irene is doing the same, quietly gasping out a much-needed orgasm with your name on her lips, the memory of your mouth on hers and your silken flesh beneath her fingertips sending her over the edge.

As the older woman drifts off into an uneasy slumber, the space beside her conspicuously empty, she knows that, now she's had you once, she won't ever be able to get enough.

[pretzel-box]

I love you writing! Could you do something with jealous Sebastian?

A joke too much

words: 1,3k

status: non-proof read

tags: established relationship, sebastian is jealous, random nameless guy to fill in for the plot, comfort & bad diving suit jokes

sebastian might be a bit ooc but that's nothing new lol

Despite all the horrible things that had happened so far in the drastic depths of the Hadal Blackside, you were more certain than ever that hardships are easier to overcome with a group of co-workers—or, in this case, familiar victims of the expendable project that Urbanshade had set up to retrieve a simple crystal.

One of those people was a fellow inmate who shared a punishment similar to yours, which made it easier to bond over the shared misery. Their sarcastic way of lightening up every dark situation was a refreshing change of pace amid all the horrors and violence that usually surrounded your group.

"I would have worked harder on my bikini body if I knew I’d end up here," the fellow prisoner joked, gesturing to the basic diving suit Urbanshade had issued as minimal equipment. The ill-fitting suit clung awkwardly to his frame, adding a touch of absurdity to an otherwise grim situation.

"Ah yes, these diving suits definitely highlight all the right curves," you hummed back in amusement, trying to suppress a grin.

The lighthearted banter continued as you both navigated the dim, foreboding corridors. The small, wholesome moments of connection were a welcome reprieve from the relentless tension. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep the growing dread at bay, if only for a little while.

Eventually, you found yourselves standing before Sebastian's signature vent—a crude entrance that had become all too familiar. With a quick push, the piece of metal flew across the dark floor, clattering noisily. From the other side, Sebastian's disinterested voice echoed in the narrow passage.

"Welcome back, you... and you," he muttered, his tone flat as his ear fins twitched slightly, betraying his annoyance. His gaze flicked to the person next to you, clearly sizing them up. "Another day, another poor selection of team members, huh? Shame I don’t sell good ones either."

His joke, dripping with sarcasm, didn’t go unnoticed, but it didn’t have the desired effect either. You could see the faint lines of irritation on his face when he noticed your unimpressed expression. His usual wit seemed to fall flat in the current circumstances, and even he seemed to sense it.

"Really, Sebastian?" you asked, raising an eyebrow at him. Your new companion stifled a chuckle, but you could tell they were a bit wary of the sea-serpent’s mood.

Sebastian sighed, leaning back slightly as if trying to shake off the tension. "What can I say? The company down here isn’t exactly what I’d call inspiring," he retorted, though there was a hint of resignation in his voice. He glanced between you and your new friend, his irritation giving way to something softer, almost like concern and you didn't missed the way his tail moved, showing how bothered he actually is without speaking it out loud.

“Seriously, who thought it was a good idea to send us down here with nothing but these glorified wetsuits?” Your team mate joked trying to get the comfortable atmosphere from earlier back by continuing his joke, shaking his head in disbelief. “If I knew I’d be stuck in a metal box at the bottom of the ocean, I might’ve packed something a little more comfortable.”

You chuckled, trying to ease the palpable tension. “At least you’re making it work,” you said, playfully nudging him with your foot.

Sebastian’s ear fins twitched at the sound of your laughter, and own claw-like fingers digged themself uncomfortably into his own palm. Without a care, he spoke, his voice carrying a sharp edge. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of laughing at this situation.”

Your friend raised an eyebrow, clearly picking up on Sebastian’s mood. He pushed off the wall and took a step closer to you, a lighthearted smile still on his face. “Hey, we’re all just trying to make the best of it, right? No harm in keeping things a little less... bleak.”

Sebastian finally faced him directly, his eyes locking onto your friend with an intensity that made the room feel even smaller. “If you’re so focused on keeping things light, maybe you should find somewhere else to do it.”

