#light across the seas that severed

[giddlygoat]

i tried to recreate something i saw in a dream a couple years ago where i fell into the mouth of a partially submerged [non-sentient] sea monster animatronic.

[these-lovely-monsters]

Tentacles Under The Bed - Part 2

[NSFW | 18+]

Characters: gn!tentacle monster x f!reader

Content: tentacles, bondage, nipple/clit stimulation, double penetration, anal play, edging, yandere monster

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

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It’s late at night and you’re sitting in bed, reading a book before you go to sleep. Or at least, you’re trying to, but you keep peeking over the side of the bed, hoping your tentacle monster will come visit you again tonight. After a while, with no sign of your guest from last night, your eyes grow heavy and you drift off to sleep. The light is still on and your book is sitting open on your stomach as you lay sprawled across your mattress, dreaming about tentacles wrapping you up.

You’re snoring softly when, suddenly, you jolt awake to the feeling of something cool and silky caressing your cheek. Quickly sitting up in bed, you blink open your eyes to find an inky black tentacle stroking your face. With a wide smile, you reach out a hand and stroke your fingers along its length, marveling at how nice the texture feels. When the tentacle begins tickling your ear, you squirm out of reach, giggling and gently batting it away. Wiggling in place, almost as if it’s laughing, the tentacle retreats back under the bed.

A moment later, it reappears again with its tip wrapped around an object. This time, you reach out your hand, eager to see what it has for you. When it uncurls itself, a small stone drops into your hand. Grinning at the new gift, you hold it up to the light and marvel at the gorgeous gray surface that’s veined with bright streaks of white. After you’ve finished inspecting the stone, you place it on your nightstand along with the pearl and necklace pendant. Leaning in, you place a soft kiss on the tip of the tentacle and then laugh when it wiggles again.

Remembering what you found up earlier today, you hop off the bed and hurry over to your backpack, calling over your shoulder, “I have something for you too!”

After rummaging around for a minute, you find what you’re looking for and walk back over to your bed where the tentacle is still patiently waiting. Extending your hand, you watch as it carefully picks up the piece of dark green sea glass, its edges worn smooth. Another tentacle appears as it gently rolls the piece of glass between the two tips, caressing the surface, as if inspecting it.

You’re chewing your bottom lip, hoping it likes your gift, when suddenly the tentacles wiggle again as several more shoot up from under the bed and wrap you up in a giant hug. Laughing, you squeeze back, happy that it seems to like your gift. 

As the tentacles slither along your skin, you’re reminded of the night before when it had you pinned to the bed. Your cheeks grow flushed with the memory and you wonder how you can make that happen. As if it can sense where your thoughts are headed, the tentacles begin to deliberately rub along your nipples, which are already hardening under your shirt. Letting out a soft moan, you relax into the monster’s hold, hoping it will get the hint.

It clearly understands what you want because a few tentacles grip your shirt and begin pulling it over your head as others work your shorts down your hips. Once you’re completely naked, the tentacles take a moment to slither along your bare skin, as if enjoying the feel of you just as much as you do. 

Then, one of the tentacles wraps around both your wrists, tugging you forward so you’re on your knees. Another one wraps around your waist, pulling backwards as the first one continues to pull your arms down to the bed. Soon you’re fully bent over with your ass up in the air and your wrists bound and stretched out over your head on the mattress. Next, two more tentacles wrap around each of your thighs, pulling them apart so that your pussy is completely exposed.

A shiver runs through you, not from the cold, but from anticipation for what the monster will do to you. Fortunately, it doesn’t make you wait long. One tentacle reaches up to play with your clit, alternating between flicking the bud and pulling at it with one of its suction cups. You moan at the sensations, trying to wiggle your hips for more but you’re completely bound, unable to move anywhere.

Two tentacles reach up and suction themselves to each of your nipples, pulling down so there’s a delicious tug on your breasts. The weight of the tentacles and your heavy breathing causes them to sway beneath you and you mewl in pleasure. As the other tentacle continues to play with your clit, wetness drips from your soaking pussy. Another one slides up along your leg gathering up your juices and plunges inside you, causing you to gasp at the sudden intrusion.

As the tentacle pushes deeper inside you, stretching your walls as far as they’ll go, the small bite of pain adds a delicious zing of pleasure to the already overwhelming sensations. When it’s completely filled you up, it pauses, letting you adjust for a moment. Once it senses you beginning to relax, it slowly pulls back out, almost to the tip, and then plunges all the way in again. Pulling out and shoving back in, it sets a rapid pace, the wet squelching sounds mixing with the cries of pleasure pouring from your lips.

As the monster continues to fuck you senselessly, you begin to feel an orgasm building. But just as your walls start to clamp down on the tentacle, it abruptly pulls out, simultaneously pausing its ministrations on your clit, and you cry out in despair. After a moment, it resumes teasing and fucking you, only to pause once again when your orgasm is almost at its peak. It does this over and over again, bringing you right to the brink and then pulling back until you’re a whining, needy mess.

Tears of frustration begin to build in your eyes and you think you’ve almost had enough when, instead of pushing back into your pussy, the soaking wet tentacle moves higher, up to your ass. You suck in a breath as it tickles the outer rim, teasing and flicking the puckered skin. You’ve never had anything there and you’re a little afraid it will hurt, but at the same time you trust this monster with your body and want to see what it will do.

Pressing the tip gently in, the tentacle pushes past the first ring of muscles and you groan at the new sensation. Slowly, it works its way further and further in, pausing every few inches to let you adjust to the new girth. When it reaches as far as it seems to be able to go, it pulls back out and then pushes in again. This time, it fucks you more slowly than before and you melt into the mattress, getting lost in the sensation. 

You’ve forgotten your earlier frustrations, too distracted by the tentacle filling your ass, until you feel a different tentacle begin to push its way into your pussy. Gasping, you try to wiggle away – there’s no way it can fit two at the same time, right? But of course, there’s nowhere for you to go and it continues to ease the second tentacle into your cunt while the first one keeps slowly fucking in and out of your ass.

Before long, both tentacles are completely filling you up, stuffing you to the brim, and you’re almost delirious with the overwhelming fullness. They begin to move in tandem, plunging in and out of both your holes as you whimper and cry out with each thrust. It’s almost too much, but at the same time you’ve never felt anything more amazing and you never want it to end. 

This time, when your thighs begin to tremble and your walls start to clamp down with your impending orgasm, the monster doesn’t stop. Instead, it resumes playing with your clit and you immediately explode. Stars burst behind your eyes as your entire body seizes up, white hot pleasure coursing through you. It feels like the orgasm goes on forever as you get lost in a hazy bliss and time ceases to exist.

Eventually, though, awareness begins to return as you start to come down from the high and you sag into the mattress, boneless and spent. Carefully, the monster eases out of you and releases its hold on your body. You’re almost sad at the loss of contact. But then it gently maneuvers you so that your head is resting on the pillow and pulls the blanket over you, tucking you in around the edges. As the tentacles start to retreat back under the bed, you reach out and snag one of them, holding onto it. 

“Will you stay until I fall asleep?” You ask in a drowsy voice.

You feel it hesitate for a moment but then the tentacle winds up your wrist, grasping onto you. Smiling, you settle back into the pillow and begin to drift off. Before you’re fully asleep, you manage to mumble, “Will you come back again tomorrow night?”

There’s a beat of silence, and then, right as your awareness slips away, you hear an inhumanly deep, multilayered voice echo in your mind, “Yes, little creature.”

──────────────────

The monster is immensely pleased with this female it has chosen to mate.

At first, it wasn’t sure if the gifts left on various surfaces of her den were meant for it. But it took them anyways, wanting to indulge in the fantasy. Most creatures run screaming when they see the monster for the first time. Some even attack without warning. 

But not this one. To the monster’s delight, this delectable female was only startled at first. And when it tried to offer her gifts to soothe her fear, she eagerly accepted them! 

She even accepted its attempts to couple and let it touch her. 

Feel her. 

Taste her. 

She is utterly delicious.

And when she presented it with a mating gift of her own tonight, it knew for sure that she had accepted its offer.

As the monster settles into the darkness beneath where she sleeps, grasping her tiny delicate hand, it hopes that it can make her happy enough that she’ll never want to leave. Because even if she does, it will never let her go.

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[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

[ceoofglytchell]

A Dream Come True

Summary: Aegon falls in love with a bastard of his House, the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. Against all odds, he marries you in secret and you become the light of his life.

Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x Targaryen!Bastard!Reader

Word count: 2695 words

Warnings: Incest, Reader is a bastard of Saera Targaryen and a Lannister noble, Reader is described to have silver hair and blue eyes, fluff, brief mention of intimacy, Sunfyre makes an appearance, no mention of Y/N

Notes: This is based on this request. I hope you like it! Likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated. Enjoy 💛

You have never been what one would call "ordinary."

For one thing, you were the bastard daughter of Saera Targaryen and a lord of House Lannister. You inherited your mother's beauty. Pale skin and silver hair that made you look as if the moon itself had kissed your head, but your eyes were different. Instead of the usual amethyst hue, your eyes were as blue as the sky itself.

You were born during a hot day in Lys. Your mother, wild and bold as ever, insisted on completing the birth all by herself, unaided.

The other ladies of the whorehouse where she worked after escaping the Oldtown sisterhood, into which her father had placed her after a terrible argument, were fearful for her well-being. As was her current lover, who had given her this child.

Saera, however, despite everyone else, gave birth to a healthy girl all by herself— you.

Raised in a brothel under your mother, you blossomed into a beautiful young woman who had all sorts of desires but no one to fulfill them.

You had a kind heart. You were always there when one of the other girls cried, but you were also not afraid to tell the men what you thought whenever they got too close to you or one of your friends.

Your mother's daughter you were.

She often told you stories about the mighty House Targaryen, which ruled Westeros through the power of fire and blood. Ever since you were a small child, you had been fascinated by these stories.

You wanted to meet the rest of your family. You wanted to see the dragons your mother always raved about.

However, she refused to return with you to King's Landing. She did not want to look her family in the eye, she had explained. She kept the letters from Queen Alysanne— your grandmother— in a locked drawer, so you could never read them.

You had always been far too much like your mother. If you wanted something, you wanted it desperately, and no one could change your mind.

You wanted to see those dragons.

You wanted to go to Westeros.

And so, one night, you bribed a fishing boat to take you there.

You would never have imagined that you would meet someone on the very first night.

Someone who would change your life forever.

You met him one rainy evening in a tavern. You had just arrived and needed a place to warm up. An old woman had been kind enough to show you the way to the tavern. However, she had asked for four gold coins in return.

You did not have that much with you.

You pretended to drop one, and when the woman bent down to help you find it, you ran off like a thief.

In the tavern, you were stared at from several sides. Women who were astonished by your appearance and wardrobe— lysenian clothing was always easily recognizable by its slightly more revealing and thinner fabric— and men who licked their lips, probably wondering how much you cost.

They all seemed to be thinking the same thing: a bastard girl of House Targaryen who had become a whore to survive on the streets.

But the unusual thing was that you were not a whore. You had not even lost your maidenhead, even though you were born and raised in a whorehouse.

You sat in a corner, holding your hands over a candle, hoping it would warm you. After all, you were only used to the hot, always sunny weather from across the Narrow Sea.

And then, suddenly, he walked in.

He wore the clothes of a commoner, but that was not who he was. His silver hair fell wildly over his forehead, and his violet eyes met yours before one of the waitresses could ask him what he would like to drink.

He sat down next to you and stared at you for a moment, as if you were a being from another world. A deity made flesh. The fulfillment of his wildest dreams and desires.

"I am Aegon," he finally said.

You gave him your name, and he smiled.

That same night, he introduced you to a woman named the White Worm, gave her a bag full of gold, and asked her to take good care of you, which she did.

You were given your own quarters, food, drink, and new clothing more in keeping with the style of the ladies of King's Landing.

Rumors about you and who you were spread like wildfire, even reaching the Red Keep.

Aegon visited you almost every night.

He told you about his life as a Targaryen prince. and you of yours as the daughter of the lost Saera Targaryen herself.

Your bond deepened with every word, every touch, and soon after, with every kiss you shared.

At that point, he had only known you for a few weeks, but even so, Aegon, the second of his name, had never been so sure of anything. You were the love of his life. A gift from the gods in return for all the suffering he had endured.

The constant absence of his father, the biting words of his mother, the endless and simply crushing expectations, the beatings of his grandfather, and the shame of being the king's firstborn son, but never his heir.

You were his light in the darkness.

And he was your entire world.

Just three months after your arrival in King's Landing, Aegon brought you under cover of darkness to the Great Sept of Baelor, where a high septon of the Faith of the Seven was already waiting for you at the prince's behest.

"She is mine and I am hers." "He is mine and I am his."

Defying every rule and all reason, you were married that night, and you went from being a Targaryen bastard to a true princess.

You consummated the marriage on the beach. The rising sun cast a golden glow on your husband as he lay over you, moving his hips slowly and passionately against yours.

He treated you like a queen.

And when the moment finally came, and you stood with him before his mother, the queen, and his grandfather, the hand of the king, you defended him like a lion. Or a dragon— you were both, after all.

Holding his hand, you revealed to them who you were and what you felt for him. Love, true and unwavering love that could never be broken.

They called you a whore, a seductress, and a witch.

But the sacred bond of marriage had been entered into already, and Queen Alicent, a staunch advocate of the faith, could ultimately do nothing but acknowledge you as her daughter-in-law.

It was a scandal that reached even the shores of Lys even a few weeks later.

Your mother laughed when she heard that within a few months you had married a prince and now bore the title of princess.

She did not write to you, but she was still proud of you.

And deep down, you knew it too.

"Darling? Darling! I have a gift for you!" Aegon cried with joy as he rushed into your shared chambers.

Three years had passed since your secret wedding in the Sept, and your love had only grown stronger since then.

You were sitting on the sofa by the fireplace, reading a book about Old Valyria and dragons. Your silver hair had grown longer and now fell in soft waves to your hips. Your body was wrapped in a blue dress made of Lys's soft silk, the color of your eyes.

It had also been a gift from your husband.

"What is it?" you asked him with an excited smile as he sat down next to you.

But instead of answering, he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips. You sighed into the kiss and let your soft hands wander into his hair, which drew a sound of satisfaction from him.

"I love you," he murmured against your lips, unable to let go of you.

You leaned back and giggled at the pout on his beautiful face, as he could have continued kissing you forever.

"I love you too, my treasure," you replied, lovingly brushing one of his ever-wild strands of hair from his forehead. "You mentioned a gift?"

He nodded. His eyes shone with childlike anticipation, and he handed you a small, unassuming wooden box.

Carefully, as if it were the most precious thing in the entire world, you took it in your hands and opened the lid. Your eyes widened and your mouth dropped open a crack when you saw what your husband had given you that afternoon.

It was a silver necklace with gemstones as blue as the sky outside. As blue as your eyes and your dress, too.

"Oh, Aegon…" you whispered in admiration, gently running your fingertips over one of the gemstones.

"Only the best for my wife," he replied, sitting up a little straighter. He was obviously proud of this special gift, and he had every right to be. It was breathtakingly beautiful.

"It is beautiful," you breathed, looking up at him again, your gaze filled with love and wonder. "Where did you get them?"

"Oh, you know, there is this merchant..."

And so Aegon recounted the story of how he had come by this piece of jewelry, taking many detours, all afternoon long. At one point, you laid your head in his lap, and he let his fingers wander through your hair almost reverently.

As you proudly wore this necklace at dinner, you could feel the queen's piercing gaze on you every single second. She hated you more than anything, for completely ruining her and her father's plans in a single night.

You did not regret it one bit, and neither did Aegon.

That evening, as you lay in bed together, your head nestled against his chest and his arm around your waist, you thought back to a dream you once had. A wish that had so far remained unfulfilled.

The longing to see a dragon with your own eyes.

"Aegon?" you whispered softly, not knowing if he was still awake or had long since drifted off to dreamland.

"Mm? Yes?" he replied sleepily. You woke him just as he was drifting off to sleep, but he was not mad at you. He could never be mad at you.

"You have already done so much for me, and I know I do not really deserve most of it, but-"

"What are you talking about?" he interrupted suddenly, looking down at you in confusion.

You looked up at him and blinked. A few seconds of silence surrounded you before you finally sighed and nodded gently. You have had this conversation many times before. You still could not help but consider yourself less than worthy. A bastard instead of a princess.

"I love you. More than anything. I would give you the world if I could, do you understand?" he asked you softly, letting his hand stroke your soft, slightly rosy cheek.

"I know, my love."

His thumb slowly stroked your lower lip, and he could not help but think about how beautiful you are. An angel sent by the gods to pull him out of the dark hole he had been trapped in all those years before meeting you.

"You deserve everything and so much more. Tell me every wish, and I will grant it," he whispered, pressing a reassuring kiss to your forehead.

That made you sit up and look at him with big eyes.

"Every wish?" you asked cautiously.

"Every wish," he answered with a nod.

"No matter how absurd it may be?"

"The more absurd, the better," your husband laughed into the silent night, pulling you even closer to his side, pressing you tightly against him. Just the way you loved it.

"I want to see a dragon," you whispered softly, holding your breath.

"A dragon?" he asked you, blinking for a few seconds. "That is all?"

You nodded, a wide grin spreading across his face.

"Then we will go to the dragon pit tomorrow, and I will show you one."

The sun was just rising over the hills, bathing the streets of King's Landing in golden light, when your husband led you by the hand into the dragon pit.

You wore another blue dress, one he had given you, and his necklace fit perfectly around your neck. As he often did, he wore a dark green doublet with a gold chain draped over his shoulders, which was almost symbolic of everything he was going through.

"You do not have to be afraid, my light. Sunfyre is a good dragon, and he is beautiful too," he explained to you as he led you deeper into the darkness.

You took a deep breath to calm your nerves. The time had come. Your dream would finally come true. You would see your first dragon, and it was your husband's, too.

Suddenly, a soft roar sounded from the depths. It did not sound threatening or dangerous, but almost curious.

"There you are, my boy," Aegon whispered with a grin on his lips.

And then you saw him. Sunfyre.

His scales looked like molten gold and shimmered in the light, and his wings were the same color as the sky when it turns pink in the mornings.

He was breathtaking.

His iridescent green eyes focused on you, and he came closer and closer. Uncertain, you wanted to stumble back, but Aegon placed a steadying hand on your lower back to prevent you from escaping.

"Do not be afraid, stay calm. He is just curious," he whispered in your ear before reaching out a hand toward the winged beast and lovingly stroking the side of its snout, causing the dragon to let out a noise that sounded almost like a purr.

You blinked in surprise and took a hesitant step toward the dragon. He met you in the middle and touched your upper body with his snout, which brought a smile to your lips.

You could not believe that flames could shoot out of its mouth that could kill you and so many others, bathing you in heat. The beast seemed almost harmless.

"He is beautiful," you finally said, and as if the dragon understood your words, it pressed its snout against you again, causing you to stumble back a few steps.

Aegon just smiled and looked at the two of you as if you were the most important thing in the world to him, which you were. He loved you both so incredibly much.

"He is," he replied, gently scratching his chin.

Sunfyre sang a tune, and you could not help but beam as you stroked him. You could hardly believe it. Not only were you standing in front of a dragon, but you were also stroking it.

Your husband looked at you, and he could feel his heart leap in his chest. You were so beautiful, he could hardly believe it. He used to not believe in the gods or miracles, but ever since you came into his life, he knew there had to be such a thing as miracles.

You were a miracle.

"Come here," he murmured, taking your hand and leading you to one of the walls of the dragon pit.

He sat down, pulled you onto his lap, and pressed a loving kiss to your forehead, making you giggle. Sunfyre followed you like an overgrown dog and lay down in front of you, his large head in front of Aegon's legs.

"He is like a dog," you whispered in his ear. "A sweet dog."

"Our dog," Aegon nodded, burying his face in your hair as he wrapped his arms around your waist to hold you as close to him as possible.

If there was one thing you knew about him, it was that he loved to cuddle.

"Can we visit Sunfyre more often from now on?" you asked him gently, watching the dragon lying quietly and peacefully not far from you.

"Whenever you want, my darling," he replied, and you smiled.

He would give anything to see you smile.

Forever and ever.

The Divider is from the wonderful @zaldritzosrose !

Taglist: @bey0nd-1he-stars @sassypain @hisfavegirl @dahaenatargaryen

(The second part of “To be the Thorn to a Rose” comes next week!)

[thesongoficeandfir3]

The coronation

Jacaerys Velaryon x Fem!Wife!reader

AU where the blacks won

Warnings: none, just Jace and his wife reader being cute before his coronation

You make your way down the long corridor of the Red Keep’s ancient castle halls, your steps echoes loudly off the stone walls and floor. You soon approach heavy oak door where two knights stand and upon seeing you they immediately pull the large doors open. When you walk in you are met with a scene that takes your breath away. There in the center of the room your husband Jacaerys stands, dressed in a long, heavy, and expensive red and black regalia, fit for a king.

When you entered the room you were met with the back of him standing still. He was surrounded by several maidservants who are busy adjusting and fastening every piece of his attire, ensuring they fit perfectly for this very crucial day. There are large glass windows in the room and the bright morning light cast a glow on Jacaerys who stands in the center as if the gods themselves are casting their blessings on him for this important day.

His red and black robes are a vision of opulence and power. The material is thick and heavy, a velvety red silk that drapes him gracefully. Sewn into the sleeves, are subtle but intricate designs of sea horses and dragons, to represent both of his houses, each carefully crafted out of shimmering black thread. The back of the robe is longer than the front, pooling on the ground behind him in a dramatic train.

Your own gown had matched Jace’s, something Jace was very insistent on when it came to the designs of them. You are not sure when it started, but sometime during the first year of your marriage you found a lot of your and Jace’s outfits subtly match whether it was a big occasion or not. Your gown though less elaborate than your husband's, it still a vision of beauty fitted perfectly for a queen.

As you silently stand behind him, he meets your eyes in the reflection of the mirror he’s standing in front. A small smile dances across his lips and his dark eyes glitter with affection. It's the same look he gives you every morning when he kisses you awake.

Jacaerys holds up a hand, the gesture causing the maidservants to stop their movements in an instant. "That's enough," he says, his deep voice firm and commanding. "You may leave us."

They curtsey quickly and walk away, shutting the door behind them. Once they are gone, keeping your back straight as much as you could and your head bowing low you curtsey.

“My king.” you say with a teasing grin.

“Stop that.” he playfully rolls his eyes walking over to you. He places a hand on your chin with a tender touch, lifting your head and gesturing for you to stand.

“You look ethereal.” you whisper out, looking into his dark brown eyes with nothing but love and admiration.

“As do you my issa prūmia.” he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Are you nervous?” you ask.

He moves his hands down from your face to holding your hands squeezing them slightly.

“Just a little.” he answers, his shoulder dropping not realizing he was tense the entire time.

You notice this and move one of your hands to caress his cheek to help calm him.

“You should not be, your grandsire and mother were wonderful rulers and they passed everything they know on to you, so I have no doubt you will be just as good.”

He nods leaning into your touch, the warmth of your words and touch calming him a little, but still a small part of him is nervous.

“So does this mean from now on I have to bow when I enter every room you are in.” you tease hoping to lighten the mood.

“Hmm,” he pauses for a moment pretending to think. He then leans in slightly. “Yes, I think you will have to bow before me….Every…..Single……..Time. He says each word deliberately slow meeting your teasing banter

“Oh?“ you quirk and eyebrow feigning surprise. “Does that mean I must always call you my king as well?” you lean in closer causing your lips to be mere inches apart.

“Of course my darling,” he says reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear being very careful not to mess with the elaborate hair do, his fingers then trail along your jawline “I am your king, after all.” He smirks down at you.

“And I am your queen” your eyes had yet to leave his during your entire conversation.

“And a beautiful queen you are.” he presses his lips to yours lingering for a few moments before pulling away.

“And your child and rightful heir.“ you take his hand pressing it to your growing pregnant belly.

Jaceaeyrs feels a rush of emotion at the feeling of your belly under his palm, his eyes drifting down to where your hands meet before looking back up at you, His expression softens further. “Our child” he corrects a protective hand still resting on your stomach.

Your heart swells, though such a small gesture you can’t help but feel emotional that he said ‘our’ instead of his.

He suddenly kneels before you his fingers splaying on the swell of your stomach gently kissing it before resting his forehead on it.

“Our future king or queen.” He whispers out.

Your breath hitches at his unexpected action.

“J-Jace,” you stutter out. “This is unbecoming you are to be king” you say feeling extremely flustered.

He chuckles the sound deep and rich.

“Out there I am, but in here with you I am just a man who loves his wife and unborn child dearly” he plants one more kiss on your bump before standing. He places his hands on your hips bringing you close once more.

You reach out and grab the livery collar, each piece being one of the kingdom’s house sigil. You carefully place it over his shoulder before fastening the last button of the robe and smoothing a hand over his chest.

“Now then, let us get you to your coronation.” You smile

“As you command my queen.”

[fastandcarlos]

Everyone's Favourite LeClerc : ̗̀➛ Charles LeClerc

summary: he was used to being the leclerc on everybody's lips, but when you take your daughter to visit the paddock it turns out charles might not be the favourite that he thought he was

You could hear the familiar chuckles coming from the Ferrari garage from halfway down the paddock, keeping your daughter in your hold as you swerved around the chaos. There were people everywhere that you tried to avoid, eventually reaching the garage and opening up the door, greeted, as always, by a sea of dark red staring back at you.

From across the room, Carlos was the first to spot you, waving over the crowds. He moved around a few people before reaching you and your daughter, kneeling down as you placed your daughter on her feet.

“Aurelie!” He yelled, capturing her attention as she stumbled towards him, barely able to keep her balance.

“She’s been asking for you all morning,” you chuckled, moving across to Carlos to greet him too.

“Oh I see, second best am I?” A voice called out as he closed in on the three of you. Charles didn’t miss a trick, as soon as he knew that you were in the room his protective eyes were trying to find you. He pressed a kiss against your cheek as Aurelie continued to cuddle Carlos, completing ignoring her father. “Am I invisible or something, you can see me, right?” Charles pouted, looking to you for a little bit of support. Your hand pressed against his cheek, offering a sympathetic smile.

“She only saw you, it’s been weeks since she got to see Carlos,” you reminded him, knowing that Charles was only messing with the strop that he threw beside you.

“I can’t believe my own daughter doesn’t even want to know me,” he huffed.

“Sucks to be you,” Carlos teased as Aurelie ran her hands through Carlos’ fluffy locks.

Charles watched the two of them for a few more moments before he reached out his hands. “That’s it, you’re mine,” he teased, taking Aurelie from Carlos’ hold and showering her with kisses all over her face. Aurelie squealed and squirmed in his hold, trying her best to push against his chest and get away. Charles was nowhere near letting her go though, reminding her exactly who her father was and who loved her the most.

“Poor girl,” Carlos chuckled as he watched the two of them.

“You’re my baby,” Charles whispered as he finally let Aurelie relax in his hold.

“So jealous,” you hummed under your breath, just loud enough for Charles to hear as he shot a glare across in your direction.

“Fancy having a look around? Seeing the car for this weekend?” Carlos offered as he slung his arm across your shoulders. “We’re on for a good race this week.”

You nodded in reply, “Aurelie has been desperate to see daddy’s car,” you noted, watching as Charles’ eyes lit up as you spoke.

“Shall we go and see daddy’s car?” He asked, proudly grinning as the girl in his arms bounced up and down excitedly, keen to have a good look around.

“And Uncle Carlos’ car too?” Carlos added, feeling Charles stare across at him, unable to stop himself from getting a little jab in and winding Charles up once again.

You hung back slightly as Charles and Carlos began to walk Aurelie around the garage, one of her small hands in each of their own. She was still too young to fully understand what was going on, but seeing how busy things were always made her eyes light up. Seeing people cheer for her dad and want to talk to her too was the perfect weekend for her.

Aurelie listened closely as Charles talked her through his car, making sure to keep it as simple as he could. Once the garage tour was completed you decided to head out around the rest of the paddock and see what you could find. Soon enough you had several of the drivers around you, all keen to greet Aurelie and see who could entertain her the best.

You had never seen Charles so proud, he loved introducing his little girl to his world and letting her see all the cool things he got up to. Above all else, he loved that some of his closest friends were there with him at the garage and that he got to see them bond with Aurelie which was all that he had ever wanted. His daydream was broken by you appearing next to him, nudging gently against his side. Charles’ smile turned up as soon as he realised that it was you there, taking a hold of your hand and pulling you closely in against his side.

As much as Charles wanted to have all his attention on you, he couldn’t ignore the giggles that constantly came from next to him as Lando and George tried their best to keep Aurelie happy.

It was nice for the two of you to have a couple of moments all to yourselves.

“I love having you both here and being able to have you in my little world,” Charles whispered, pressing a gentle kiss against the side of your head. “It always gives me extra motivation to do well whenever I know that the two of you are cheering me on as well,” he added.

“I wouldn’t miss this race for the world,” you whispered, “I know how important Monaco is for you and how much you want to do well today.”

“Thank you for being here,” Charles then told you, taking you by surprise with how sincere his voice was. “I don’t say it enough, but I appreciate the efforts you go to to support, and make sure that Aurelie can come and support me too.”

Your eyes narrowed on Charles, convinced there was a hint of a tear in his eye.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he joked, knowing exactly what you were thinking without even having to look at you. “I’m not going to start crying with all of these losers around to see it and tease the hell out of me for it.”

“It’s okay to admit that it means a lot,” you assured him, brushing underneath his eye with the pad of your thumb. “Truthfully, it means a lot for me to be able to be here and see you achieve your dreams too.”

As much as F1 was a dream for Charles, the biggest dream he’d achieved was the giggling figure currently pulling at Lando’s feeble attempt of a beard on his face.

You both could only laugh as Lando squealed in pain, pushing against George as he encouraged Aurelie to keep going and cause Lando as much pain as possible.

“I worry about the influence of all your friends sometimes,” you jokingly admitted to Charles, shaking your head at the scene that was unfolding.

“How are you two just stood there letting this happen?” Lando gasped at you both.

You both shrugged, much to Lando’s dissatisfaction. She was as cheeky as her dad, and loved to try and push the boundaries as much as she possibly could.

“I blame you for this,” you laughed, tapping against Charles’ stomach. “She copies your habits way more than she copies mine,” you added, raising your eyebrows across at him.

“I’m an angel,” Charles protested.

“You?” You gasped in disbelief, “you must be having a laugh right now.”

“You adore me enough to have a child with me,” he noted.

“True,” you scoffed, finding yourself caught out and unable to figure out what to say next. Charles looked at you expectantly, knowing that he’d got you and once again left you pretty speechless because of him.

When you remained silent, he leant forwards and pressed a soft kiss to your lips, “I love our little family, even if it is chaos sometimes.”

“Me too, I would never have it any other way.”

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

[lemoncrushh]

bad idea

short lil summary: harry styles is back from uni and he looks better than you remember. problem is, he's your ex's brother.

warnings: smut, fingering, oral sex, dirty talk, multiple orgasms 18+ ONLY!

word count: 7k+

a/n: it's almost 4:30 am and i just finished this lol. no need to wait, right? hope you enjoy!

Twelve years. Twelve years you’d been in love with David Styles. Ever since that day in the middle of your sophomore year of high school when he’d shown up as a new student in your Geometry class. Immediately, you’d recognized how cute he was - much cuter than any boys you’d known. And when he’d sat down across from you, and Mrs. Jacobs had asked him a question, to which he’d replied in a British accent, you were a goner.

But your love then had only been the unrequited kind. He was nice enough. He was never mean to you or talked down to you. In fact, you could even say you were friends, albeit the “at-school” kind, not the kind who hung out outside of school.

And you had been fine with that, for the rest of high school. He’d had girlfriends, most of them much prettier than you considered yourself to be. David was outgoing, popular. So you’d just resolved to being happy with whatever it was you were.

That is, until last year when fate took a twist, and you’d somehow become more than friends. You’d run into David at a mutual friend’s party and hit it off. You could say it was as if you’d picked up where you’d left off in high school, but that would be a lie. You hadn’t seen David since graduation, and you’d doubted you had even been on his mind. But he’d been on yours. You hadn’t stopped thinking about him.

The breakup had not been pleasant. That is to say, it hadn’t been mutual. After dating for several months, David decided it was time to see other people. You took that to mean he was already doing so, and was finally ready to let you go. You’d cried for days, unable to sleep or eat. The love of your life had broken your heart and crashed your dreams.

You think it was Marcie, or maybe your friend Deliah who finally got you out of bed and out into the world again. Though you hadn’t dated anyone since David, you had begun to feel much better about yourself, and realized there were other fishes in the sea.

Going to this party at Trevor’s loft hadn’t been your idea. But Marcie was seeing some guy named Ian who happened to know Trevor, and she insisted you come along. While you didn’t really know Trevor well yourself, he had been part of David’s circle of friends in high school. He apparently now owned a loft in the city that housed a bar. After some persistence, you finally agreed to go, hoping to God David wouldn’t show up.

The drinks were flowing, the chatter filling the room as you stood beside Marcie and Ian in a conversation about who knows what. For the last half hour, your eyes had been scouring the loft for your ex. Not because you wanted to see him, but because you didn’t. And if you got so much as a glimpse of him, you had already planned out your exit.

Trevor had greeted you at the door, welcoming most everyone who entered before making the rounds and making sure all hands were holding beverages. Deliah had come as well, with her long-time boyfriend Shane and they were currently at the bar for their second round.

“Ready for another?” Ian asked Marcie, noticing her glass was nearly empty.

“Sure,” she beamed at him.

“What about you, Y/N?”

“Oh, um, no…not just yet,” you replied. “I think I’ll make a stop at the ladies’ and then maybe walk around a bit.”

With a nod, Ian took your empty glass and you made your way to the restroom. Once you’d freshened up, you decided to make the rounds and check out the rest of the loft. You liked the ambiance - the exposed brick with industrial lighting and chrome countertops. Loud rock music permeated through the sound system, thumping through your veins. As you turned left, you noticed another extension with tables along the walls. Several people sat with their drinks in hand, chatting. Your eyes scanned the perimeter, taking in the various framed vintage posters, and you were just about to turn around when a set of male eyes caught your attention. They were staring right at you, a hand grasping a glass of beer. When you gave a gentle smile, he smiled back, full lips curling up to expose a set of dimples.

He was cute. Really cute. But probably too young for you. While his handsome features adorned a bit of facial hair, he still had a baby face. He wore a plaid button-down, and a cap set backwards on his head. He was probably some frat boy, you mused, barely twenty-one.

You saw him bite his lip as his gaze roamed down your body. To escape the feeling it gave you - chills, the good kind, right down to your core - you thought turning around and heading back the way you came would be the best idea. But fate wasn’t having it as you bumped into someone, nearly spilling the drink in his hand.

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry!” you exclaimed over the Bon Jovi song that currently played through the speakers.

“It’s okay,” the guy chuckled. “I was trying to go around you but you turned. No harm done.”

You smiled with a sigh, grateful that he wasn’t an asshole. As you made your way back to the main part of the bar, you considered taking a sneak peek at the frat boy, but decided against it.

“Hey!” Deliah called out to you when you strode up to the bar. Wedging herself between you and another woman, she leaned into your ear. “Did you see him?”

“See who?” your eyes popped. “David’s not here, is he?”

“No. His brother Harry is though.”

Blinking several times, realization came to you. You’d forgotten David even had a brother. Harry had been younger than the two of you, a freshman when you were seniors. By the time you and David had become an item, his little brother had gone back to the UK.

“He just got back from college,” Deliah added. “Or uni as they call it over there.”

“He’s back from England?”

“Yeah. Apparently he’s super smart, got some kind of masters or something. He’s already gotten job offers both here and there.”

“How do you know all this?” you chuckled.

Deliah shrugged with a wink. “I’ve heard things.” Then she leaned forward again. “No, actually I saw him come in, and I thought he looked kind of familiar. I asked Trevor who he was.”

“Oh,” you nodded. Though Deliah had gone to your high school as well, she was two years younger than you, and you hadn’t really known each other then. You’d finally become friends after school. But it made sense why she would have recognized Harry since they were closer in age. You doubted you would recognize him. In fact, you hardly remembered what he’d looked like.

“Anyway, he looks really good now,” Deliah continued, smiling sheepishly, somewhat answering your inward question.

“Really?” you quirked a brow. “Where is he?”

“I saw him go that way, soon after he got here,” your friend gestured to the other area you’d just returned from. “But I haven’t seen him since.”

Just then, Deliah’s boyfriend came up behind her and poked her in her sides, making her squeal.

“Shane, you dork!” she exclaimed, playfully slapping him.

“Hey, I thought you said you wanted to do shots,” Shane smirked.

“Oh, I do! Y/N, go get Marcie and Ian so we can do them together!”

Turning your gaze around the bar area, you didn’t see your friends, so you decided to make your way to the other side. The cute frat boy was still sitting in the same spot, although he seemed to be interested in something on his phone. You found Marcie and Ian in the far corner, and you waved them over.

“We’re about to do shots,” you announced.

“Oh God, I don’t know if I wanna get shitfaced tonight,” argued Marcie.

“I’ll do one,” said Ian.

Marcie rolled her eyes, then grabbed your arm. “Okay, fine, let’s do one as a group. But I can’t promise anything else.”

You smiled at her, looping her arm through hers. Before you turned, you caught the frat boy staring at you again.

“Alright, we’re all here,” you cheered when you met back up with Deliah and Shane who immediately handed you a shot glass filled with golden liquid.

“Ugh, we’re doing Cuervo, seriously?” whined Marcie.

“Would you rather the harder stuff?” you quipped. “I thought you were a lightweight.”

Giving you a face, Marcie accepted her shot glass and on the count of three, you all swallowed your tequila. You were the only one who didn’t grab a lime wedge, however, because just as you lowered your glass, your eyes were glued to the tall man who’d just walked in.

“Motherfucker!”

Deliah glared at you in question as Marcie muttered, “Oh shit!”

“What’s wrong?” asked Ian.

“Her ex.”

You immediately thought the tequila would make its way back up as you sat there squeezing your glass. Marcie was kind enough to take it from your hand before you broke it.

“Did you know?” you swung to face Deliah.

“Me? No! Why would I?”

“Because you said his brother’s here,” you gritted your teeth. “And Trevor obviously knows both of them.”

“I swear, I didn’t,” Deliah shook her head. “I know it sounds stupid, but I didn’t even think to ask.”

You groaned as you watched David stop to chat with people, a blond on his arm. Damn, he still looked good, too.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N!” Deliah cried.

“It’s not your fault,” you sighed. “I just…I gotta get outta here.”

“Do you want us to drive you home?” asked Marcie. She and Ian had been your ride.

“No,” you argued. “You shouldn’t have to leave for me.”

Marcie sat up straight. “You know what I think? I think you should stay, show him his presence doesn’t bother you. You shouldn’t have to leave either just because his ass showed up!”

“Yeah!” Deliah agreed.

Chewing the inside of your cheek, you nodded. “Yeah. You’re right. I do need some air though.”

Rising from your stool, you felt Marcie squeeze your hand before you made your way through the crowd. That one shot was already getting to you, making you light-headed, your temples pounding and your skin hot. Or maybe that had simply been David’s doing.

Slipping past the line at the bathroom, you found the glass doors that led to a deck, pushing them open, the warm air hitting your face as the music was immediately muffled. The area was small, only a couple of tables and outdoor sofas which were occupied, but that was just as well. Running to the railing, you gasped, prepared to hurl the contents of your stomach. Instead, you took several deep breaths, trying to calm your nerves.

Fuck him for coming here! You cursed to yourself. My first night out and he has to show up!

You heard his voice before you saw him. “Hi.”

Turning around, you were met with the cute guy with the backwards snapback. Flustered, you fiddled with the long necklace around your neck. “Oh. Hi.”

For the first time, you noticed he had tattoos peeking from underneath his shirt on his chest, as well as some on his arm where the sleeves were rolled up. He seemed to stare at you again, even longer than he had from his table inside, almost as though he was trying to speak to you telepathically. Finally, he opened his mouth.

“Do I know you? You look really familiar to me.”

“No, I don’t believe so,” you said. “I’m Y/N.”

His lips spread into a charismatic grin, his dimples appearing again. Then he held out his hand. “I’m Harry.”

You felt your stomach plummet to your feet. Of fucking course. Harry Styles. David’s brother. You should have known.

God damn it.

Standing before him now, you could see the resemblance - the sharp jawline, the straight nose, the way his eyebrows perfectly framed his eyes. Only David had blue eyes, and Harry’s appeared to be green. And David didn’t have those dimples, nor any tattoos.

Obviously Harry didn’t know who you were. Deciding not to let your shock or disdain be known, you shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Harry.”

“You as well. I um…saw you earlier…inside. You seemed to be…looking for someone.” As Harry said the words, he stepped to your right, leaning his elbow nonchalantly against the railing, his gaze never leaving your face.