The words were laced with a possessiveness that took both you and your friend by surprise. The room fell into a heavy silence as Sebastian’s gaze shifted to you, his expression unreadable. “Or is this how you’d rather spend your time?”

You swallowed hard, sensing the unspoken conflict. “Sebastian, we’re all stuck in this together. We don’t have to turn on each other.”

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Stuck together, sure. But don’t pretend like this is just another day at the office. We’re not exactly a team, are we?”

Your friend cleared his throat awkwardly, realizing he was caught in the middle of something much deeper than he’d anticipated. “Look, maybe I should just... give you two some space,” he suggested, glancing between you and Sebastian.

Before you could respond, Sebastian stood up and slithered across the room, positioning himself between you and your friend, his tall frame blocking the view. “Yeah, maybe you should,” he said, his tone final, leaving no room for argument.

The air in the room was thick with tension as your friend hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Right. I’ll, uh, catch up with you later,” he mumbled before slipping out of the room by crawling back throug the vent behind him.

Once the two of you were alone, Sebastian didn’t move, standing with his back to you, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. You could feel the cold emanating from his body, but there was also something else—a vulnerability he rarely showed.

“Sebastian,” you started softly, reaching out to touch his arm. “What’s going on? Why are you acting like this?”

He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t turn around either. His voice was low when he finally spoke. “Because I’m tired of watching someone else take care of you when I’ve been the one keeping you alive all this time.”

His words hit you like a wave, and you suddenly understood the depth of his jealousy. It wasn’t just about the other guy—it was about everything you’d been through together, everything he’d done to protect you. He was scared of losing you, of not being enough and being replaced with someone you just met.

You stood up and stepped closer, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, resting your head against his back. “I know, Sebastian. I know you’ve always been there for me. And I’m grateful for that. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

He sighed, his shoulders slumping as some of the tension drained from his body. Slowly, he turned in your arms, his cool hands resting on your shoulders as he looked down at you, his expression softening. “I just... I can’t lose you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

You reached up, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “You’re not going to lose me. I’m right here.”

Sebastian’s gaze searched yours, and after a moment, he pulled you closer, wrapping his arms and tail around you in a protective embrace. The coldness of his body was no longer unsettling; instead, it was a familiar comfort.

For a while, you just stood there, holding each other in the quiet of the room, the earlier tension dissolving into a peaceful silence. Finally, Sebastian pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his breath cool against your skin. “I didn’t mean to get so... possessive.”

You smiled gently, your hands resting on his chest. “It’s okay. Just... remember that we’re in this together. Both of us.“

Sebastian nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Thank you, Sweetheart."

[dakusan]

Soft Things Belong Together

Lee Know x Reader | fluff, domesticity, mischief, slow love

🧺synopsis: It starts with a cat on his chest and ends with your head on his shoulder. In between? A sock war. Three judgmental cats. One too-big hoodie. And a hundred tiny ways to say I love you without saying it. This isn’t a grand love story. It’s a Sunday. And it’s enough.

💌a/n: welcome back to tender tuesdays where love is quiet, minho folds laundry like it’s life or death, and you fold socks like a raccoon on a Red Bull bender. this fic was inspired by god knows what because my brain is soup, the weather is grey depression, and i’m fighting for my life against the wind outside ☔️. no plot, just vibes and folding techniques. if you smiled even once, i win. p.s. reblog or the cats will stage a coup and fold your laundry wrong on purpose p.p.s. do you fold socks like minho or like a drunk raccoon. don’t lie. p.p.p.s. i wrote with only one braincell standing

📍credits: @cafekitsune , @roseraris for the dividers.

🎧 » Polaroid Love — ENHYPEN « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:16 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

The first thing you hear is a faint purring vibration against your ribcage. The second is Minho’s voice, low and rough with sleep: “…I think he’s trying to suffocate me.”

You crack open one eye. The sunlight has already slipped through the blinds, painting lines across the bed, your bare legs tangled in sheets. Soonie is fully sprawled across Minho’s chest, smug and immovable, his purrs growing louder with every passing second. Dori is curled at your feet, twitching in his sleep, and Doongie is perched on the nightstand like a gargoyle—staring you down like you’ve personally ruined his morning.