“No, I wasn’t,” you conveyed.

“That’s too bad. I was kinda hoping it was me.”

Feeling the color rise to your cheeks, you quickly looked away and chuckled. So he was a flirt. Alright.

“I see,” you smirked. “Sorry to disappoint you, Harry. I was just checking out the rest of the bar.”

“Hmm,” he nodded. “Find anything you like?”

You rolled your eyes at his second attempt at a flirty joke. “Is this your usual method?”

“Method?” He raised a brow.

“For pursuing women. You seem pretty sure of yourself.”

Harry shrugged, “I thought confidence was key.”

Letting out a louder chuckle, you shook your head. “Stop.”

“Only if you let me buy you a drink first,” he grinned.

You stared at him with pursed lips. He was still really cute, you had to admit. And so what if he was your ex’s brother. He had no idea who you were. And you were already enjoying the attention. With a sigh, you licked your lips and shrugged. “I suppose I can allow that.”

You caught the twinkle in Harry’s eyes under the light glow of the outdoor string lights as his dimples deepened in his cheeks.

“Uh, you want it out here, or…”

“No, let’s go back inside,” you suggested.

Harry held the door open for you as you made your way back inside. The chill of the air conditioning brought goosebumps to your skin, but it felt nice, especially on your face which you were certain was still flushed. When you stopped and turned slightly to address Harry, he bumped into you.

“Oop, sorry,” he said in your ear, his hand resting on your hip. You noticed immediately how warm it felt, a spark igniting from within.

“‘S okay,” you smiled. “I was just gonna ask if you’d like to sit at the bar, or did you prefer a table?”

“I have no preference, love,” he replied. “You lead the way.”

After Harry’s hand slid up from your hip to your lower back, you headed for the bar, a bit relieved to find your friends gone. You found a lone empty stool near the corner which Harry insisted you take.

“What’ll you have?” you heard him ask, his breath in your ear.

“Tequila shot,” you answered.

“Really?” Harry raised a brow.

“Yeah, anything wrong with that?”

“No,” he smirked. “Just surprised is all.”

“Hm, well I feel like letting loose. Actually, better make it two.” Flipping your hair off your shoulders, you gazed around the bar. No sign of David yet. You hoped he was nowhere near.

Harry placed the drink order, surprising you this time by ordering two shots for himself as well. As soon as the bartender laid out the row of glasses, the couple who was next to you got up, freeing one of the stools for Harry. Sitting down, he smiled at you, taking one of the shot glasses and raising it. You grabbed one for yourself, not forgetting a lime wedge this time, and mirrored his grin.

“Cheers,” you said as you clinked your glass against his before downing the warm liquid.

Harry did the same, swallowing both shots in record time. Crossing your legs, you swiveled on your stool before licking your lips seductively. With a smirk, Harry eyed you.

“You gonna take that second one, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you playfully rolled your eyes. “Give me a minute. Clearly I don’t move as fast as you.”

“Seems to me you do,” he remarked as he watched you lick the salt off the rim of the glass.

You chuckled at his words. He had you pegged already. You had to admit it was a turn-on. Grabbing a second lime wedge, you took your second tequila shot and sucked on the green fruit, your eyes on Harry’s.

You liked how he watched you. He was more than just a flirt. His eyes told you what he wanted. It had merely been a few minutes and you already knew his intentions. And you were completely okay with it.

“How was it?” he asked, his gaze now on your mouth as you pulled out the lime wedge and licked your lips.

“Delicious,” you replied, dropping the fruit on a napkin. “Good things are worth taking time with.”

“Is that right?” he grinned.

“Mmm,” you nodded.

“You want another?”

“Oh Lord, no. At least not right now. A beer maybe? Whatever it was you were drinking earlier.”

Harry’s smile grew as he nodded. “You got it.”

As he placed another order with the bartender, you took a moment to examine just how attractive he was. While he resembled his brother, he really had his own way about him, a sense of beauty that David had lacked. You couldn’t believe you were even telling yourself that, but you couldn’t deny it. The man was really handsome. You found yourself wanting to reach out and touch the tan skin on his neck and jaw.

“So, Y/N,” he said, his attention turned back to you, “tell me about yourself.”

“Me?” you blinked. “Believe me, there is nothing you wanna know about me.”

“Oh, I beg to differ,” he grinned. “Let’s start with why are you here tonight…alone?”

“I’m not alone. I came with some friends.”

“Who are attached,” he added. “I saw them.”

“Oh.” So he had definitely been watching you, checking you out. Noticing you were alone.

“You’re way too gorgeous to be by yourself, Y/N.”

You felt a weakness in your knees even though you weren’t standing. “I could say the same about you,” you muttered, surprising yourself.

Harry’s dimples appeared again as the bartender set down your glasses of beer.

“Saved by the bell,” he commented, grabbing his drink.

You reached for yours as well, but before you could take a sip, your gaze flew up to a couple making their way to the bar. Shit.

“Um, let’s take these to a table,” you hastily said as David and his girlfriend got closer.

“Oh. You sure?”

“Yeah. Bar’s getting crowded, and I’m sure people are waiting to get up here. Plus, we can talk more at a table.”

Harry smiled at you. “Okay.”

Taking his glass, he quickly helped you off your stool and followed you to the other area where you had originally seen him. Sliding into a circular booth, you sighed, happy you had avoided running into your ex.

“This better?” Harry asked when he’d slid in next to you, very closely.

“Mmm, much,” you grinned.

“Not trying to avoid your friends are you?”

“What? No. Why would you think that?”

“I saw one of them walking up to the bar, then stop and turn around.”

“Oh! Really? I didn’t see them.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry shrugged. “I’m still interested in hearing more about you.”

“I told you, there’s nothing to tell.”

“Well…no boyfriend obviously,” he said.

“No.”

“What about work or school?”

“I work…” you teased. “A very boring job. And…I finished school long ago.”

“I see,” he smirked, his eyes never leaving your face. “How long ago?”

“Doesn’t matter,” you said, repeating his words.

“No,” he chuckled. “It doesn’t. I just finished though.”

“Oh?” you shifted in your seat, glad he brought it up himself.

“Yeah. Just got back. I was studying in London.”

“Oooh! Is that where you’re from?” you pretended to be intrigued.

“Manchester, actually, or at least originally. My family moved here when I was a kid.”

“I see! That’s interesting!” Even though you technically knew all of this already, it sounded different coming from him. You watched him guzzle a little of his beer before asking the next question of which you were actually interested.

“So what were you studying?”

“Engineering. Got my masters.”

With wide eyes you sat up. “Damn, that’s impressive, Harry!”

“Thanks,” he snorted.

“What do you plan to do with that?”

“Dunno yet. I have a few prospects…both here and in London. I’m just not sure which road is best for me yet.”

“I see,” you nodded. Then with a grin, you playfully slapped his arm. “And here I thought you were just some frat boy.”

Harry chuckled. “Sorry, did I disappoint you?”

“Fuck, no!” you shook your head, sliding closer to him. “Not at all.”

Suddenly thirsty, you drank almost half of your beer in just a few gulps. Feeling Harry’s eyes on you, you looked up at him and licked your lips. He stared at you for a moment, and just before you were about to say something, he lifted his hand to slide a finger down your cheek. Goosebumps erupted on your flesh and you parted your lips to let out a gasp.

“You’re really pretty,” he said. Or at least you think he did. It was hard to tell over the loud music, and his tone was so soft.

“Thanks,” you mouthed.

Sitting up a little, Harry leaned forward and reached for your necklace. “This is pretty too.”

“Oh, thanks,” you half-giggled, looking down at the amulet. “It doesn’t really mean anything, I just like the color of the stone-”

Before you could finish the sentence, Harry lifted your chin, his gaze focused on your mouth. Then leaning even closer, he took a split second to look into your eyes for reassurance before pressing his lips to yours.

So soft. Clouds. Pillowy. Sweet. These were words that invaded your mind, as you could not possibly think of anything else. Nothing else but that kiss. His lips.

You felt his hand on your knee before your brain processed it. His fingers found the hem of your dress, pushing it up slightly just as your tongue felt an electric sensation when it was met with his. Your own hand reached for his chest, somehow of its own accord, for surely you had no control. The warmth it was met with was intense, and the zealous beating of his heart underneath matched your own.

The sudden way he separated the kiss, however, was unexpected.

“Oh!” you gasped, finding his face still inches from yours. Blinking, you tried to read him.

“Sorry,” he said, his mouth quivering into a smile. When his dimples appeared, you relaxed a bit. “Sorry, sweetheart. I think…I’m pretty drunk.”

His chuckle didn’t quite reassure you, nor did the wipe of his hand down his face. Sitting up straight, you pursed your lips and shrugged. “So am I.”

With a gentle grin, Harry said, “I’m not usually one to take advantage of girls when we’re drunk.”

You tilted your head and eyed him before letting out a loud guffaw. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“You don’t have to give me a line, Harry. If you’re not into me, just say so.”

“Fuck, that’s not it at all! I’m so into you!”

“Really.” Your sarcastic tone was apparent as you reached for your glass. Harry stopped you, taking your hand.

“Yeah. I was just worried you would think…”

“That you’re just looking to get laid?”

You weren’t sure what made you do it, perhaps it was the alcohol or your own desire to get fucked, but when you brought his fingers to your mouth and began to suck and nibble on them, Harry’s jaw dropped and he shut his eyes. You watched his throat as he swallowed hard, and when he opened his eyes again, his thumb between your teeth, you could read the passion in his eyes.

“You wanna get outta here?” he asked with a growl.

“Thought you’d never ask,” you grinned. Gulping the rest of your beer, you started to slide out of the booth. “Just let me freshen up in the ladies’ room.”

“Okay. I’m getting an Uber, and I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“Perfect,” you beamed. Then giving him a quick kiss, you headed for the restroom.

You weren’t in the stall ten seconds when you heard your name.

“Y/N, are you in here?”

“Uh, yeah?” you called out.

Heels clicked closer to your stall and stopped. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” asked Marcie.

“Oh hey, I’m getting ready to leave, so I won’t need a ride home, okay?”

“Uh huh. And just who are you leaving with?”

“Okay, it’s a guy,” you said, flushing the toilet.

“Y/N!” Marcie yelled.

Opening the stall door, you were met with her fuming, scowling face.

“What?” you pretended to be oblivious.

“Deliah saw you with Harry Styles. Are you out of your mind? He’s your ex’s brother!”

“So?” you shrugged, walking to the sink

“So? This is a bad idea, Y/N!”

“Why?”

“Because! You’ll regret it!”

“I don’t know,” you argued, reaching for a paper towel. “Maybe, maybe not. All I know is, right now I’m drunk, and he’s so fucking cute, and he’s into me.”

“Does he even know who you are?” Marcie cried.

“No. And he doesn’t need to. Just let me have my fun, alright?” You tossed the paper towel in the garbage and reached your arms out to your friend. “Please.”

“I’m not hugging you, Y/N,” said Marcie. “This is one time I don’t agree with you. You’re only doing this because you saw David here tonight. I already helped you pick up the pieces after he broke your heart. I’m not doing it again.”

With a tight jaw, you headed for the door. “Fine.”

The Uber ride to Harry’s place was quick. He explained he lived in a furnished apartment for now since he’d just returned from the UK, so you were kind of expecting something that looked like a motel, but you were pleasantly surprised when he opened the door to a really nice place.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked when he tossed his keys on the table.

“Maybe just some water,” you replied.

“Of course, love,” he smiled. “Follow me.”

You stood in the doorway of the small kitchen as Harry retrieved bottles of water from the fridge, handing you one. Thanking him, you took it and quenched your thirst. At least the hydrating thirst. A different kind of thirst had started taking over as soon as he’d kissed you at the loft.

Setting your bottle on the counter, you stepped closer to him. He smiled when you ran your hand up his arm. Lifting your chin again with his finger, he gazed down at you with his amazing eyes. Eyes that spoke volumes.

This time as soon as your lips collided, you immediately felt the need to touch him. Pressing your hand against his chest like before, you were happy to feel the rapid speed of his heartbeat. When his tongue met yours, you moaned against his mouth, earning one from him as well. Your other hand joined the other where they hastily unbuttoned his shirt, spreading the fabric open to reveal more ink. You let your fingertips dance down his pecks and abs before reaching the waistband of his jeans. His mouth left yours momentarily as Harry shoved out of his shirt, letting it drop on the floor. His hat fell off in the process, some of his brown curls falling forward and framing his features. Then he cupped your face, his lips open and swollen from the kisses.

“You’re driving me crazy, you sexy thing,” he growled.

“That’s good, because I’ve been going mad for you all night,” you remarked, a little proud of your quick wit.

A smirk threatened to quiver on his lips before they crashed into you again. Moaning against him again, you slipped your hands around his neck, letting his soft curls thread around your fingers. Though you tried not to let it remind you of David - he’d had curly hair too - you allowed yourself to be captivated by all that was Harry.

Harry. Harry. Harry…

As you reveled in the sensation of his soft lips and hungry tongue, your fingers in his hair, you felt his hands leave your face and travel down your shoulders. His kisses on your mouth were soon replaced by kisses on your neck, which you leaned back to give him full access to.

“Mmm, you taste so good,” you heard him mumble against your skin. “Bet you taste good everywhere, hmm?”

“Would you like to find out?” you teased.

“Fuck, yeah baby,” he swallowed, raising his head to look at you. “Let’s go to the bedroom.”

He took your hand and guided you through the living room to the back room, a lovely bed in the center. Kicking off his shoes, Harry quickly lifted you onto the bed. As he hovered over you, you took in his beauty, his gorgeous physique and toned arms. The sexiness was enough to make you wet, and you knew as soon as he touched you, you would fucking lose it.

“This little fucking dress,” Harry tutted, shaking his head as he slid a strap down your shoulder. “As soon as I saw you, stood there like a lost little angel in her little black dress…I knew I needed to somehow be the one to take it off.”

“Really?” you chuckled nervously.

“Mmm,” he nodded. “I reckon I was right.”

Sitting back on his knees, Harry slipped his hands up your thighs and underneath your dress. You gasped when his fingers reached the edge of your panties, but he stopped and ran his hands down again to the edge of your dress. Then grabbing the hem, he lifted it up. You raised your hips to assist him, then sat up to pull it over your head.

“Fuck me, look at you,” he groaned, letting your flimsy dress drop from his fingers and onto the floor.

Laying back down, you watched him as he hovered over you again, his eyes taking in every inch of you. You suddenly felt a bit nervous, though you tried your best not to let it show. His head lowered to your chest, as he cupped your breast and gently sucked on your nipple. Your breaths quickened as the heat rose in your core. You could already feel it tightening as he moved to the other breast, his soft, warm tongue tasting your delicate skin. Raking your fingers through his hair, you secretly hoped he would move faster, just to let you feel a quick release. You reached down to grab hold of your necklace when he lifted his head.

“Oh, let’s remove this too, sweetheart,” he suggested. “Don’t want it to get in the way.”

Gently slipping the amulet around your neck, Harry laid your necklace on his nightstand.

“Where shall I taste you next?” he asked with a smirk. He chuckled low at your wide eyes before he slid his hand down to your panties.

“Maybe…here?”

Your chest heaving, you nodded. “Yes.”

“Mmm, I think so too,” Harry agreed. “But first…”

Sitting up again, he grabbed the sides of your black panties and pulled them down. You watched him as he seemed to ponder how or what to do next. Then guiding your legs open a bit more, he swiped his finger up your center. With a gasp and a moan combined, you trembled.

“Hmm, looks like my angel is wet already,” he commented.

“You have no idea,” you cried.

“Oh, and maybe a bit needy.”

You groaned, wanting Harry to get on with it, make a move. Your pussy was throbbing so badly, you thought surely he could tell. When he slid his thumb across your clit this time, you nearly came undone.

“Oh God!”

“Aw, baby. You need to be touched?” Harry cooed.

“So badly, Harry…” you breathed. “Please.”

“How can I refuse when you ask so sweetly?” Harry laid down beside you and lifted your thigh to rest against his. Then licking his fingers, he pressed them against your clit, gently moving in a circular motion.

“You like this?” he asked as you began to breathe faster.

“Yes,” you replied as you looked at his face. It had been a while since anyone had touched you like that. It almost felt like high school, like you were doing something naughty with the risk of being caught.

Harry leaned forward and kissed you, his fingers still doing their magic. When he slipped his tongue in between your lips, you began to suck on it, earning a moan from his throat. You weren’t sure if it was his excitement that turned you on more, or the quickening of his fingers, but you suddenly felt yourself reaching the edge, the familiar tightening in your belly. Gasping against his mouth, you had to let go, his fingers continuing in the perfect rhythm as you rode out your climax.

“Wow, sweetheart, that was fast,” said Harry. “Been a long time, yeah?”

You shut your eyes as you blushed. “Maybe.”

“Hmm, then I’m gonna have to do that again. Make it count. Don’t you think?”

“Touch me again?” you asked, opening your eyes.

“No, make you come again. As many times as it takes.”

You stared at him as he slithered his body down the bed and situated himself between your legs.

“I still get a free taste, right?” he wiggled his brows.

You chuckled, throwing your arm over your eyes. “Yes.”

You felt his breath tickle your flesh just before he kissed each inner thigh. When his mouth met your cunt you puffed out a loud breath. His lips surrounded your clit first, then his tongue met the delicate bud, circling the way his fingers had. With a moan, you opened your legs wider, running your hands down your breasts. Harry looked up at you and noticed, ran his hands up your stomach and met your fingers.

You liked that, Harry’s eyes on you as you both circled your hands around your tits and nipples. It felt sexy and intimate. When you began to moan louder, however, Harry released your hands and lifted your hips. One finger danced around your opening first before entering. Grabbing hold of the bedding beneath you, you felt your legs shake. But when he inserted a second finger and his mouth returned to your clit, you thought you might come.

“Oh, fuck! Harry!” you shouted.

“Feel good, baby?”

“Yes! Right there. Oh, God!”

Harry hummed against your cunt as his fingers fucked you, beckoning you inside your walls, touching exactly the right spot, urging you to come all over them.

You weren’t sure you’d ever come so hard in your life. Your fingers dug into his hair. Your legs trembled on either side of his head, your toes curled into the bed as you cried out his name and a few expletives.

When he lifted his head and slid his fingers out, you half expected him to laugh. But instead, he crawled up your body and kissed you with fervor.

“I knew you’d taste good,” he said.

You stared at him, half wondering where the hell he’d come from. Obviously you knew, but figuratively speaking…he must have learned this shit in London because his brother had never made you come like that.

Before you could think anymore about David, Harry asked you a question you hadn’t expected to hear.

“Do you need a minute before we try again?”

“Try again?”

“Yeah,” he grinned his dimpled grin. “I know it’s a bit selfish of me, but I really wanna fuck you.”

You couldn’t help but cackle, which only made him grin wider. “That’s not selfish at all,” you said.

“No? Good.”

Fuck! He was so cute and charming and giving. Maybe you’d had a thing for the wrong brother all along! You played with his hair a bit as he stared at you. Then you shook your head.

“No…to answer your first question. I don’t need a minute.”

With another grin, Harry rose from the bed and unbuttoned his jeans. You watched him peel them off, followed by his underwear, his erection springing free. Then opening a drawer in the nightstand, he retrieved a condom. Crawling back onto the bed, he handed it to you.

“Would you?”

Smiling, you sat up, happy to oblige. Grabbing the condom packet, however, you paused.

“Just a second…”

Situating yourself in front of him, you grabbed hold of his shaft and stuck out your tongue. You heard him hiss when it grazed his cock, your mouth then enveloping it. You let the saliva in your mouth produce enough to lubricate his head, and when you popped off, you used your hand to glide the wetness. Then you did it a second time.

“Fuck, babe,” Harry groaned. “That’s so good, but…you don’t…have to…”

“Mmm, I want to,” you said, sliding your tongue across his shaft. “Just for a minute.”

Hollowing out your mouth, you sucked on him while your right hand moved up and down, and your left reached for his balls.

“Shit, Y/N,” he breathed, grasping your hair. “Honey, please. I want…”

“My pussy?” you looked up at him.

“Yeah.”

Letting go, you adjusted your position as Harry ran his hands down your shoulders. “Is that okay? I don’t-”

“Of course, Harry,” you beamed at him. “I just wanted to taste you too before we got started.”

His smile was incredible as he watched you put the condom on. Then he kissed you passionately before laying you back down on the bed. His eyes on you, licked his fingers and ran them up your pussy.

“Still wet,” he commented with a raised brow.

Then he aimed his cock at your entrance and thrust slowly. You could feel him stretching your walls, a sweet sting as he entered fully. With a low cry, you held onto him.