Minho doesn’t move. His arm is heavy around your waist, palm splayed across the soft cotton of the shirt you stole from him last night. His voice is gravel and sleep when he speaks again.

“If I die, avenge me.”

You snort into the pillow. “You’re fine. He loves you.”

“He’s kneading my sternum.”

You open both eyes now, shifting slightly just to see him. Minho’s hair is an absolute disaster — sticking up in multiple directions, pressed flat on one side from your shoulder. His eyes are barely slits, one brow twitching in mock despair. Soonie flexes his paws into Minho’s chest, tail flicking with satisfaction.

You reach over lazily, giving Soonie’s head a soft pat. “He’s your child. Suffer.”

Minho exhales dramatically but doesn’t move Soonie. His hand instead shifts along your side, fingers curling over the dip of your waist like he needs to remind himself you’re real. Still here. Still warm. A breath passes, shared between you in the early hush.

Doongie lets out a loud, pointed meow.

Minho groans. “And the hunger games begin.”

You both lie there for another few seconds, clinging to the last stretch of blanket-wrapped quiet. Then Minho slowly, dramatically, shifts — rolling onto his back and sending Soonie off his chest with a startled grunt.

“You’re a traitor,” Minho mutters at him, rubbing his own ribs.

Soonie stretches luxuriously, absolutely unfazed.

Minho turns his face toward you again. His expression is softer now, unguarded in the light. “Stay in bed. I’ll feed the gremlins.”

You make a sleepy sound of protest, but Minho is already slipping out from under the blankets. The stolen shirt on your body slides up slightly as you stretch—he catches it, eyes flicking down briefly before smirking to himself and padding off toward the kitchen.

You listen to him move: the creak of the floorboards, the clink of dishes, the cats trailing behind like a noisy parade. His voice, quiet but warm, as he talks to them like they understand every word. (You’re not convinced they don’t.)

Eventually, you swing your legs out of bed. The floor’s cold, but the shirt you’re wearing is warm and smells like him—lemons, laundry, and a hint of cologne. You shuffle into the kitchen to find Minho already making coffee, cats devouring breakfast at their bowls.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he says without looking, then turns just in time to flick a crumb off your cheek. “You drooled.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did. You’re a swamp creature. But you’re cute, so I guess I’ll let it slide.”

He passes you a mug. You take it just to spite him.

You lean against the counter, sipping slowly, while Minho flips pancakes with expert ease. He’s still shirtless, still rumpled, hair a fluffy mess. And he’s humming — softly, off-key, content. Something domestic and safe wraps around you in that moment like an invisible thread. It’s not just the sun or the warm mug or the smell of pancakes.

It’s him. It’s this.

“Hey,” he says casually, sliding a plate in front of you.

“Yeah?”

“I like Sundays.”

You glance up, smiling around the edge of your mug. “Yeah?”

He shrugs. “You’re here. The cats are happy. Everyone is happy."

You laugh. He smiles. And so, the day begins with the first load of laundry barely hitting the living room floor and Minho declaring himself Minister of Folding.

You arch an eyebrow from across the room. “I didn’t vote for you.”

“I’m not elected. I’m ordained,” he says, solemnly unfolding a towel like it’s a sacred scroll.

The two of you are surrounded—cornered, really—by overflowing baskets, half-dry socks, and at least three hoodies you’ve lowkey adopted as your own. The cats are already in the thick of it. Doongie’s worming his way into the warm pile of sweatpants. Dori is headfirst inside an empty laundry basket, tail twitching wildly. Soonie has chosen a freshly folded blanket to nap on, which Minho immediately frowns at like it’s a personal betrayal.

“I just folded that,” he mutters. “He didn’t even wait five minutes.”

“He knows who he is,” you say, grinning. “A menace. Like his dad.”

“Rude.”

“You’re not denying it.”

Minho scoffs but doesn’t argue. Instead, he picks up a pair of socks, folds them into that neat ball formation you always screw up, and tosses it perfectly into the basket like a basketball shot. “See that? Precision. Art.”

You mimic him, trying to copy his exact technique. You miss by a full meter.