“Feel okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” you nodded.

“Tell me what you like, baby. I wanna do it all.”

“I’m pretty easy to please,” you replied. “Fuck me how you like.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re so hot,” he chuckled before moving his hips faster.

You clinged to him as he fucked into you, already reaching the spot he’d reached with his fingers. You weren’t sure if you could come again so soon, but it felt incredible. As he moved faster, you heard the squelching sounds of your wet cunt and his balls hitting you. You began to moan, tiny little whimpers at first.

“Yeah…” moaned Harry. “God, I love the sounds you make. So fucking sexy.”

“It feels really good,” you cried.

“Yeah it does. Your pussy’s so warm and wet.”

You continued to whimper as Harry thrust harder, holding down your hands. Your legs wrapped around him as he looked into your eyes. When he began to moan, he slowed a bit, his thrusts sloppy.

“C’mere, baby,” he said, sitting back on his knees. “Ride me.”

Though your legs were weak, you did as he requested, holding onto his shoulders. As you slid down his cock, you could tell you were close.

“Yeah, just like that, angel. Ride my cock.”

You bounced on him a few times before calling out, “Oh, fuck!”

“You gonna come for me again, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you gasped.

“You feel me deep inside?”

“Yes. Oh, God! Oh, it’s so fucking deep!”

“Yeah. Come for me, honey. I want you to come all over my cock.”

You cried out then, doing just as he asked. Every nerve inside your pussy contracted, and you came even harder than before.

“Fuck!” you exclaimed, falling like a rag doll on his chest.

Harry chuckled, lifting you up. “Hang on, angel, we’re not done.”

“I…I can’t, Harry. I can’t come again.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm…we’ll see.”

Laying back down on the bed, Harry still inside you, he began to move again. You whimpered again, not under duress, but simply fatigue. But you wanted Harry to come. For all he’d done for you, he deserved it.

He moved slowly at first, and the longer he continued, the more it started to feel good, until finally you started to moan louder.

“Fuck yeah, baby,” Harry moaned with you. “God, you’re so fucking wet.”

“It’s because you turn me on.”

“Yeah?” he asked as he thrust faster.

“Oh my God yeah, fuck me like that!” you cried.

“Yeah, you gonna come again?”

“Yes, baby!”

“Good girl.”

Harry’s groans were getting louder as you felt your fourth orgasm hit you. You cried out his name as he pounded you hard, calling you good girl. Then his own climax came, his body trembling over you as he moaned deeply in your ear.

“Fuck…” he exhaled with a chuckle. “That was so good. Wow.”

He kissed you hard after you both caught your breath.

“You’re so sexy, Y/N.”

“So are you.” You traced his mouth with your finger before giving him a smile.

“You wanna stay the night? I mean, I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

“I am…” you said, considering his offer.

“So…yeah?”

You nodded. Maybe it was a bad idea. But you were so tired, you didn’t think you could even get up.

Harry did help you up, though, so you could clean up in the bathroom. But as soon as you were underneath his covers and he wrapped his arm around you, you were off to dreamland.

The next morning, you woke up while Harry was still sleeping. Tiptoeing to the bathroom, you did your business and returned to a buzzing sound. Realizing it was probably a phone, you found Harry’s in his jeans he’d discarded the night before. Curious, you looked at it and noticed five missed calls. One from his brother, David. And four from someone named Melanie. Plus a text from the same number that simply said, Can we talk?

Fucking great.

Hi, if you enjoyed this, please let me know as I'm considering a part 2 :).

tagging: @daphnesutton, @freedomfireflies

ETA: Thank you sooo much for all the love on this! Part 2 is now up, titled break up with your girlfriend, i'm bored. Hope you enjoy! xo

[strawberries-and-racing]

go back to sleep - cl16 smut

pairing: charles lecler x fem!reader

summary: charles comes home late after a long week of hardly seeing eachother and fucks you while your asleep

warnings: a little bit if angst at the beginning, established relationship, somnophilia, unprotected sex, fingering and a little bit of a control kink.

the cool night air that wafted off the mediterranean sea and settled over monaco brought charles no comfort. the darkness of the night pressed around him as he rounded the last few corners before pulling into the driveway.

he'd hardly seen you in the last week. you were swamped with work and always exhausted.

meanwhile, ferrari was falling apart, each race seemingly more disastrous than the last.

before, the two of you had always been able to make it work and saw eachother constantly. cooking together at night by the warm glow of the kitchen lights, reading together or going out on small, intimate dates.

but the last several days had been different. the week had been particularly stressful and busy for both of you but it felt different for charles. your schedules weren't aligning and he often ended up coming home extremely late, and you left early in the morning.

he knew that you were just busy and soon it would all blow over but still, he felt alone. he felt a little paranoid, everything seemed off.

he worried things would grow dull between the two of you. he worried you'd get irritated with his late nights. he couldnt bear to lose you.

tonight especially, his body ached for you.

he parked the car and got out, making his way up to the apartment. he opened the door quietly as to not wake you up.   

hastily, he put down his bags and made quick motions to prepare for bed. the apartment was dead quiet, only illuminated by the city lights that came through the windows. the clock reads 12:39.

as he opens the door to the bedroom, any traces of tiredness in him melt away as his eyes land on you.

you're asleep, your entire body limp. the ponytail you normally wear to sleep has fallen out and your hair fans out across the pillow. your lips are slightly parted and your body heaves slightly with each breath you take.

your legs are spread and your his tshirt is bunched up enough to reveal your white cotton panties, the ones he knows you like to wear to sleep.

you look so peaceful, angelic, fragile. so neatly prepared for charles to wreck. the idea of doing so excites him so much that he finds himself crawling slowly onto the bed.

his fingers begin softly stroking your pussy through the thin fabric of your panties. you dont move, dont make a sound. still asleep, still perfectly spread for charles.

he carefully pulls your panties to the side, running his fingers up and down your folds. even in your sleep, its unbelievable how wet you are from his touch.

his fingers move from softly circling your clit. your body doesnt move.

he slowly pulls your panties down your thighs and slips them off your ankles.

as his thumb continues pleasuring your clit, his fingers glide down and push inside you. your walls tense around his fingers and you groan, you shift positions a little.

but you dont wake up.

he pumps his two fingers in and out of you, increasing his pace ever so slowly as to not disturb you.

your sleeping body clenches around his fingers, walls fluttering with pleasure. charles finds it impossible how you remain asleep with how deeply he thrusts his fingers into you, brushing against your g-spot.

he pulls out his fingers before you can reach your orgasm.

a soft breeze swirls through the open window. you visibly shiver, goosebumps creeping over your thighs.

you remain unconscious still, even as he pushes his unbearably hard cock inside of you. the feeling of having you completely and absolutely under his control sends waves of arousal over his body. your motionless frame was all his to use however he wanted.

a small groan escapes charles' lips at the contrast of your hot core to the cool air of the bedroom. he gently begins thrusting in and out of you, placing his hands on either sides of your waist and gripping the sheets.

you exhale softly from parted lips. the muscles in your abdomen tensing, your walls clenching around him.

he increases his pace little by little. your delicate body flinches. he has to use every ounce of his willpower to keep his pace slow.

your expression beneath him is impossibly soft and innocent. he swears hes never seen anything more beautiful.

a small moan leaves your lips. the noise is hardly audible but the little vibrations that ripple over your body is enough to make charles's cock twitch inside you.

your eyelids flutter, you shift a little. your eyes open slowly.

your whole body feels hot, pulses of pleasure rushing through you. as you slowly regain consciousness your met with charles's intense green eyes. you cant quite read his expression.

it takes you a minute to piece together the situation, your mind still foggy with sleep. the heat and movement between your legs. charles on top of you. the familiar dark glint in his eyes.

charles thrusts into you carefully but deeply. you bite your lip, moaning. your finger nails clutching his arms.

charles brushes his hand over your cheek, touching you softly.

"go back to sleep, ma belle."  his voice is rich and soaked in lust. he places a soft kiss to your cheek, then to your neck.

your body feels so tired from the exhausting week and you're barely holding onto consciousness. so you give into charles without protest, just and you'd done so many times in the past.

you close your eyes. letting the gentle, familiar movements of charles's hips rock you back to sleep.

[foone]

Gender with a blast radius

Gender you watch from a distant cliff and the city is destroyed

Gender that leaves you naught but a shadow etched into the brickwork

Gender that can't be taken into tunnels or across bridges because the emergency vehicles would never be able to get there in time

Gender that requires its own NFPA 704 hazard diamond.

Gender that's best viewed through a mirror from down a long hallway

Gender that can't be photographed because it spoils the film or glitches the CCD

Gender that causes nearby electronics to fail. TVs fade to static. Lights flicker. Bulbs burn out. Engines stall.

Gender that freaks out dogs. All their hair goes on end and they bark at you. Cats try to look big and then flee.

Gender that makes people quote the Bhagavad Gita at you.

Gender that gives people the look of Moses descending from Mt. Sinai. Beard turned white. Face flash tanned. Eyes cloudy.

Gender that changes people, forever. They have trouble sleeping afterwards. They can't get effective therapy for what they went through because no one else can understand what they went through.

Gender that's making your eventual burial arrangements difficult for your next of kin, because the EPA is worried it might leak into the watertable.

Gender that gets assigned an incident severity by the IAEA.

Gender that causes the writing of endless new papers. There's an international scientific organization trying to get grants to build a new supercollider in a salt mine in Brazil so they can recreate, study, and hopefully understand your gender.

Your gender inspires depressed poets.

Your gender has a New York Times best selling book about it. It's called one of the scariest non-fiction books ever written.

Your gender gets talked about on a podcast about disasters, and the hosts have trouble making any jokes between the exclamations of "Jesus christ!"

Your gender is mentioned in the book of revelation, in between the beast with seven heads and the star falling to earth and turning the seas to blood.

Your gender spoils milk and destroys crops. There's European folk legends about the rituals needed to cleanse a town after your gender has cursed it.

Your gender is talked about around campfires to scare children.

Your gender keeps horror writers up at night and inspires their next work.

Your gender is yours and is beautiful and terrific.

[admiringlove]

part one || part two || part three tw: mentions of death, suicide ideation, severe injury, slightly suggestive towards the end, etc. post shibuya arc au. a/n. here is the last part (can be read as a standalone). i'm so grateful to everyone who's read this <3

[10:46] . . .

malaysia is so much hotter than you thought it would be.

the heat clings to your skin like a second layer, oppressively wet, never letting up—not even at night, when the ceiling fan whirs uselessly above the bed. in the beginning, it made you irritable. the air felt heavy in your lungs, the water from the tap never cold, and everything—every corner of your new home—smelled like salt and heat and city dust. the first few months were awful.

you had to run the air-conditioning almost constantly, kept the curtains drawn just to keep the light from boiling the room alive. you’d panicked the first time kento had started sweating in his sleep, terrified it would irritate his skin, that the damp cotton would rub too hard against healing burns. you spent those nights wide awake, turning the air-conditioning on, carefully peeling the sheets away from his body, dabbing at the worst of the sweat with cool cloths, whispering apologies he never asked for.

and kento, sweet, maddening nanami kento, never once complained. not when the electricity bills climbed sky-high because you insisted on climate control, not when you micromanaged every step he took out of the house—checking three times for his meds, his sunscreen, his hat, the stupid scarf he never wanted to wear but let you wind around his neck anyway.

he endured it.

he endured everything with the kind of quiet patience that used to feel like strength to you. but lately—lately, it feels like something else. like self-punishment. like he’s trying to make up for something that isn’t his fault.

he nods whenever you say, “ken, did you take the skin cream?” even if you’ve asked him twice already, even if you’re halfway through preparing his pills. he lets your fingers skim over his jaw, checking for signs of sunburn or irritation. he lets you mother him.

and sometimes—sometimes, it makes you so angry you could cry. because he shouldn't have to put up with you.

it’s ten-something in the morning now. the sunlight outside is already too much, and you’re at the small kitchen table, legs curled under you, a mug of hot tea pressed to your lips even though it makes no sense to drink something hot in weather like this. the tiles are slightly chilled beneath your feet. your shirt sticks to the small of your back.

six months.

it’s been six months since you arrived here. six months since you left behind the cold, grey halls of jujutsu tech. six months since you said goodbye to the only life you’d ever known. six months since you packed up every shard of your broken world and carried it with you across oceans, just to follow him.

you sip your tea. you stare at the slow whir of the ceiling fan. outside, somewhere, kento is probably checking the mailbox or watering the balcony plants, moving slow in the heat, bones still aching from old injuries. you wonder if he took the skin cream. you wonder if he’s still pretending not to hurt. you wonder how long he’ll keep letting you love him like this—like he’s something fragile.

like he might disappear if you stop.

you sigh, your fingers brushing against the edge of the countertop, lingering for a moment before you push yourself upright. the december air is bearable today—softer, quieter, tinged with salt and the kind of stillness that only arrives in the morning. the breeze carries in the breath of the sea, faint but unmistakable, and you can hear the low rush of the waves from the end of your street. from your house—this house that you bought with the very last of your savings, a house with too many windows and not enough insulation, perched just shy of the shore where the sand begins to give way to tide—you can hear everything.

it’s a sound that reminds you why you did it. why you left. why you dragged your tired body and your broken heart across countries just to come here.

to the place kento had once called peaceful. to the place he'd only ever mentioned once, in a passing conversation years ago. something about how mundane life could be beautiful. about how he didn’t want to die in the middle of a fight.

and you—fool that you are—you remembered.

so here you are. in this sun-warmed house with its peeling paint and its thankfully fast ceiling fans and its cracked tile on the upstairs bathroom floor. here, where you cook your own food and sweep your own porch and hang your laundry on a line strung across the kitchen window. here, where kento waters the plants and you learn the quiet names of herbs.

you rinse your teacup slowly, watching the water run from warm to cool to finally cold. it surprises you every time—when the cold sets in. this is the first winter you've had here, and it isn't like home. it isn’t biting or sharp. it doesn’t come with snow or breath that clouds in the air. but it’s cool enough for your hands to ache a little under the tap. cool enough to make you think maybe, just maybe, this season will be kinder to you than the last.

you turn off the tap, letting the silence settle again. and then you turn toward the staircase—and there he is.

kento.

he’s just reached the top of the stairs, the watering can hanging loosely from one bandaged hand. his shirt clings slightly to his back, damp from the exertion, and his shoulders are tired in a way that makes something twist behind your ribs. you watch him place the watering can on the shelf, slowly, deliberately, as if he's afraid he might drop it.

and something in you softens. something in you cracks.

“when’d you come downstairs?” you ask, quiet, the words almost carried away by the sea breeze curling in through the open windows.

“just now,” he murmurs, not turning around. “i watered the plants. the lemongrass was getting too big, so i cut some. basil’s looking good.”

you nod. even though he can’t see you, you nod, because you don’t know what else to do.

there’s a pit in your stomach now. familiar. ugly.

you don’t know why it’s growing. you don’t know why, even here—even in this house with all its salt-soaked peace and sleepy afternoons—there’s still a voice in your head whispering that you’re not doing enough.

that you're too much. that you fuss too much. that your love is heavy in ways it was never meant to be.

you’re here. beside him. you’ve given up everything. you’ve done everything. so why does it still feel like you’re failing?

"do you wanna go into town for dinner today?" kento asks, voice light and gentle, like he's been rehearsing the question all morning in his head. he's fluffing the collar of his old cotton button-up—the off-white one you’d once jokingly called a dad shirt, the one that has a faint yellow stain near the hem because neither of you ever figured out what it was. his fingers move slow and measured, smoothing it down before he reaches up and switches on the ceiling fan in the living room. the blades creak softly as they begin to turn, stirring the warm, salty air.

you nod, absentmindedly. your hand finds the glass and pours the water out of muscle memory. it’s not until he’s settling on the couch, shoulders sinking into the cushions, that you realize you’ve been holding your breath. you exhale as you hand him the glass, your fingers brushing against his for a fleeting second.

"we can do that," you say, and your voice comes out too flat. too practiced.

he doesn’t say anything. of course he doesn’t.

you know he knows. knows that your mind is fighting itself again. that there's something lodged in your chest like a stone, too stubborn to cough up, too painful to swallow down. kento always knows. he doesn’t pry. he never has. he watches you the way someone watches the sea during a storm—knowing that there’s no use in stopping the waves, but hoping anyway that they don’t crash too hard.

he tilts his head toward you.

that same tilt. the one he’s always done. the one he did the night you first kissed him, when he looked at you like you were a puzzle that he didn’t want to solve—just admire. his slightly overgrown hair falls into his eyes, soft and mussed. his lips are pursed, not in disapproval, but in something closer to concern disguised as patience.

and you—you look down.

because if you keep looking at him, you're going to break.

because you want nothing more than to climb into his lap and bury yourself in him. to press kisses along his jaw and into the crook of his neck, to feel his arms around you again like they used to be. to cry a little, maybe, and tell him that you’re scared. that every time you wake up and see the bands still wrapped around his arms, the scarred skin, your heart twists with something too sharp to name.

but would that be too much? would you be too much?

you’ve asked yourself this every day since he came home to you. since you washed his wounds for the first time, hands trembling as he winced through the pain but never pulled away.

is your love too loud? too heavy? too wrapped in routine and fuss and rules about when to apply which cream, which hat he should wear if the sun is too high, how long to stay out before the heat irritates the grafted skin?

you don't know. you only know this: you would do it all again. a thousand times. a thousand more. because he's here. because he came back.

and you love him. you love him so much it terrifies you. but you wonder—do you overlove him? is that a thing? is there such a thing as being too tender with the person who saved you just by staying alive?

and finally, finally, kento says, so softly it’s like the sea breeze carries it over to you: "you know. i think i'm going to change myself a little."

the words don’t register at first. they settle like dust in the air, floating around you until your mind finally catches up. you blink, snap out of your spiralling thoughts, all the self-deprecating noise quieting for just a second as you turn to him.

"what do you mean?" you ask, brows drawn together.

and kento, with those weathered, gentle hands that still tremble when he holds a fork for too long, reaches for you. he tugs at your wrist first, feather-light, and when you don’t resist—because when have you ever resisted him?—he pulls you closer. so close his breath kisses your stomach, so close your knees bump the sides of his thighs. and then, with that same infinite patience he’s always shown you, he pulls you onto his lap.

you're straddling him now, breath caught in your throat, and the panic kicks in like clockwork.

"wait—" you start, heart thudding hard against your ribs, "ken, your skin—your legs—what if—"

your voice fizzles out. you were going to say something about his scars. about his healing. about the pressure on his wounds. about hurting him.

but none of it matters, really. because you worry too much. you always have. and he’s always let you.

but right now, kento is looking at you like he wants to memorize every inch of your face. the light cuts through the curtains and lands across his cheekbones, outlining the tired lines of his face in soft gold. he cups your face, and his thumbs graze your cheek like you’re something delicate. like you’ve given too much of yourself and he’s only just realizing how much.

"i mean," he continues, voice low, slow, careful, "that i should stop staying quiet when i can clearly see that something is bothering you."

you feel your throat tighten again.

"i should ask," he says. "the way you always do."

his eyes soften. they always soften when he looks at you. even now, even when the scars have made him feel like less of a man, even when the mirror still makes him flinch on some mornings, he looks at you like you are the one who saved him.

"so," he says, and he tilts his head just slightly, the way he always does when he’s being serious, "tell me."

and just like that—just like always—he gives you a place to land. a soft, sturdy place to fall.

you stay quiet.

his hands are still on your face—steady, grounding, reverent, sacred—and his hazel eyes are still searching yours like he’s afraid to miss a single flicker of emotion. like this moment, this breath between you two, is something sacred. something he doesn’t want to rush. something he would wait lifetimes for.

he looks at you like that. like your silence is a gift, not a burden. like your stillness is something holy.

and then, finally, your voice emerges, small and cracked and unsure: “am i too much?”

it’s so soft it barely makes it across the short space between your mouths, but it does. and you see it—feel it—the way his expression shifts in real time. the slow inhale. the almost imperceptible widening of his eyes. and then, he smiles.

he smiles.

and you frown instantly. your heart twists. your voice sharpens. “why are you smiling?”

and then, kento laughs. soft at first. small and breathy. like something long-lost and unfamiliar breaking its way out of him.

you stare. you can’t breathe. because it’s that laugh—the one you used to hear before the war. the one he’d let out when you burnt dinner by accident or when gojo said something dumb, or when you tripped in the hallway and tried to style it out.

it’s that laugh. the one you would’ve given anything to hear again. and here it is—after months of ointments and bloodstains, of careful bandaging and sleepless nights, of biting down on your own sobs and holding him while he couldn’t move. here it is.

a return. a sound that feels like the sun rising inside your chest. he chuckles again, thumb tracing the edge of your cheekbone like he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

"it's just..." he begins, voice full of something like wonder, "you can never be too much."

your brow furrows deeper. “huh? what do you mean?”

and now he’s tugging you in—arm curling around your back, palm pressing to the base of your neck—and your foreheads are touching. your noses brush. you can feel the warmth of his breath against your lips.

"everything you do," he murmurs, as if the truth should be said slowly, carefully, the way you would unwrap something fragile, "is for me. every morning, every night. you check my meds. you chase the sun out of the bedroom when i’m hurting. you fuss. and you fuss so much."

his voice drops, tender and low. “but it's never too much.”

you open your mouth, ready to argue. to insist, “but that’s literally my job,” because it is. you signed up for this. if it had been you in that hospital bed, you know he would’ve burned the whole world down just to ease your pain. you mumble it anyway, soft as a sigh, “we’re married. this is how it works. you would've done the same.”

and kento—sweet, careful, ruined kento—shakes his head. his thumb brushes under your eye, as if you’d cried even though you haven’t. not yet.

"you didn’t have to stay,” he says. “you could’ve left, and i would’ve understood. it’s been hell, i know. watching me like this. taking care of me like i’m made of glass.”

you shake your head. you want to tell him he’s wrong. that he’s not fragile. not to you.

but he keeps going. his voice is thick now, but steady. “you put your life on hold for me. you left the country for me. you gave everything up, just to live in this stupid humid town by the sea because—because i said once, once, that i wanted to retire here. you remembered. you remembered that.”

you’re crying now. you don’t even notice when the tears start. but his fingers are already catching them.

“you’re practically the dream,” he says, and it sounds like a vow. you swallow. your voice is a broken hush. “i’m just me.”

“exactly,” he says, smiling. “and that’s all i’ve ever needed.”

and god—god—you kiss him.

you kiss him because there’s nothing else left to say. you kiss him because his hands are warm on your waist and his scars are healing and his love is infinite and patient and here. you kiss him like you mean it, because you do.

because kento is yours. and you are his. too much and just enough. forever.

his grip tightens just a little around your waist—stronger than you remember, steadier than it's been in months. his hands are big and warm and trembling slightly, but they're there, and they’re holding you. one anchors itself at the small of your back, the other pressing gently to your hip as if to make sure you don’t float away.

“stay like this,” he says again, voice low, hoarse with something aching and holy. “stay on top of me. until i can lift you like i used to. until i can carry you to the bed just to hear you squeal. until i’m strong enough to have you pinned beneath me without worrying about the pressure. until i’m me again.”

he pauses, breathing heavily. “just… stay.”

and you do. you do. you’re already melting into him before he finishes speaking. you lean down, your hands on his chest, fingers curled into the soft cotton of his button-up. you press your lips to his again—slowly, deeply, almost desperately—and it’s like inhaling sunlight.

his mouth parts beneath yours, and his breath hitches when you deepen the kiss, arms tightening around your waist. it’s messy and aching and utterly, utterly tender. you can feel the way his body responds to you, how he sighs softly into your mouth, how his thumbs stroke your waist like he’s trying to memorize every curve again.

and when you pull back for just a second to look at him, he’s watching you with a softness that threatens to undo you entirely.

“i could never leave,” you whisper, breathless and trembling and everything in between, your forehead pressed against his. “i would never go anywhere where you aren’t there.”

his eyes flutter shut for a moment. you feel his breath catch in his throat, and then he’s whispering back, “then you’re everything.”

the words are a confession. a promise. a vow.

“i hope that answers your question,” he murmurs, brushing your hair behind your ear with a touch so careful it makes your heart squeeze.

you blink, still breathless, and your smile is shaky and aching and filled with something that could only be love. “it does,” you say.

but you don’t stop.

you lean down again, lips brushing his cheek first, then his jaw, then the spot just under his ear that always made him shiver. he lets out a soft noise—almost a groan, almost a sigh—and tilts his head to give you more access.

“i missed this,” you murmur, lips ghosting over his pulse. “i missed you.”

“i’ve always been here,” he says, and the way he says it makes you want to cry again, “even when i wasn’t all the way… me. even when you weren't you.”

you hum against his throat, then kiss him again, firmer this time. your hands slide up his chest, feeling the way his muscles shift beneath your palms, the faint hitch in his breath as you grind down just slightly on his lap. not enough to hurt him—never that—but enough to remind you both that he’s alive. that he’s here. that he’s yours.

he groans, hands sliding up your sides, slipping under the hem of your shirt just to feel your skin. his fingers are warm and rough and reverent, tracing the familiar dips and curves of your body like he’s rediscovering home. like you are the one piece of earth he can still stand on without falling apart.

your lips part again, and his tongue meets yours with slow, languid purpose. it’s not hurried. it’s not frantic. it’s deep. intimate. kento's kiss says things neither of you have dared to put into words. his kiss says thank you, and don’t go, and i love you so much i don’t know where to put it all.

your hips roll again, involuntarily this time, and he groans into your mouth, the sound low and helpless. you smile, breaking the kiss just long enough to breathe against his lips.

“you okay?” you murmur.

he nods, chest rising and falling quickly. “never better,” he whispers, eyes glazed, smile lazy. “god, i missed kissing you like this.”

you press your forehead to his again, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. “well, i’m not going anywhere.”

“good,” he breathes. “because i think i’m gonna need you to stay right here. at least until i figure out how to stand up with you in my arms again.”

you grin, letting your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently until he groans again.

“i’m not heavy, nanami.”

“you’re everything,” he repeats, voice rough with emotion. “and i’m never letting you go.”

and then he’s kissing you again, and again, and again—like he’s relearning how to live. and you kiss him back like it’s the easiest thing you’ve ever done.

because it is.

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[sthilarions]

Had an idea that I can’t think too much about without it fucking me up so I’m offering y’all the bare bones

Charles gets made alive again as the consequence of an accidental wish. They’re never quite sure who heard the wish; a djinn, a monkey’s paw, a fey, a powerful witch, a god, an Endless. It doesn’t really matter, in the end. A wish is a wish.

The thing about being alive is that you can’t remember being dead. Mortal minds fundamentally can’t comprehend it, they’d snap under the strain, and whoever granted the wish, they seem to have been kind, more or less. They made sure Charles remembered nothing of being dead except for the traditional white light that is all mortal minds can hold on to. And they made sure he was able to more or less seamlessly fit into modern life, despite effectively appearing from nowhere with no records, via having him take the place of a 16 year old who had just died. They fix him up with Life so fully that he doesn’t even count as having had a near-death experience. A remarkably thorough job, really.

You may have noticed the issue.

Crystal, at first, thinks it should be an easy fix. She can go and tell Charles what’s happened, maybe they bop him on the head so he can see ghosts, and they become the One Dead Boy One Living Boy and One Psychic Girl Detective Agency.

Edwin has to stop her physically, in the end.

Because they can’t. They can’t remind Charles of his afterlife. They can’t risk those memories coming back, breaking through whatever barrier the wish-granter placed. They can’t risk Charles’s brain melting in ways he would never recover from, might even not recover from after his eventual death.

They can’t do anything.

For several years, Edwin and Crystal and Niko run the Agency together. It’s rocky, but Niko provides just enough of a stabilizing influence to keep Edwin and Crystal from killing each other. The girls grow out of it eventually, move on to the wider mortal world, and Edwin works solo for only a few months before putting up a Closed sign on the Agency door.

Charles has married, by then. A wonderful girl, a spitfire, clever and sharp. Edwin moves in to the empty lot across from their house, and he waits.

He waits as Charles has two children, who are warm and clever and sharp and brave. Too brave, too reckless; Edwin saves their lives half a dozen times, from falling out of trees, from fights they shouldn’t have gotten involved in, once from a riot cop putting down a protest.

He waits as the children grow up, moves with Charles when he and his wife become empty-nesters.

He waits as Charles becomes more and more respected in his profession, and finally retires with the greatest of honor; moves with Charles again to a house by the sea. Charles always liked the ocean.

He waits as Charles’s wife gets brain cancer. Three years later, he waits at her bedside, his hand on Charles’s shoulder, unfelt. He ducks out of the room just as Death comes, and then back, holds his arms around Charles for hours as Charles holds his wife’s cooling hand, and he knows his ghostly touch is making Charles shiver but he can’t bring himself to let go.

He waits as Charles’s grandchildren get older.

He waits as Charles gets Alzheimer’s, and sometimes when Charles stares into the distance it seems like he’s staring at Edwin, but Edwin can never quite be sure.

And finally, one day, it’s time to stop waiting.

Edwin sits at Charles’s bedside, hand over his, in a chair left empty between the children and grandchildren, because many of them can see him, by now. He’s told them he’s Charles’s guardian angel, and that they must never, ever tell Charles.

He sits, and he thinks he’s never been more terrified in all his existence, even in Hell, even when he was dying himself.

He sits.

Charles closes his eyes.

Charles sits up.

Charles opens his eyes again, and they look right where they should, like they’ve been pulled by a magnet, like they’re pulled by destiny.

“Edwin? Are you all right?”

[fazedlight]

Sand

This isn’t real, she thought, as she dug her toes into the cozy sun-warmed sand.

She kissed me this morning.

Kara gazed ahead, watching as the beach waves crashed on shore, warm and sunny against the backdrop of her planet’s destruction. Out across the waters, she could see the great horror of her past: Krypton as it died, damned in fire, debris floating across the expanse of space.

This isn’t real, Kara thought, listening to the grainy sound of sand as she moved her feet to pull her legs to her chest, placing her chin on her knees in quiet contemplation. She wondered if she would see the Danvers home if she turned around, or if that would be another expanse of sand and ocean and Krypton’s death.

She kissed me this morning.

Kara smiled at the thought. Lena had been working in the Tower lab; Kara had brought her doughnuts and espresso. Just like any other morning, they had cozied up on the couch together, laughing and talking.

But unlike any other morning, an odd sort of silence eventually fell between them. Flickering gazes, shy blushes, a tension that they couldn’t tell was real.

And then Lena leaned forward, and kissed her.

She kissed me this morning, Kara thought, eyes glancing ahead to Krypton, I’m sure of it. I think I’m sure of it. I’m…

Kara sighed, lying down on the beach, stretching as she stared up into the blue skies mixing with the fires on the horizon. She kissed me, Kara tried to convince herself, and then the Tower alarm went off right after, and Alex said I needed to get downtown to fight a threat. But she kissed me. I know she did…

“Would you like some company?” came a familiar voice.

Kara grinned. “I’d love that.”

She didn’t watch as her best friend took a seat on the sands beside her. Lena sighed, looking out on the horizon at the destruction ahead, seeming both curious and understanding. “This isn’t your world, Kara,” she said.

“I know.”

“You’re trapped in a black mercy.”

“I know.”

Lena reached down to brush some sand off her feet, frowning in curiosity. “I thought the plant shows you paradise. This doesn’t look like paradise to me.”

Kara hummed. “Maybe it doesn’t know what to do if reality is paradise enough.”

For a moment, Lena stayed quiet, mulling what to say in response. “If you know this place isn’t real, then why haven’t you woken up yet?”

“Because I’m not sure if reality is real.”

“What do you mean?”

Kara could feel the patter of her heart in her chest. “Did anything unusual happen this morning?” she asked.

There was a shy laugh in response. “It was real, Kara,” Lena murmured, “And if you wake up, I’d like to do it again.”

She kissed me this morning.

Kara smiled, breathing in the smell of sea salt in the breeze, eyes still trained on the bizarre images in the sky. “Okay,” she said.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Lena reaching for her ear, no doubt tapping at a device Brainy had provided. Watching as the figure faded away, Kara closed her eyes, feeling as the world began to morph around her, as though she were weightless and falling and flying all at once.

She finally opened her eyes, noting several figures hovering over her as her eyes adjusted to the harsh Tower light. “Welcome back, Kara,” Brainy said, as she felt the black mercy slither off her chest, “You gave us quite the scare.”

The crew began to shuffle around again. Brainy headed back toward a different monitor, Alex gave her sister’s arm a welcoming squeeze before chasing after J’onn, Nia carried the container with the captured black mercy into a back room.

Lena watched Kara intently.

“Was it real?” Kara whispered.

Lena smiled, and leaned forward - pressing her lips to Kara’s.

She kissed me this morning, Kara thought, and now I can kiss her back.

----------

For @ekingston's flash fiction challenge Prompts: fluff & hallucination & post-apocalyptic & sand

[gukcnt]

۶ৎ BENEATH THE FACADE OF OUR FRIENDSHIP —

“I’ve loved you since the day we met, since you dropped your stupid pens and looked at me with those wide, nervous eyes like I was some kind of savior. I love the way you laugh when you’re nervous, the way you cry at sad movies and pretend you’re fine, the way you burn cookies and insist they’re edible. I love how you ramble about poetry, how you bite your lip when you’re thinking, how you always smell like lavender and vanilla. I know every damn thing about you—your fears, your dreams, your favorite fucking tteokbokki place—and I’ve tried so hard to be okay with just being your friend, but I can’t anymore.”

pairing: dom!jimin x sub!femreader

genre: college au, best friends au, friends to lovers, unrequited love, slowburn, pining, coming of age, character driven, emotional angst, comedy, smut, fluff

warnings: 18+, explicit smut, angry!jimin, protective!jimin, emotional vulnerability, confrontation and revelation, conflict resolution, romantic declarations, angry love confessions, miscommunication, post conflict healing, crying, screaming, heartbreak, argument, oral sex (f. receiving), eating out, clit stimulation, tongue fucking, face riding, face sitting, cum swallowing, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, several sex scenes, multiple positions, multiple orgasms, creampie, missionary and riding position, rough sex, angry sex, body worship, making out, hickies/marking, breast play, nipple play, nipple sucking, begging, praise kink, dirty talk, longing, fingering, oral sex (m. receiving), cock sucking, cock palming, face fucking, hair fisting, erotic tension, possessive tenderness, intimate dialogues, physical and emotional responses during sex, power dynamics, post sex intimacy, raw emotional connection during sex, slow burn consummation, expressing deep love during sex, morning sex, aftercare

wc: 14.8k

masterlist

۶ৎ

The lecture hall at Seoul University was a cavernous space, its high ceilings echoing with the restless hum of freshmen settling into their first week of classes. It was September, and the air carried the crisp bite of early autumn, mingling with the faint scent of new textbooks, freshly sharpened pencils, and the bitter tang of coffee clutched in nervous hands. Rows of worn wooden desks stretched across the room, their surfaces etched with years of idle doodles and initials, a testament to the countless students who had passed through. The windows, tall and arched, let in slants of golden morning light that danced across the faded linoleum floor, illuminating specks of dust swirling in the air. The room buzzed with anticipation, a chaotic symphony of whispered conversations, rustling backpacks, and the occasional squeak of a chair.

You, a 19-year-old literature major, sat in the back row, your heart thudding with a mix of excitement and dread. Your life until this moment had been a quiet one, shaped by the rhythms of your small coastal hometown. You were the eldest of three siblings, always the dependable one, carrying the weight of your parents’ hopes on your shoulders. Your childhood smelled of sea salt and pine, tasted of your mother’s kimchi stew, and sounded like the crash of waves against the shore. You’d spent your teenage years buried in books, dreaming of escape, of a life where your words could paint worlds. Seoul University was your chance, but now, surrounded by strangers with their confident laughs and city-bred ease, you felt like a sparrow in a storm. Your fingers twisted a strand of your dark hair, the motion a nervous tic, as you hunched over your notebook, pretending to reread the syllabus for Introduction to Poetry.

Across the room, Park Jimin sat slouched in his chair, his lean frame draped in a loose black hoodie that seemed to swallow him. His dark hair, slightly too long, fell into his eyes, casting soft shadows across his face. At 19, he was a dance major, his scholarship a hard-won ticket out of Busan, where he’d grown up under the care of his single mother. Her late-night sewing, the whir of her machine a lullaby, had paid for his dance lessons, but it was his talent—raw, electrifying—that had brought him here. Jimin’s life was one of contrasts: the freedom of movement on a dance floor, the weight of responsibility at home. He carried a guarded heart, scarred by a father who’d left when he was too young to understand why, and by friendships that had frayed under the strain of his ambition. Yet his eyes, almond-shaped and warm, held a quiet kindness, a spark that flickered beneath his reserved exterior.

You didn’t notice him at first, too caught up in your own anxieties. The professor, a wiry man with glasses perched precariously on his nose, droned on about the course, his voice a monotone hum that blended with the room’s ambient noise. Then came the moment that changed everything: a group project on analyzing a poem. You’d overslept, your alarm silenced by a dead phone battery, and had sprinted across campus, your sneakers slapping against the pavement, your backpack bouncing wildly. You burst into the lecture hall ten minutes late, your cheeks flushed, your breath ragged. As you hurried to your seat, your bag caught on a desk, spilling its contents across the floor—pens, a battered poetry anthology, a half-eaten granola bar. The clatter drew every eye, and you froze, mortification burning through you.

Jimin, seated a few rows away, watched the scene unfold. He saw the way your shoulders hunched, the way your hands trembled as you scrambled to gather your things. Something stirred in him—a pull he couldn’t name. Without thinking, he slid from his chair and knelt beside you, his movements fluid, like a dancer’s. His fingers brushed yours as he handed you a stray pen, the contact brief but electric, sending a jolt through your skin. You looked up, startled, and met his eyes. They were deep, molten, framed by lashes that seemed unfairly long. His lips curved into a small, lopsided grin, softening the sharp angles of his face.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, your voice barely audible, your face burning. “I’m a mess.”

“You’re not a mess,” he said, his voice low, steady, with a hint of a Busan accent that made the words feel warm, like a hearth. “You’re just human.”

The moment passed, but it lingered, a quiet spark in the chaos of the lecture hall. You sat back down, your heart still racing, as the professor called out project pairs. “Park Jimin and… y/n,” he announced, and your eyes flicked to Jimin, who was already looking at you, his expression unreadable but curious.

Over the next few weeks, you worked together, meeting in the library’s quiet corners, where the air smelled of old paper and dust, or in the campus café, where the clink of cups and the hiss of the espresso machine formed a comforting backdrop. The café was your favorite, its walls lined with mismatched art, its tables wobbly but sturdy. You’d sit across from Jimin, your notes spread out, a cup of chamomile tea cooling beside you. He’d sip an iced vanilla latte, the condensation dripping onto the table, leaving little rings he’d trace with his finger when he was lost in thought.

Jimin was patient, listening as you rambled about your love for rhymes, your fear of failing your parents, your dream of writing a novel someday. His presence was steadying, like an anchor in a storm. He shared pieces of himself too—stories of his mother’s sacrifices, the way dance made him feel weightless, the way he hummed old pop songs when he was nervous. You learned he loved spicy ramyeon but couldn’t handle kimchi’s heat, that he had a scar on his knee from a childhood fall, that he sketched in a notebook he kept hidden. He learned you loved the smell of rain, that you wrote poems in a leather-bound journal you never showed anyone, that you cried at the ending of every sad novel.

Each meeting was a thread, weaving a fragile bond. You laughed when he accidentally spilled latte foam on his notes, as he scrubbed at the stain. You blushed when he complimented your analysis, his voice soft but earnest. You didn’t know it then, but for Jimin, that first brush of your fingers had been more than a spark—it was a flame, small but persistent, that would burn quietly in his heart for years to come. Every smile you gave him, every shared glance, fanned it higher, even as he told himself to keep it hidden, to be content with the friendship blooming between you.

By the end of the semester, Jimin wasn’t just your project partner. He was your friend, someone who made the chaos of university feel less daunting. You finished the project with an A, celebrated with cheap street food under the neon lights of a Seoul night market, the air thick with the sizzle of tteokbokki and the chatter of vendors. As you laughed over a shared plate, sauce smudging your chin, Jimin watched you, his heart aching with a love he didn’t yet have the courage to name. For now, he was content to be by your side, to be the one who made you smile, even if it meant burying his feelings deep, where they couldn’t risk breaking what you’d built together.

The autumn bled into vibrant spring, and by your sophomore year at Seoul University, your friendship with Park Jimin had woven itself into the fabric of your daily life, as essential as the air you breathed. The campus, with its sprawling courtyards and ivy-clad buildings, became a backdrop to a bond that grew stronger with every shared moment. You were 20 now, your dorm room a cozy haven of fairy lights, dog-eared novels, and the faint scent of lavender from a candle your mother had sent. Your life was a delicate balance of ambition and anxiety—late nights hunched over essays, part-time shifts at a bookstore, and the constant pressure to prove you belonged in this city, far from the quiet coastal town where you’d grown up as the responsible eldest sibling, always smoothing the edges of your family’s chaos.