“Tragic,” he says. “Do you try to fold things like a chaotic raccoon?”

“Yes,” you reply sweetly. “It’s how I stay grounded.”

The playlist hums in the background, soft and upbeat. The kind of songs you dance to barefoot in kitchens. Light spills through the windows, warming the wooden floor, painting lazy sun patches that the cats immediately seek out like heat-seeking missiles.

Minho grabs a hoodie—your favourite, oversized, worn-in and frayed slightly at the cuffs. “You’ve stretched this out.”

You look up from your towel folding. “That’s mine now.”

“It literally has my name embroidered on the sleeve.”

You shrug. “You gifted it to me when you left it here for five weeks.”

“That’s called forgetting, not gifting.”

You toss him a freshly folded shirt in response. It hits his shoulder and flops to the ground. Minho just looks at it, then at you. Then, with the unbothered calm of a man about to cause problems on purpose, he picks up a sock and gently flings it at your face. It bounces off your cheek with a pitiful pfft.

You blink.

“…Did you just—?”

Another sock follows. This one lands in your lap.

You narrow your eyes. “You have chosen war.”

Minho grins. Full teeth, mischief and love all wrapped into one sharp look. “I accept your terms.”

The next few minutes are absolute chaos.

Socks fly. Towels are used as shields. Doongie bolts out of the hoodie pile like he’s in a war zone. Dori, drunk on excitement, starts sprinting in circles. Soonie yells once, offended by the noise, but refuses to abandon his blanket. You’re breathless from laughing, your arms full of half-folded laundry, and Minho looks at you like it’s the happiest he’s been in weeks.

He’s flushed with warmth—not just from play, but from looking at you. T-shirt hanging loose off one shoulder, eyes bright, grinning like you’re everything good he ever stumbled into. You feel it in the air: this invisible tether between you. This softness that keeps pulling you back.

He clears his throat, straightens a hoodie with excessive seriousness. “Back to work. Laundry doesn’t fold itself.”

“Tell that to your little soldiers,” you tease, gesturing at the cats.

Dori immediately steals a sock and runs off with it like a trophy.

Minho sighs, but he’s smiling. “Why do I even try.”

You scoot a little closer to him on the floor. “Because you like folding things while I ruin them.”

His eyes flick to yours—glinting, amused. “Because I like you, even when you ruin everything.”

You nudge his knee with yours. “Flattery won’t get you out of towel duty.”

“I’ll fold all the towels in the world,” he says, voice dipping, “as long as you keep stealing my hoodies and smiling like that.”

For a second, neither of you says anything. The playlist fades into a softer track. Dori flops dramatically onto his side in the middle of the clean laundry. Doongie sneezes. You’re both still on the floor, laundry half-done, surrounded by your shared life.

Eventually, the storm dies down.

Dori.... still flopped onto his side in the middle of the clean laundry. Doongie has returned to the hoodie pile with an air of disdain. Soonie, ever above it all, stretches out luxuriously atop the freshly folded towel stack like he’s earned it. And Minho?

Minho flops onto his back with a dramatic sigh, arm flung over his face like he’s just fought a great war. His shirt has ridden up slightly at the hem, revealing a sliver of pale skin just above his waistband. His chest rises and falls in lazy rhythm, hair a chaotic mess from the skirmish, one sock still in his hand like he forgot to let it go.

You stare at him from your perch beside the laundry basket, knees tucked to your chest. “I think we broke the truce,” you say after a beat.

Minho lifts his arm just enough to peek at you. His lashes catch the late afternoon light. “It was a tactical surrender.”

“Oh?”

“I had to,” he adds, “you were starting to fold socks like weapons.”

You smile, slow and full, resting your chin on your knee. “I learned from the best.”

For a long moment, there’s no sound but the soft fade of the playlist and the occasional jingle of a cat collar. You shift, crawling toward him on hands and knees, ignoring the sock minefield. He doesn’t flinch when you sit beside him, doesn’t move when you gently nudge his side with your elbow. Instead, he turns his head, rests his cheek against your thigh like it’s the most obvious place to be.