Jimin, also 20, a dance major whose grace on stage belied the weight he carried off it. Raised in Busan by his single mother, a seamstress who worked late into the night to fund his dreams, Jimin had learned early to mask his struggles with a smile. His scholarship demanded perfection, and he poured himself into dance, his body a vessel for stories he couldn’t speak. His dorm was a cramped space cluttered with worn dance shoes, protein bars, and a single photo of his mother tacked to the wall, her tired eyes mirroring his own on the hardest days. Yet, with you, he was lighter, his laughter unguarded, his presence a warmth that chased away your doubts.

Your friendship was a constellation of small, vivid moments, each one a star in the galaxy of your shared history. Study sessions in the library were a ritual, the air thick with the musty scent of old books and the hum of fluorescent lights. Jimin would smuggle in convenience store snacks—crisp seaweed chips for him, spicy tteokbokki-flavored crackers for you—his fingers brushing yours as he passed them under the table, a silent rebellion against the stern librarians. You’d pore over your notes, your pen tapping a nervous rhythm, while Jimin sketched absentmindedly in the margins of his notebook, his pencil tracing the curve of your jaw when he thought you weren’t looking. “Focus,” you’d chide, catching his eye, and he’d grin, that lopsided smile that made your chest flutter, though you chalked it up to the caffeine.

Afternoons often found you in the campus courtyard, sprawled on a checkered blanket beneath a cherry blossom tree, its petals drifting like soft pink snow. You’d read poetry aloud, your voice weaving through the warm air, Neruda’s verses rolling off your tongue: “I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.” Jimin would listen, his head tilted back, eyes half-closed, the sunlight catching the sharp line of his jaw. Sometimes he’d hum a melody, low and sweet, a habit from his childhood. You learned he loved iced vanilla lattes, the way the sweetness lingered on his lips, and he knew you craved strawberry milkshakes when you were stressed, the kind with extra whipped cream that left a frothy mustache you’d laughingly wipe away.

Jimin was your anchor in the storm of university life. When you failed a midterm and hid in the stairwell, your sobs echoing in the cold concrete space, he found you, his sneakers scuffing the steps as he sat beside you. He didn’t speak, just offered you his hoodie, the fabric warm and smelling faintly of his cedarwood cologne. “You’re not a failure,” he said finally, his voice soft but firm, his hand resting on your shoulder, grounding you. When your roommate moved out, leaving you scrambling to cover rent, he spent hours helping you craft a job application for the bookstore, his patience unwavering as you rewrote it three times. He celebrated your small victories—your scholarship, your first published poem in the campus literary magazine—with a quiet pride, his eyes crinkling as he toasted you with a cheap plastic cup of soju in your dorm.

You knew Jimin just as intimately. You knew he hated confrontation, his shoulders tensing at the slightest raised voice, a remnant of childhood arguments he’d overheard. You knew he called his mother every Sunday, his voice softening as he spoke in his Busan dialect, promising to visit soon. You knew he pushed himself too hard, his body bruised and aching from endless dance rehearsals, yet he’d never admit it. You’d seen him at his lowest, like when he sprained his ankle before a major performance, collapsing on the studio floor, his face buried in his hands. You’d knelt beside him, your fingers brushing his sweat-damp hair, whispering, “You’ll dance again, Jimin. I know you will.” He’d looked at you, his eyes glassy but grateful, and nodded, trusting your words more than his own heart.

Your friendship was a tapestry of silly, sacred moments. There was the night you dragged him to a karaoke bar, the neon lights casting a pink glow on his cheeks as you both downed soju shots, your laughter slurring into song. You belted out a cheesy duet, your voice cracking on the high notes, while Jimin’s was smooth, effortless, his dance training giving him a performer’s ease. He teased you mercilessly when you tripped over the mic cord, catching you before you fell, his hands warm on your waist. Another time, you went hiking on a whim, only to get lost in the hills outside Seoul. The air smelled of pine and earth, and when you slipped into a mud puddle, your sneakers squelching, Jimin doubled over, his laughter bright and unrestrained, echoing through the trees. “You’re a disaster,” he gasped, helping you up, his fingers lingering on yours.

Baking together was a comedy of errors. Your dorm kitchen was barely functional, the oven temperamental, but you decided to make chocolate chip cookies one rainy afternoon. Flour dusted Jimin’s cheeks like soft snow, and you giggled as he flicked a pinch at you, the white powder catching in your hair. He mixed the dough with exaggerated care, his tongue poking out in concentration, while you snuck spoonfuls of it, earning a playful swat. Half the cookies burned, the kitchen filling with the acrid scent of char, but you ate the salvageable ones, sitting cross-legged on the floor, the rain pattering against the window. “We’re hopeless,” you said, and he grinned, his eyes soft. “We’re perfect.”

Your friend group—Hana, Minho, and Soo-jin—became a second family, their teasing a constant soundtrack. Hana, with her sharp wit, would smirk over her coffee, saying, “You two are basically a couple, just admit it.” Minho, ever the jokester, would mime a wedding march, dodging your swat with a cackle. Soo-jin, quieter but no less mischievous, would raise an eyebrow when Jimin draped his jacket over you on chilly nights, murmuring, “When’s the proposal?” You’d roll your eyes, laughing it off, your voice firm: “He’s my best friend, you weirdos. Stop it.” Jimin would chuckle, his smile bright but brittle, a facade you never questioned. You didn’t see the way his gaze lingered on you, the way his hands flexed when you hugged him casually, the way he swallowed his pain to keep you close.

Those moments—study sessions, courtyard afternoons, karaoke nights, baking disasters—were the threads that bound you. Jimin knew your fears, your dreams, the way you chewed your lip when you were nervous. You knew his silences, his resilience, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about dance. Your trust was absolute, a haven in the chaos of youth.

Jimin’s love for you was a quiet wildfire, burning beneath the surface of his carefully crafted facade, hidden in the crevices of his heart where no one—not even you—could find it. It was a love that had taken root the moment your fingers brushed his in that chaotic lecture hall, a love that grew with every shared laugh, every late-night conversation, every fleeting glance. By your junior year, it had become a constant ache, a bittersweet companion to every moment he spent with you. He carried it like a secret treasure, both precious and painful, guarding it fiercely behind his warm smiles and easy laughter.

In the soft golden light of a September afternoon, you sat together in the campus courtyard, the air crisp with the scent of fallen leaves and distant coffee from the nearby café. You were sprawled on a checkered blanket, your hair catching the sunlight as you read aloud from a worn copy of love poems, your voice rising and falling like a melody. Jimin lay beside you, propped on one elbow, his sketchbook open but forgotten in his lap. His eyes traced the curve of your cheek, the way your lips moved over the words, the faint freckles dusting your nose. To anyone else, he looked relaxed, content, but inside, his heart was a storm—raging with the urge to reach out, to brush his fingers against your hand, to confess the words that clawed at his throat. Instead, he sketched absentmindedly, the pencil tracing lines that mirrored your silhouette, a silent ode to the love he could never speak.

His devotion was in the details, woven into the fabric of your friendship with a tenderness so subtle you never questioned it. He memorized your coffee order—iced caramel macchiato with an extra shot of espresso when you were stressed, a dash of cinnamon when you were happy—and slipped it into your hands during late-night library sessions, the cup still warm from the barista’s machine. When the autumn chill crept into the air, he’d drape his oversized denim jacket over your shoulders, the fabric carrying the faint scent of his cologne, cedarwood and vanilla, grounding you in its warmth. He walked you home after every late class, his steps matching yours, his eyes scanning the shadowed streets to ensure you were safe. He listened to your rants about your professors, your fears of failing, your dreams of publishing a poetry collection, his gaze soft but intense, as if he were committing every word to memory.

But love, for Jimin, was also pain—a sharp, relentless ache that pierced him every time you called him “bestie,” every time you hugged him with the casual ease of friendship, your arms loose and fleeting. Each time your friends teased you about being a couple. You'd laugh waving it off. Jimin would force a chuckle, his lips curving into a smile that never reached his eyes, but inside, his chest tightened, his throat burned. He’d clench his fists under the table, nails biting into his palms, grounding himself in the pain to keep the facade intact. You never noticed the flicker of hurt in his gaze, the way his shoulders tensed, the way his laughter sounded hollow. You never saw the way he swallowed his longing, burying it deep to preserve the fragile balance of your friendship.

Late at night, in the solitude of his cramped dorm room, Jimin’s facade crumbled. The walls were thin, the air heavy with the scent of old wood and the faint tang of his sweat-soaked dance clothes piled in the corner. He’d lie on his narrow bed, the springs creaking under his weight, staring at the ceiling where glow-in-the-dark stars—remnants of a childhood whim—faded into the dark. His mind replayed every moment with you: the way you’d tucked a strand of hair behind your ear during a study session, the way you’d grinned when he’d snuck you a strawberry milkshake, the way your eyes sparkled when you talked about your favorite books. He’d imagine what it would be like to hold your hand, to kiss you under the starlit sky, to call you his. But then reality would crash in—you didn’t love him that way, you never would—and the ache would sharpen, a knife twisting in his chest. He’d whisper to himself, “It’s enough. Being her friend is enough.” But the lie tasted bitter, and sleep rarely came.

Jimin’s popularity on campus only deepened his isolation. He was a star in the dance department, his performances drawing crowds who marveled at the fluidity of his movements, the way his body told stories words couldn’t. Girls lingered after his shows, their eyes bright with admiration, their voices soft as they slipped him notes or confessed their crushes in hesitant whispers. Some were bold, brushing their hands against his arm, offering shy smiles as they asked him out for coffee. But Jimin was a fortress, his heart reserved for you alone. His responses were polite but distant, a single glance—sharp, unyielding, his dark eyes like a storm—enough to send them retreating. He didn’t care about their attention, their affection. It was your laughter he craved, your presence that lit his world. To him, no one else existed.

You, oblivious to the depth of his feelings, saw him as your safe haven, your constant. You’d nudge him during lunch in the cafeteria, the air thick with the smell of kimchi and fried chicken, and say, “Jimin, you’re such a catch. Why don’t you date someone? You’d make an amazing boyfriend.” Your tone was light, encouraging, your eyes crinkling with a smile as you stole a fry from his plate. Each word was a dagger, slicing through the fragile armor he’d built. He’d nod, his jaw tight, his fingers curling around his chopsticks until his knuckles whitened. “Maybe someday,” he’d mutter, his voice low, forcing a smile that felt like a betrayal. You never noticed the way his eyes flickered with pain, the way his shoulders slumped slightly, the way he pushed his food around his plate, appetite gone. You never saw the storm raging beneath his calm exterior, the way your words echoed in his mind long after you’d changed the subject.

His love was a silent vow, one he’d made without your knowledge. He’d decided long ago that having you as a friend—close enough to share your secrets, your laughter, your fears—was better than risking it all for a confession that might shatter everything. If being your best friend meant he could keep you in his life, could see your smile, could hear your voice, then he’d bear the pain. It was a sacrifice he made daily, a choice to hide his heart to protect yours. But every moment with you was a dance on the edge of a blade, a balance between joy and agony, and Jimin danced it with a grace that belied the weight he carried.

In the quiet moments, when you weren’t looking, he’d steal glances, his eyes tracing your face as if to memorize it for a lifetime without you. He’d watch you laugh, the sound like wind chimes in a summer breeze, and think, I’d give anything for you to look at me the way I look at you. But he never said it. He never would. Instead, he poured his love into the small things—the coffee cups, the late-night walks, the way he’d linger just a moment longer when you hugged him goodbye, savoring the warmth of your body against his. It was enough, he told himself. It had to be. Because losing you, even the thought of it, was a darkness he couldn’t face.

The October evening draped Minho’s off-campus apartment in a crisp, autumnal chill, the kind that made you pull your sweater tighter around your shoulders. The living room glowed with a warm, amber haze from fairy lights strung haphazardly along the walls, their soft twinkle casting playful shadows on the worn wooden floor. The air was thick with the mingled scents of greasy pizza, the sharp tang of soju, and the faint sweetness of vanilla candles flickering on the coffee table. A playlist of lo-fi beats hummed in the background, barely audible over the laughter and chatter of you, Jimin, Hana, Minho, and Soo-jin, sprawled across mismatched couches and cushions.

You were 21, in your senior year, and the weight of impending graduation loomed like a distant storm. Tonight, though, you’d shed that burden, letting the soju loosen your limbs and warm your cheeks. You sat cross-legged on the couch, your body tilted slightly toward Jimin, who was beside you, his presence as familiar as the beat of your own heart. Your head buzzed pleasantly, the alcohol painting the world in softer edges, and you giggled at something Hana said, your shoulder brushing Jimin’s. He was protective as always, his arm resting casually along the back of the couch, not quite touching you but close enough to feel his warmth. His eyes, dark and watchful, scanned the room, ensuring you were safe, comfortable, happy. The faintest scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something citrusy—clung to the air, grounding you.

The game of truth or dare had started as a whim, a way to keep the night lively after the pizza boxes were emptied and the soju bottles began to dwindle. The coffee table was a battlefield of crumpled napkins, half-eaten crusts, and sticky shot glasses, the candlelight reflecting off their surfaces like tiny stars. Hana, her hair dyed a bold crimson, kicked things off with a mischievous grin, daring Minho to serenade a throw pillow with a love song. Minho, ever the clown, clutched the pillow to his chest, his voice warbling through a dramatic rendition of a cheesy ballad, his glasses slipping down his nose. You laughed until your sides ached, clutching Jimin’s arm for balance, your fingers digging into the soft fabric of his black sweater. He chuckled, but you didn’t notice the way his gaze lingered on your hand, the way his smile faltered for a fraction of a second.

Soo-jin went next, choosing truth. Her confession—that she’d once “borrowed” a library book and never returned it—drew gasps and playful jeers. She tossed a cushion at Hana, her laughter bright, her short bob swaying as she dodged retaliation. The game rolled on, each turn upping the ante, the room growing louder, warmer, more reckless. You took another sip of soju, the sweet burn sliding down your throat, and leaned back, your shoulder now fully pressed against Jimin’s side. He shifted slightly, his thigh brushing yours, and you thought nothing of it—Jimin was your best friend, your safe harbor, the one who knew you better than anyone. Physical closeness was normal, wasn’t it?

Then it was Jimin’s turn. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sweater, a nervous habit you’d noticed years ago. “Truth,” he said, his voice steady but low, almost swallowed by the hum of the music. His dark hair fell into his eyes, and he brushed it back, the motion quick, almost impatient.

Minho, lounging on the floor with a shot glass dangling from his fingers, smirked, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Alright, Jimin,” he drawled, dragging out the words. “Do you love someone? Like, really love them? Not just a crush, but the real deal.”

The room stilled, the air shifting, heavy with anticipation. You turned to Jimin, your eyes wide, a grin tugging at your lips. Love? Jimin? Your best friend, who shared his fries with you, who stayed up late helping you cram for exams, who knew your obsession with spicy tteokbokki and your hatred of early mornings—how had he never mentioned this? Your heart gave a curious lurch, eager for gossip, oblivious to the storm brewing beside you.

Jimin’s jaw tightened, a muscle flickering in his cheek. His gaze darted to you, so brief it was almost imperceptible, before he looked away, staring at the flickering candle on the table. The flame danced, casting shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his lips. “Yeah,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper, rough with something you couldn’t name. “I do.”

Your mouth fell open, and you slapped his arm, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “What?” you exclaimed, your voice bright with drunken enthusiasm. “You never told me, your bestie, about this? Who is she? Spill, Park Jimin! How dare you keep secrets?”

Hana and Soo-jin exchanged a glance, their smiles faltering, but you were too tipsy to notice. Minho raised an eyebrow, his smirk fading into something unreadable. Jimin’s smile was tight, almost pained, his eyes shadowed as he shrugged. “It’s… complicated,” he muttered, his voice flat, deflecting. He reached for his soju glass, downing it in one swift motion, the liquid glinting in the candlelight. You pouted, nudging him again, but the moment passed, the game moving on. You didn’t see the way his hand clenched around the empty glass, the way his knuckles whitened, the way his chest rose and fell with a shuddering breath.

The dares grew bolder, the truths more invasive. Hana had to text her ex something embarrassing, and Minho dared Soo-jin to do a cartwheel, which ended with her knocking over a lamp, sending you all into hysterics. The room was alive with chaos, the kind of reckless joy that only comes from youth and alcohol. You were laughing, your head tilted back, when it was your turn again. “Dare,” you said boldly, the soju making you fearless, your voice ringing with confidence.

Hana’s eyes gleamed, her lips curling into a wicked smile. She leaned forward, her elbows on the coffee table, her crimson hair catching the light. “Oh, this is gonna be good,” she said, pausing for effect. “Kiss Jimin. On the lips. For ten seconds.”

The room erupted in cheers and whistles, Minho clapping like he’d just won the lottery. You laughed, waving a hand dismissively, the dare feeling like nothing more than a silly game. “Easy peasy,” you said, turning to Jimin with a playful grin. “Ready, jimin?”

Jimin’s face was a mask, his eyes dark, unreadable. His hand was fisted in his lap, the veins in his forearm standing out, his jaw so tight you could see the tension in his neck. But you were too drunk, too caught up in the moment, to notice. You leaned in, your heart light, your lips meeting his in what you thought was a fun, friendly kiss. His lips were soft, warm, tasting faintly of soju and something sweet, maybe the candy he’d been eating earlier. For a split second, it felt… different. Right. Your head spun, not just from the alcohol, but from the unexpected warmth pooling in your chest.

Then Jimin kissed you back, and everything changed. His hand shot to your waist, gripping you hard, his fingers digging into your skin through your sweater. He pulled you closer, his kiss deepening, no longer playful but desperate, hungry, like he was pouring every ounce of his soul into it. His other hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you in place, and you gasped into his mouth, your hands grabbing his shoulders for balance. The room faded—the cheers, the music, your friends—until it was just him, just the heat of his lips, the frantic beat of his heart under your palms.

Ten seconds stretched into eternity. Then, abruptly, he pushed you away, his hands shaking as he released you. His chest heaved, his eyes blazing with a storm of anger and hurt, his lips red and glistening from the kiss. “Enough,” he snapped, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. The cheers died, your friends staring in stunned silence. Jimin stood, his chair scraping against the floor, and stormed out, his footsteps heavy, the door slamming behind him with a force that rattled the walls.

You sat there, frozen, your lips tingling, your heart pounding so hard it hurt. Your sweater was askew, your hair mussed from his hand, and you could still feel the ghost of his grip on your waist. The room was silent, the air thick with tension. Hana’s mouth was open, Minho’s smirk gone, Soo-jin’s eyes wide with shock. You blinked, your mind struggling to catch up, the soju clouding your thoughts. What had just happened? Why was he so angry? It was just a dare, just a game.

“Uh… wow,” Hana said finally, breaking the silence, her voice uncertain. “That was… intense.”

You forced a laugh, but it sounded hollow, your hands trembling as you smoothed your sweater. “He’s probably just drunk,” you said, trying to brush it off, but your voice wavered. You grabbed your soju glass, downing the rest, the burn doing nothing to quell the confusion swirling in your chest. Jimin’s kiss, his anger, his departure—they didn’t make sense. He was your best friend. Your Jimin. What had you done wrong?

The next day at the university was a blur of gray skies and restless thoughts, the campus draped in the heavy dampness of an impending autumn rain. You sat through your morning literature seminar, your notebook open but untouched, the professor’s voice a distant hum as your mind replayed the previous night: Jimin’s lips on yours, the raw hunger in his kiss, the fury in his eyes as he pushed you away and stormed out. Your stomach churned with worry, your fingers twisting the hem of your oversized sweater, the soft wool fraying under your nervous grip. Jimin hadn’t shown up to class, hadn’t answered your texts or calls, and the silence was deafening. You’d sent him a dozen messages—“Are you okay?” “Please talk to me.” “Jimin, I’m worried.”—but your phone remained stubbornly blank, the screen’s cold glow mocking your growing unease.

At noon, you found yourself in the bustling cafeteria, the air thick with the scent of kimchi stew and fried dumplings. The clatter of trays and the chatter of students felt suffocating, amplifying the knot in your chest. You sat at a corner table, picking at a bowl of bibimbap you had no appetite for, the vibrant colors of the vegetables dull against the storm in your mind. Your eyes kept darting to the entrance, hoping to see Jimin’s familiar figure—his dark hair falling into his eyes, his easy smile—but the doorway remained empty.

That’s when Minho approached, his usual playful grin replaced by a seriousness that made your heart lurch. He was one of Jimin’s closest friends, a lanky economics major with a sharp wit and a knack for reading people. Today, his dark eyes were intense, his jaw set as he pulled out a chair and sat across from you, the scrape of the metal legs against the linoleum floor jarring in the crowded space. His hoodie smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, a habit he swore he’d quit but always fell back on during stressful times.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, cutting through the cafeteria’s din. “We need to talk.”

You swallowed, your throat dry despite the untouched bottle of barley tea beside you. “Is it about Jimin? What’s going on? He’s not answering me, Minho. I’m freaking out.”

Minho leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his fingers interlaced so tightly his knuckles whitened. His gaze pinned you in place, and for the first time, you noticed the frustration in his eyes, a flicker of exasperation that made you shrink into your seat. “How can you not see it?” he said, his voice steady but laced with an edge that cut deeper than you expected. “Jimin’s in love with you. He’s been in love with you since freshman year, since you two were paired up for that poetry project. Everyone knows it—Hana, Soo-jin, me. It’s so fucking obvious, but you keep acting like it’s a joke, like he’s just your ‘bestie.’ You’re breaking his heart, and you don’t even realize it.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, stealing the air from your lungs. Your fork slipped from your fingers, clattering against the bowl, the sound sharp in the bubble of silence that seemed to form around you. Your mind raced, fragments of memories flashing like a disjointed film: Jimin’s soft smiles when you rambled about books, the way he’d drape his jacket over you when it was cold, the hurt in his eyes when you laughed off your friends’ teasing. In love with you. The idea was so foreign, so impossible, that it felt like a betrayal—not of Jimin, but of the friendship you’d built, the one you thought was unshakable. Your chest tightened, a dull ache spreading as guilt clawed its way up your throat.

“What?” you whispered, your voice trembling, barely audible over the cafeteria’s hum. “No, that’s… that’s not true. He’s my friend, Minho. He’s never said anything, never even hinted—”

Minho cut you off, his voice sharper now, his frustration boiling over. “He doesn’t say it because he knows you don’t feel the same. Do you think he’s stupid? He sees the way you look at him—like he’s your brother, your safety net, not someone you’d ever want. He’d rather have you as a friend than lose you completely, so he keeps his mouth shut and lets you hurt him over and over again.” He leaned closer, his eyes narrowing, his words relentless. “But last night? You kissed him like it was nothing, like it was a fucking game. You were drunk, giggling, treating his feelings like a dare. Do you have any idea how much that destroyed him? He’s been carrying this for years, and you just… you just stomped on it.”

Tears pricked your eyes, hot and stinging, as Minho’s words carved into you. You saw it now—the way Jimin’s smile faltered when you called him your best friend, the way his hands clenched when Hana teased you about being a couple, the way he’d look away when you encouraged him to date. How had you been so blind? Your lips trembled, and you pressed a hand to your mouth, trying to stifle the sob threatening to escape. The cafeteria’s noise faded to a dull roar, the world narrowing to the weight of Minho’s accusation and the image of Jimin’s anguished face as he’d left the night before.

“I didn’t know,” you choked out, your voice breaking as a tear slipped down your cheek, warm against your cold skin. “I swear, Minho, I didn’t know. I never meant to hurt him. He’s… he’s everything to me.”

Minho’s expression softened slightly, but his eyes remained hard, unyielding. “Then why didn’t you see it? You know him better than anyone. You know how he looks at you, how he’s always there, how he’d do anything for you. You think he brings you coffee every morning because he’s just being nice? You think he walks you home at midnight because he’s got nothing better to do? Open your eyes, for fuck’s sake. He’s not your friend—he’s in love with you, and you’re killing him.”

The sob broke free, low and ragged, and you buried your face in your hands, the salt of your tears mingling with the faint taste of your lip balm. Your mind was a storm of regret, guilt, and confusion, each memory of Jimin now tinged with a new, painful clarity. The time he’d stayed up all night helping you revise your essay, his eyes bloodshot but his smile unwavering. The time he’d driven across the city to pick you up when your car broke down, his voice gentle as he told you not to worry. The time he’d held you when you cried over a fight with your parents, his arms warm and steady, his heartbeat a quiet anchor beneath your cheek. How had you missed it? How had you taken his love and twisted it into something platonic, something safe?

Minho sighed, his shoulders slumping as he watched you cry. He reached across the table, hesitating before resting a hand on your arm, his touch awkward but grounding. “Look,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost gentle. “I’m not saying you’re a bad person. You’re not. But you need to fix this. Jimin’s not okay, and if you care about him like you say you do, you can’t keep pretending everything’s fine. Talk to him. Be honest, even if it hurts. Because if you don’t, you’re going to lose him for good, and I know you don’t want that.”

You nodded, your hands still covering your face, your breath hitching as you tried to pull yourself together. The cafeteria’s noise crept back in—the clink of chopsticks, the laughter of a group nearby, the hum of a vending machine—but it felt distant, like it belonged to another world. You wiped your eyes, your fingers smearing mascara, and looked at Minho, his face a mix of pity and resolve.

“Where is he?” you asked, your voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“He’s at his apartment,” Minho said, leaning back in his chair. “He didn’t want to come to campus today. Said he needed space. But I think he needs you, even if he won’t admit it.”

You stood, your legs shaky, the weight of Minho’s words pressing down on you like a physical force. Your backpack felt heavier than it should, the straps digging into your shoulders as you slung it over your back. “I’ll go to him,” you said, more to yourself than to Minho. “I have to.”

Minho nodded, his expression unreadable. “Just… don’t make it worse, okay? He’s been through enough.”

You didn’t respond, couldn’t find the words. Instead, you turned and walked out of the cafeteria, the cool air outside hitting your tear-streaked face like a slap. The campus was alive with students hurrying to classes, their voices a blur as you moved through them, your heart pounding with a mix of fear and determination. You had to see Jimin. You had to face the truth, no matter how much it hurt. Because Minho was right—you couldn’t lose him, not when he was the one person who’d always been there, the one person you couldn’t imagine your life without.

As you headed toward the bus stop, the first raindrops fell, cold and sharp against your skin, mirroring the storm raging inside you. You didn’t know what you’d say to Jimin, didn’t know how to fix the pain you’d caused. But you knew you had to try, even if it meant tearing open your own heart in the process.

The evening air was heavy with the threat of rain as you stood outside Jimin’s apartment, your heart hammering against your ribcage like a caged bird desperate to escape. The building loomed before you, its weathered brick facade stained with years of city grit, the hallway beyond the entrance dimly lit and smelling faintly of damp wood and stale cigarette smoke. Your hands trembled as you knocked, the sound sharp and echoing in the quiet corridor. Each second that passed felt like an eternity, your breath shallow, your stomach twisting with a cocktail of guilt, fear, and something you couldn’t yet name.

When Jimin opened the door, the sight of him stole the air from your lungs. He looked wrecked—his dark hair disheveled, strands falling into his bloodshot eyes, the shadows beneath them stark against his pale skin. His usual warmth was gone, replaced by a coldness that made your chest ache. He wore a faded black t-shirt and sweatpants, his shoulders hunched as if carrying an invisible weight. The faint scent of his cologne—sandalwood and citrus—lingered, but it was overshadowed by the sharp tang of exhaustion and something raw, like the aftermath of tears.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice low and jagged, like broken glass. He leaned against the doorframe, blocking your path, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as if to shield himself from you.

“We need to talk,” you said, your voice trembling but resolute. You stepped forward, refusing to let him shut you out. He hesitated, his jaw tightening, then stepped aside, letting you into his small, cluttered apartment. The space was a snapshot of his life—dance shoes scattered near the door, a stack of books on the coffee table, a half-empty mug of coffee on the counter. The air was warm, thick with the scent of him, and the dim light from a single floor lamp cast long shadows across the room, making it feel both intimate and oppressive.

He closed the door with a soft click, the sound unnervingly final. You turned to face him, your hands twisting together, your pulse a relentless drumbeat in your ears. He leaned against the wall, his posture defensive, his eyes fixed on the floor. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he said, his voice flat, but you caught the tremor beneath it, the crack in his carefully constructed armor.

“Jimin, please,” you said, your voice breaking, the words spilling out like water from a cracked dam. “What happened last night? Why are you avoiding me? You didn’t come to class, you didn’t answer my texts—I’m worried about you.” Your throat tightened, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. The memory of his kiss, his anger, the way he’d stormed out, played on a loop in your mind, each replay sharper, more painful.

He laughed, a bitter, hollow sound that cut through the air like a blade. “You’re worried?” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, his eyes finally meeting yours. They were stormy, dark with a mix of anger, hurt, and something deeper, something that made your heart stutter. “You really don’t get it, do you? You never have.”

“Then tell me!” you yelled, frustration erupting like a volcano, your voice echoing off the walls. Your hands clenched into fists, your nails biting into your palms, the pain grounding you. “Stop shutting me out! Stop acting like I’m the enemy when all I want is to understand why you’re hurting!”

He moved so fast it stole your breath, crossing the room in two strides and pinning you against the wall. His hands slammed against the plaster on either side of your head, caging you in, his body inches from yours. The heat of him was overwhelming, his chest heaving, his breath hot and ragged against your face. His eyes burned into yours, raw and unfiltered, a maelstrom of emotions—anger, pain, desperation, and a love so intense it made your knees weak.

“I love you,” he said, his voice low and trembling, each word a wound torn open. “I’ve loved you since the day we met, since you dropped your stupid pens and looked at me with those wide, nervous eyes like I was some kind of savior. I love the way you laugh when you’re nervous, the way you cry at sad movies and pretend you’re fine, the way you burn cookies and insist they’re edible. I love how you ramble about poetry, how you bite your lip when you’re thinking, how you always smell like lavender and vanilla. I know every damn thing about you—your fears, your dreams, your favorite fucking tteokbokki place—and I’ve tried so hard to be okay with just being your friend, but I can’t anymore.”

His voice cracked, his hands trembling against the wall, his knuckles white. “Not after last night,” he continued, his words raw, spilling out like blood. “Not after you kissed me like it was a game, like it meant nothing. Do you have any idea what that did to me? To have you in my arms, to taste you, to feel you, and know it was just a fucking dare? I’ve spent years pretending I’m okay, smiling while you call me your ‘bestie,’ laughing when our friends tease us, but every time you do, it’s like a knife in my chest. And I’m done. I’m done pretending.”

You stared at him, your heart shattering into a thousand pieces, each shard piercing your chest. The air was thick, suffocating, the weight of his confession pressing down on you. Your lips parted, but no words came at first, only the sting of tears streaming down your cheeks, hot and unstoppable. “Jimin, I… I didn’t know,” you whispered, your voice small, fragile, barely audible over the pounding of your heart. “I never saw it. I never thought—”

“Of course you didn’t,” he interrupted, his voice softer now, but no less broken. He stepped back, his hands falling to his sides, his shoulders slumping as if the fight had drained out of him. “Because I never told you. Because I was too scared of this—of you looking at me like you are now, like I’m some stranger you don’t know what to do with. I’d rather have you as a friend, even if it kills me, than lose you completely. But I can’t keep doing this. Not after last night.”

He turned away, running a hand through his hair, his movements jerky, restless. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in, the air heavy with the scent of his cologne and the salt of your tears. You stood frozen, your back against the wall, your hands trembling as you tried to process his words. The truth was a tidal wave, crashing over you, dragging you under. All the moments you’d shared—his quiet care, his protective glances, his unwavering presence—flashed through your mind, now cast in a new light. How had you been so blind?

“Jimin,” you said, your voice shaking as you stepped forward, reaching for him. He stiffened, his back to you, his shoulders rigid. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know how you felt, and I hate that I hurt you. I never meant to. You’re… you’re everything to me. You’re my best friend, my safe place, the one person I can’t imagine my life without. I don’t know what I feel right now—I’m confused, I’m scared—but I know I can’t lose you. I won’t.”

He turned slowly, his eyes searching yours, raw and vulnerable. “Don’t say you’re sorry,” he said, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Just… tell me what you want. Tell me if I’m wasting my time, if I’m just a fool for loving you. Because I can’t keep hoping, not if you’ll never feel the same.”

Your breath hitched, your chest tight with the weight of his words. You stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat of him, to see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the faint scar above his eyebrow, the way his lips trembled. “I don’t know if I’m in love with you,” you admitted, your voice raw, your tears falling freely now. “Not yet. But I know I care about you more than anyone. I know my life is better because you’re in it. I know I want to find out what this could be. Can we… can we try? Please?”

His eyes widened, hope and fear warring in their depths, like a storm breaking over a calm sea. His hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away your tears, his touch gentle but firm, grounding you. “Try what?” he asked, his voice barely audible, his breath warm against your lips.

“Us,” you said, your voice trembling but certain. “I want to try us. I don’t want to lose you, Jimin. I can’t.”

He stared at you, his chest rising and falling, his eyes searching yours for any hint of doubt. Then, with a broken sound—half sob, half groan—he pulled you into his arms, his lips crashing against yours. The kiss was desperate, raw, a collision of years of unspoken longing and pain. His lips were soft but insistent, tasting of salt and need, his hands tangling in your hair, pulling you closer until there was no space between you. You kissed him back, your hands clutching his shirt, your heart racing as you poured everything into it—your guilt, your fear, your hope.

The world fell away, leaving only the heat of his body, the press of his lips, the thunder of your pulse. The kiss was a storm, wild and all-consuming, and when he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged, you knew nothing would ever be the same.

The air in Jimin’s cramped bedroom was heavy, saturated with the electric hum of anticipation, the faint glow of a single bedside lamp casting a warm, amber halo across the rumpled sheets. The bed, unmade and strewn with soft, well-worn linens, carried the lingering scent of his cedarwood cologne, mingling with the musk of his skin, a heady combination that wrapped around you like a second embrace. The walls, adorned with faded posters of dance performances, seemed to pulse with the weight of the moment, as if the room itself held its breath. Your heart thundered, a wild, erratic rhythm that echoed the unspoken desires that had simmered between you for years, now boiling over in a crescendo of need.

Jimin carried you in his arms, his muscles taut yet tender, the heat of his body seeping through his thin cotton shirt into your skin. His strength was effortless, a dancer’s grace honed by years of discipline, and yet his touch was reverent, as if you were a fragile treasure he feared to break. He laid you down on the bed, the mattress sinking slightly under your weight, the cool sheets a sharp contrast to the feverish warmth of his proximity. The fabric grazed your back, soft but slightly coarse, sending a shiver through you as it kissed your skin. His lips, still swollen from the desperate kiss in the living room, found yours again, and the world dissolved into the taste of him—sweet, with a faint trace of soju and the sharp bite of mint from his breath. His kiss was a slow burn, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips before slipping inside, tangling with yours in a dance that was both tender and ravenous, igniting a molten heat that pooled low in your belly.

He pulled back, his eyes—dark, almond-shaped, and shimmering with a storm of emotions—locking onto yours. The lamplight caught the flecks of gold in his irises, making them glow like embers. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice a low, trembling rasp, each word heavy with the weight of his restraint. His breath, warm and uneven, ghosted across your cheek, carrying the faint scent of his cologne and the raw, masculine edge of his arousal. “I’ve wanted you for so long, and if we do this… I won’t be able to stop. I need to know you want me too.”

Your throat tightened, emotion swelling like a tide as you saw the raw vulnerability in his gaze—the boy who’d hidden his love behind a facade of friendship, now baring his soul in the dim light. “I’m sure,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the chaos of your heart, the words tasting of truth and longing. “I want you, Jimin. I want all of you, everything you’ve kept inside.”

A tremor ran through him, his eyes fluttering closed as if your words were a sacred hymn, a balm to the ache he’d carried for years. “Fuck, you have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured, his voice breaking, raw with a need that bordered on desperation. He kissed you again, deeper, hungrier, his lips moving with a fervor that made your head spin. His hands, warm and calloused from countless hours of dance practice, slid under your shirt, the rough pads of his fingers grazing your skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He lifted the fabric over your head, the cool air hitting your bare torso like a shock, your skin prickling as his gaze—intense, worshipful, and almost pained—drank you in.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he said, his voice a hushed confession, barely audible over the pounding of your pulse. His fingers traced the curve of your waist, the soft dip of your collarbone, his touch so light it was almost ghostly, yet it burned, branding you with his adoration. He leaned down, his lips brushing your shoulder, soft and warm, leaving a constellation of open-mouthed kisses that sent shivers cascading down your spine. The scent of his hair—clean, with a faint trace of coconut shampoo and the subtle musk of his sweat—filled your senses as he moved lower, his breath hot and teasing against the swell of your chest.

His hands found the clasp of your bra, and with a deft flick, it fell away, the straps sliding down your arms like whispers. Your breasts were exposed to the cool air, your nipples hardening instantly, tight and sensitive under his gaze. Jimin’s breath hitched, a low, primal groan rumbling in his chest as his eyes darkened, pupils blown wide with desire. “Perfect,” he whispered, his voice thick, almost reverent, as if he were beholding a masterpiece. He cupped your breasts, his palms warm and slightly rough, the contrast delicious against your soft skin. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, slow and deliberate, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. The sensation was electric—a sharp, tingling heat that made you arch into his touch, a soft moan spilling from your lips, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

“Jimin,” you breathed, your voice trembling as he lowered his head, his lips closing around one nipple, his tongue swirling in languid, deliberate circles. The wet heat of his mouth was intoxicating, the gentle scrape of his teeth a thrilling edge that made you gasp, your hands tangling in his dark hair, the strands silky and cool against your fingers. His tongue flicked rapidly, then slowed, savoring you, each movement precise, worshipful. The sounds—your ragged breaths, his soft groans, the wet suck of his mouth—wove a tapestry of intimacy, raw and unfiltered. He kneaded your other breast, his fingers pinching your nipple just enough to make you squirm, the pressure sending a rush of warmth between your thighs, your pussy growing slick, pulsing with need.

“You’re so sensitive,” he murmured against your skin, his voice muffled, his lips brushing your nipple as he spoke, the vibration sending another wave of arousal through you. He switched to your other breast, his tongue teasing, his teeth grazing, and you felt your core clench, the ache intensifying, your arousal coating your inner thighs. His worship was meticulous, each kiss, each touch a declaration of his longing, a silent vow etched into your flesh. Your skin was alive under him, every nerve singing, every inch of you attuned to his devotion.

He pulled back, his lips glistening with saliva, his eyes locked on yours as he slid lower, his hands deftly unbuttoning your jeans. The denim rasped against your skin, the sound loud in the quiet room as he tugged them off, the fabric grazing your thighs, your calves, until they pooled on the floor. Your panties clung to your damp core, the thin cotton darkened with your arousal, and Jimin’s gaze dropped, his breath catching in his throat. “Fuck,” he whispered, his voice raw, almost broken, his hands stilling on your thighs, his fingers digging into your flesh with a possessive gentleness. “You’re… you’re so fucking perfect.”

His fingers traced the edge of your panties, the touch teasing, featherlight, and you felt your pussy pulse, the ache so intense it was almost painful. He slid the fabric down slowly, the cotton dragging against your skin, cool and slightly damp, until you were completely exposed. The air hit your slick folds, a shock of sensation that made you shiver, your vulnerability laid bare before him. Jimin’s jaw tightened, his eyes darkening to near black as he stared at your pussy, glistening with your arousal, the pink of your folds swollen and inviting. “I’ve dreamed of this,” he said, his voice hoarse, his hands trembling as they rested on your thighs. “Of seeing you like this, of tasting you, of making you mine.”

Your breath hitched, your heart pounding as he spread your thighs wider, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh, the pressure grounding yet electrifying. He lowered his head, his breath hot and uneven against your core, the anticipation coiling tight in your belly, a knot of need that threatened to unravel you. When his tongue finally touched you, a slow, languid lick from your entrance to your clit, you moaned, the sound raw and unrestrained, your hips bucking involuntarily. The sensation was overwhelming—warm, wet, and so intimate it made your head spin. His tongue was soft yet firm, tracing every fold, every sensitive ridge, with a precision that spoke of his devotion. The taste of you drew a low, primal groan from his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin, sending a fresh wave of arousal pooling at your entrance.

“Jimin, oh God,” you gasped, your hands fisting the sheets, the fabric cool and slightly rough against your palms as he swirled his tongue around your clit, the pressure perfect, relentless. The room was alive with sound—the wet, rhythmic lapping of his mouth, your breathless moans, the creak of the bed as you writhed under him. He sucked gently on your clit, his lips sealing around it, the suction sending a bolt of pleasure through you, your thighs trembling, threatening to close around his head. His fingers joined his tongue, one slipping inside you, the intrusion smooth and slick, curling upward to stroke that sensitive spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. Your pussy clenched around him, hot and greedy, the wet squelch of your arousal mingling with his groans, the sound filthy and intoxicating.