His voice is quieter now. “I missed this.”

You thread your fingers through his hair, brushing it off his forehead. “Laundry?”

He snorts. “You. Us. The calm.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“You’re so good at pretending you don’t care about soft things,” you murmur.

“I care,” he says simply. “I just don’t want the cats to think I’ve gone soft.”

“Too late.”

Minho hums and lets his eyes flutter shut. You keep petting his hair, slow and absentminded, like you’re tuning into his heartbeat through your fingertips. The sun has dropped lower now, casting golden light across the room. It touches his skin, catches in his lashes, makes him look softer than any photo could capture. There’s a rare stillness to him when he’s like this — the calm after his sharpness has settled. He only shows it to you. You wonder if he even knows he’s doing it.

Then, in the silence: “I like you messy,” he says, not opening his eyes. “Like this. Laughing. On the floor. Touching my hair like it’s nothing.”

Your hand stills slightly, caught off guard.

“I like you when you ruin my system,” he continues, voice gentle. “When you toss socks at me. When you wear my clothes. When the cats listen to you more than me. When you steal my morning silence and make it louder.”

You blink.

“And I like when you shut me up with your smile,” he finishes, cracking one eye open, “so maybe do that right now.”

You lean down, kiss his forehead. “You’re insufferable.”

He grins. “But loveable.”

By the time you finish folding the last shirt, the sky outside has slipped into that deep navy blue that almost looks like velvet. The playlist is down to faint instrumentals. The cats are scattered across the room like crime scene chalk outlines—every one of them knocked out cold from their own brand of chaos.

Dori is curled inside the now-empty laundry basket like he pays rent there. Soonie has claimed the folded towels again and dares anyone to challenge him. Doongie is half under the coffee table, snoring.

The rest of the apartment has settled. Lights are warm. The air smells like fabric softener and the remnants of cocoa. Your knees are sore from sitting on the floor too long.

Minho stretches beside you, spine cracking as he raises his arms overhead. “Well,” he says. “If nothing else, we’ve achieved peak adulthood.”

You raise a brow. “You mean folding laundry with tactical precision while covered in cat hair?”

He glances down at his shirt, where Soonie’s legacy lives in soft beige smudges. He shrugs. “Exactly.”

You both ease back against the couch now, finally sitting upright after being on the floor for what feels like hours. The baskets are stacked neatly. Everything smells clean. You feel… settled. Not because the work is done—but because you did it together. Because the room feels lived-in, not just cleaned.

Minho shifts, drapes a blanket across your legs without asking. Then he leans back again and lets out a quiet breath. His fingers, idle, find yours under the edge of the blanket. No squeezing. No dramatic gesture. Just the press of knuckles—his way of saying I’m here.

“You really do fold like a raccoon,” he says, eyes half-lidded now.

“Maybe I am one.”

“You steal my hoodies. You bite sometimes. You make nests.”

You scoff. “You’re literally describing yourself.”

He hums. Doesn’t deny it.

The apartment hums with low, easy sounds—distant traffic, the fridge buzzing, a cat twitching in his sleep.

You don’t speak for a while.

Eventually, Minho’s hand leaves yours. He stretches again and grabs the folded hoodie sitting closest—one of his old ones, a little too big for you, frayed at the collar.

He tosses it to you lazily. “Here,” he says. “You always steal this one anyway.”

You catch it. “Is this you surrendering?”

“This is me streamlining the theft process.”

You smile faintly, pressing the hoodie to your chest before slipping it on. It smells like his shampoo and something warm beneath it—like worn-in comfort and skin and quiet mornings.

When you look at him again, he’s already watching you. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t say anything poetic. He just lifts one shoulder and says, “Soft things belong together.”

And that’s it.

Not a confession. Not a dramatic line.

Just Minho, telling you exactly how he feels the way he always does—direct, simple, no frills. You nod once, then lean into his side. His arm lifts instinctively to pull you in. The two of you sit like that on the couch, warm and wordless, cats all around, baskets finally empty.

It’s peaceful. Not loud. Just a space you and Minho fit into—naturally. The cats, too.

And somehow, it feels perfect.