“You taste so fucking good,” he murmured, his voice thick with lust, his lips brushing your folds as he spoke, the vibration sending shivers through you. “I could stay here forever, just like this, making you come apart for me.” He added a second finger, stretching you slightly, the fullness intensifying the pleasure as he pumped them slowly, his tongue never stopping its assault on your clit. The combination was devastating—each stroke, each lick building a pressure that coiled tighter, hotter, until you were teetering on the edge. Your climax hit like a tidal wave, your body arching off the bed, a keening moan tearing from your throat as your pussy pulsed around his fingers, soaking his hand, your arousal dripping onto the sheets. The scent of your release filled the air, musky and sweet, and Jimin groaned, lapping at you gently as you came down, your body trembling with aftershocks, your skin hypersensitive.

He kissed his way back up your body, his lips leaving a trail of wet heat across your stomach, the soft curve of your ribs, the valley between your breasts. Each kiss was a brand, a claim, the faint salt of your skin lingering on his tongue as he reached your mouth. The kiss was deep, hungry, the taste of your arousal sharp and intimate, his tongue tangling with yours in a way that made your core clench again, already craving more. You tugged at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin, and he pulled it off in one fluid motion, revealing the lean, sculpted lines of his body. His chest was smooth, his muscles taut from years of dance, his skin a warm, golden hue that glowed in the lamplight, marred only by a faint scar on his ribs from a childhood fall. The sight of him stole your breath, his beauty both delicate and powerful, a contradiction that made your heart ache.

You sat up, your hands roaming his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart under your palm, the heat of his skin searing your fingertips. You kissed his collarbone, the salty tang of his sweat mingling with the faint musk of his body, a scent that was uniquely Jimin, grounding and arousing. Your lips trailed lower, brushing the hard planes of his pecs, the slight dip of his sternum, the ridges of his abs, each muscle quivering under your touch. Your tongue darted out, tasting him, the salt and warmth of his skin intoxicating, your teeth grazing just enough to make him hiss, his breath catching in his throat. His hands tangled in your hair, his fingers tightening as you kissed lower, your lips brushing the coarse hair at the base of his abdomen, the scent of him stronger here, musky and primal.

“Fuck, you’re killing me,” he groaned, his voice rough, his hips twitching as you unbuttoned his jeans, the denim rasping as you tugged them down along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, hard and thick, the tip flushed a deep pink and glistening with precum. It was beautiful—long, slightly curved, the veins prominent under the smooth, taut skin, pulsing with his arousal. You wrapped your hand around it, the heat of him searing your palm, the weight heavy and solid. He moaned, his head falling back, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard, the sound raw and desperate. “You don’t have to—fuck,” he gasped as you stroked him slowly, your thumb brushing over the sensitive tip, spreading the precum down his length, the slickness easing your movements.

“I want to,” you said, your voice soft but firm, the words tasting of desire as you leaned forward, kissing the base of his cock, your lips brushing the coarse hair there, the scent of him overwhelming—musk, salt, and the faint sweetness of his arousal. His reaction was immediate—a low, guttural moan, his hands tightening in your hair as you licked a slow stripe up his length, the salt of his skin mingling with the slight bitterness of his precum. You took him into your mouth, just the tip at first, your tongue swirling around it, the taste sharp and heady, the weight of him heavy on your tongue. He cursed, his hips jerking forward, and you felt a surge of power, knowing you could unravel him like this, reduce him to moans and trembling.

But he stopped you, his hands gentle but firm as he pulled you up, his eyes blazing with a need so intense it stole your breath. “I need to be inside you,” he said, his voice raw, his chest heaving, sweat beading on his brow. “I’ve waited too fucking long to love you like this, to feel you around me.”

He laid you back on the bed, his body covering yours, the heat of his skin a delicious contrast to the cool sheets, the faint rustle of fabric under you grounding you in the moment. He kissed you, slow and deep, his hands guiding your legs around his waist, the coarse hair of his thighs brushing your softer skin. You felt the blunt tip of his cock against your entrance, hot and slick with his precum, and you tensed, your pussy still swollen and sensitive from your orgasm, the slickness of your arousal coating your folds, dripping onto the sheets. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and uneven, the faint tremor in his voice betraying his restraint.

“I want you,” you said, your voice trembling with need, your hands gripping his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, leaving faint crescent marks. “Please, Jimin, I need you.”

He pushed into you slowly, the stretch intense, almost overwhelming, as your pussy enveloped him, hot and tight, the slickness easing his entry but not dulling the fullness that made you gasp. The sensation was exquisite—a slow burn that radiated from your core, your walls fluttering around him, gripping him as if your body had been made for him. He groaned, his face buried in your neck, his breath ragged against your skin, the sound vibrating through you. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he moaned, his voice breaking, raw with emotion. “So tight, so wet for me, like you were made for this, for me.”

He paused, letting you adjust, his hands stroking your sides, his fingers tracing the curve of your hips, the soft skin of your belly, grounding you in his touch. The scent of him—sweat, cologne, and the musky edge of his arousal—wrapped around you, intoxicating, anchoring you in the moment. When you nodded, your breath hitching, he began to move, his thrusts slow and deep, each one dragging against your walls, igniting sparks of pleasure that made your toes curl. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin against skin filled the room, mingling with your moans, his low groans, the creak of the bed, the sounds raw and unfiltered, a testament to the intensity of your connection.

“Jimin,” you whimpered, your hips meeting his, the friction building a delicious pressure in your core, your pussy clenching around him, slick and hot, the wetness coating his cock, making each thrust smoother, deeper. He shifted, angling his thrusts to hit that sensitive spot inside you, and you cried out, your voice breaking, your pussy pulsing, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. His cock felt perfect, filling you completely, each stroke a declaration of his longing, his love, the veins pulsing against your walls, the tip brushing your deepest places.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he panted, his voice raw, his eyes locked on yours, the lamplight catching the sweat on his brow, the flush of his cheeks. “To feel you, to love you like this. You’re everything, my everything.” His words were a lifeline, pulling you deeper into the moment, and you kissed him, your tongues tangling, your breaths mingling, the taste of him grounding you even as you spiraled.

He quickened his pace, his thrusts harder, more desperate, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you felt the pressure in your bones, the promise of bruises blooming under his fingers. The pleasure was blinding, your pussy fluttering around him, the wet heat of your arousal coating his cock, dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets. Each thrust was a claim, a vow, the rhythm relentless, the sound of your bodies colliding a primal symphony. You felt your climax building, a tight coil in your belly, hotter, tighter, until it snapped, your orgasm crashing through you, your pussy pulsing around his cock, soaking him with your release. You screamed his name, your body arching off the bed, your nails raking down his back, leaving red trails in their wake, the pleasure so intense it stole your breath.

He followed moments later, his thrusts faltering, a low, guttural moan tearing from his throat as he spilled inside you, his cock throbbing, his release hot and thick, filling you completely. His body shuddered, his breath ragged against your neck, the scent of his sweat and arousal enveloping you as he collapsed onto you, his weight comforting, grounding. The room fell quiet, save for the sound of your ragged breaths, the faint hum of the city outside, the rustle of sheets as he shifted to hold you closer.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice soft but certain, his lips brushing your forehead, the touch tender, almost fragile. Tears pricked your eyes, overwhelmed by the depth of his feelings, the intensity of what you’d shared, the raw, unfiltered connection that had transformed everything.

“I… I’m figuring it out,” you admitted, your voice trembling, your hand resting over his heart, feeling its steady, rapid beat, the warmth of his skin grounding you. “But I know I need you, Jimin. I need this, need us.”

He smiled, a small, hopeful smile, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears, and pulled you closer, his body a warm cocoon around yours. His hands stroked your hair, your back, his touch gentle, reverent, as if he were memorizing every inch of you. The longing that had defined your friendship had ignited, blossoming into something raw, something sacred, and as you lay there, wrapped in each other, the scent of sex and sweat and love heavy in the air, you knew this was only the beginning.

The room was a cocoon of warmth, the air heavy with the lingering scent of sweat, musk, and Jimin’s cologne—a woody, citrusy note that clung to the sheets. The bedside lamp cast a golden glow across the small bedroom, its light pooling on the crumpled duvet and the curve of Jimin’s bare shoulder as he lay beside you. Your bodies were tangled, your leg draped over his, your cheek pressed against the steady rise and fall of his chest. His heartbeat was a quiet drum beneath your ear, grounding you in the surreal aftermath of what had just happened. The world outside his apartment felt distant, irrelevant, as if the universe had shrunk to this bed, this moment.

Jimin’s fingers traced lazy circles on your back, his touch featherlight, sending shivers across your skin despite the warmth. His dark hair was mussed, strands sticking to his forehead, and his lips, still swollen from your kisses, curved into a soft, unguarded smile. You’d never seen him like this—raw, vulnerable, his usual facade of playful confidence stripped away. His eyes, those warm, almond-shaped pools you’d known for years, held something new: a fragile hope, tempered by fear.

You shifted, propping yourself on one elbow to look at him. The sheet slipped, exposing the curve of your hip, and Jimin’s gaze flickered down, his breath hitching before he met your eyes again. “What happens now?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, trembling with the weight of the unknown.

Jimin’s hand stilled on your back, his fingers pressing slightly into your skin as if anchoring himself. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and when he spoke, his voice was low, raw, laced with an intensity that made your chest ache. “We figure it out,” he said, his eyes searching yours. “Together. But… I need to know, Y/N. Do you mean it? What you said about trying? Because I can’t—” He paused, his jaw tightening, his voice breaking. “I can’t go back to pretending I’m okay with just being your friend. Not after this. Not after feeling you like this.”

The vulnerability in his words hit you like a wave, your throat tightening with emotion. You reached out, cupping his face, your thumb brushing the faint stubble along his jaw. His skin was warm, slightly rough, and he leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “Jimin,” you said, your voice thick with tears you hadn’t realized were there. “I meant it. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m scared, but I know I can’t lose you. I… I think I’ve been blind for a long time, but I see you now. I want to try. I want us.”

His eyes snapped open, shimmering with unshed tears. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear that,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I’ve loved you for so long, Y/N. Every day, every moment we spent together, it was like… like I was collecting pieces of you, holding them close because it was all I could have. I’d watch you laugh, watch you cry, watch you live, and I’d think, ‘If I can just be near her, if I can just be her friend, it’s enough.’ But it was never enough. I wanted all of you. I still do.”

Your heart clenched, guilt and love warring within you. “I’m sorry,” you said, your voice trembling. “I’m so sorry I didn’t see it. I hurt you, and I didn’t even know.”

He shook his head, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your foreheads touched. His breath was warm against your lips, smelling faintly of mint from the gum he’d chewed earlier. “Don’t apologize,” he said fiercely. “You’re here now. That’s what matters. Just… don’t leave me. Please.”

“I won’t,” you promised, your lips brushing his as you spoke. The kiss that followed was soft, tender, a seal on your words. His lips moved slowly against yours, savoring every second, his hands cradling your face like you were something precious, fragile. You tasted salt—your tears or his, you weren’t sure—and it only deepened the ache in your chest, the overwhelming need to hold him closer.

You stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other, the world silent except for the soft hum of the city outside and the occasional creak of the old apartment building. Eventually, exhaustion pulled you under, and you fell asleep in his arms, your dreams a kaleidoscope of his smile, his touch, his voice whispering your name.

Morning light filtered through the thin curtains, painting the room in hues of gold and soft pink. You stirred, blinking against the brightness, the warmth of Jimin’s body pressed against your back pulling you fully awake. His arm was draped over your waist, his breath tickling the nape of your neck, steady and slow, as if he were still asleep. The air smelled of him—his cologne, his skin, and the faint musk of last night’s intimacy. Your body ached in the best way, a reminder of how thoroughly he’d loved you.

You shifted, turning to face him, and found his eyes already open, watching you with a quiet intensity. His hair was a mess, his lips parted slightly, and the morning light highlighted the faint freckles across his nose, a detail you’d never noticed before. “Morning,” he murmured, his voice husky with sleep, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Morning,” you replied, your voice soft, a smile tugging at your lips. You reached out, tracing the line of his jaw, and he caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. The gesture was so tender, so intimate, it made your heart flutter.

“You’re still here,” he said, his tone half-teasing, half-relieved, but his eyes betrayed the depth of his fear—that you might have regretted it, that you might leave.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said firmly, leaning in to kiss him. The kiss started gentle but quickly deepened, his hands sliding to your hips, pulling you closer. You could feel him hardening against your thigh, and a spark of desire flared in your core, your body responding to his touch as if it had always known how.

“Jimin,” you breathed, your hands roaming his chest, feeling the taut muscles beneath his skin. He groaned softly, his lips trailing down your neck, nipping at the sensitive spot below your ear. The sensation was electric, your skin tingling under his touch.

“Want you,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low, desperate.

You nodded, your breath hitching as he rolled you onto your back, his body hovering over yours. But then he paused, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Ride me,” he said, his voice a husky command that sent heat pooling between your thighs. “I want to watch you.”

Your cheeks flushed, but the desire in his gaze emboldened you. He lay back, his hands guiding you as you straddled his hips, his cock hard and ready beneath you. The sight of him—his golden skin, the way his muscles flexed, the way his eyes devoured you—was almost too much. You positioned yourself, your hands braced on his chest, and slowly sank down, gasping at the stretch, the fullness. He filled you completely, the sensation overwhelming, a delicious mix of pleasure and pressure.

“Fuck, Y/N,” Jimin groaned, his hands gripping your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh. “You feel so good.”

You began to move, slow at first, finding a rhythm. His eyes were locked on you, dark with lust, watching the way your breasts bounced with each movement. The air was thick with the sounds of your gasps, his moans, the slick, wet rhythm of your bodies. Your breasts swayed, and he reached up, cupping them, his thumbs brushing your nipples until they pebbled under his touch. The sensation shot straight to your core, making you clench around him, drawing a low growl from his throat.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, his voice reverent, his hands worshipping your body. “Look at you. Fuck, I could watch you forever.”

You leaned down, kissing him, your tongues tangling as you rocked faster, the pleasure building, coiling tight in your belly. His hands roamed your back, your ass, guiding your movements, his hips thrusting up to meet you. The room was a blur of heat, sensation, the creak of the bed, the slap of skin against skin. You came first, your climax crashing over you, your vision blurring as you cried out his name. He followed moments later, his grip tightening, his body shuddering as he spilled inside you, his moan a raw, desperate sound.

You collapsed onto his chest, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat. He held you close, his lips brushing your forehead, your hair, murmuring soft words you could barely hear but felt in your bones. “I love you,” he whispered, again and again, like a prayer.

The next week was a whirlwind. You and Jimin were inseparable, navigating this new territory with a mix of excitement and trepidation. You spent nights in his apartment, cooking together—his laughter filling the kitchen as you accidentally spilled sauce on the counter—or studying in the library, his hand resting on your thigh under the table, a quiet claim. Every touch, every glance, was charged with meaning, a language you were both learning.

Your friends noticed the change immediately. At a group dinner at Hana’s place, the air buzzing with the smell of grilled meat and soju, Hana was the first to speak up. “Okay, spill,” she said, pointing her chopsticks at you and Jimin, who sat close, his arm draped over the back of your chair. “What’s going on with you two? You’re practically glowing.”

You blushed, glancing at Jimin, who smiled, his thumb brushing your shoulder. “We’re… together,” you said, the words feeling both foreign and right. Jimin’s hand tightened slightly, a silent thank you.

Soo-jin gasped, clapping her hands. “Finally! I was about to stage an intervention.”

Minho, ever the skeptic, raised an eyebrow. “So, you’re not just ‘besties’ anymore?” he teased, but his smile was genuine. “About time, Jimin. I was getting tired of watching you pine.”

Jimin laughed, but his eyes were soft as he looked at you. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Worth the wait.”

Later, as you walked home, the night air crisp, the city lights glittering, Jimin pulled you close, his breath visible in the cold. “They’re happy for us,” he said, his voice warm. “But I don’t care what anyone thinks. As long as you’re with me, I’m good.”

You stopped, turning to face him under a streetlamp, its light casting a halo around his hair. “Jimin,” you said, your voice steady despite the emotion swelling in your chest. “I love you.”

His eyes widened, then softened, a smile spreading across his face, so bright it rivaled the stars. “Say it again,” he whispered, stepping closer, his hands cupping your face.

“I love you,” you repeated, your voice stronger now, each word a vow. “I love you, Park Jimin.”

He kissed you, right there on the sidewalk, his lips warm against the cold, his arms wrapping around you like he’d never let go. “I love you too,” he said against your mouth, his voice trembling with joy. “Always have. Always will.”

Months passed, and your love grew like a living thing, deep and unshakable. You graduated together, your caps flying into the air as Jimin pulled you into a hug, his laughter echoing in the crowded stadium. You moved into a small apartment together, its walls lined with photos—silly selfies from college, a candid of you dancing in the rain, a shot of Jimin mid-performance, his body a blur of grace. The space smelled of coffee and his cologne, of home.

Jimin pursued dance, landing a spot with a prestigious company, his performances drawing crowds that left you breathless with pride. You worked as a writer, your poetry published in small journals, each piece infused with the love you’d found. You supported each other through late nights, through doubts, through triumphs, your lives a tapestry of shared dreams.

One evening, as autumn leaves fell outside, you sat on the balcony, wrapped in a blanket, Jimin’s arms around you. The city was alive below, its lights twinkling, the air crisp with the promise of winter. He kissed your temple, his lips lingering, and you felt the depth of his love in the silence.

“I used to think I’d never have this,” he said, his voice soft, reflective. “I thought loving you from a distance was all I’d get. But now… you’re my everything, Y/N. My home.”

You turned, kissing him, your heart full. “You’re my home too,” you said. “I love you, Jimin. More than I ever thought I could love anyone.”

He smiled, pulling you closer, and you sat there, watching the stars, knowing that whatever came next, you’d face it together. The night stretched on, infinite, and so did your love—a flame that would burn bright, unwavering, for all the years to come.

[puppetmaster13u]

Idk I just had the intrusive idea of the JL or some hero investigating the GIW or some other group with suspicions of them keeping merfolk or similar what with the giant tanks and what's shown in their paper trails over the years.

Only for Big Ass realms naga to swim by the observation window in the water.

From top to bottom, left to right: Valerie, Sam, Tucker, Jazz, Danny, Ellie & Dan

Like I am saying 30ft (9.1m) at the least from head to tail, probably bigger in giant rooms. And like, visibly has been there for a while. Like the GIW have been studying them as the only available specimens after they hypothetically destroyed the portals.

The GIW is the ghost investigation ward after all, not extermination. Though that doesn't mean they're exactly treated the best either- more akin to something like a snake or crow, like semi-intelligent animals like dolphins, chained to make taking samples & dragging them from the ecto-infused waters easier.

And maybe they're a little feral, muzzles on save for feedings preventing them from talking, if they even remember how to make noises that aren't in the words of the Zone anymore.

Maybe they've convinced themselves that it could be worse, they could've been killed like Vlad, like an animal that had bit too much, over and over. Maybe they've convinced themselves that this isn't so bad, even if they're treated less than human, even if they've not seen the sun for who knows how long now.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Design Thoughts?

-Metal Core Valerie, her scales are literally made from it, in blacks and reds like molten gemstones. Her scales are sharp too, designed for easily cutting through stone. Lots of spikes that glow when channeling energy.

-Plant Core Sam, scales designed for plant seeds to catch hold and take root not unlike a sloth's fur, hiding the sharp thorn-like ones lining her backside. Also, acid. Blacks, greens, and flashes of bright purples & greens that hint at the poisonous nature

-Storm Core Tucker, very thick scales designed for going through the sand with side spikes that help channel electricity. Has both a rattle and a pair of stingers that could hypothetically 'plug in' to things as well. Some of the most bioluminescence of the group.

-Ocean Core Jazz, she is the most aquatically designed out of all of them, with lures all across her body that mimics the lights reflecting off water, tricking the mind from noticing her. Large carp-like scales and several rows of teeth. Lots of blues in coloration with hints of oranges & yellows like a sunrise at the sea

-Space Core Danny, with large amounts of spikes and 'vents' that cover him in an aurora if he were free. Spikes with their own miniature gravity forces, twisting the area around him as he moves. Black iridescence & swirling white-blue patterns like galaxies are painted across his body

-Moon Core Ellie, covered in fine needle-esque scales not unlike how actual moondust is. Very rough like sandpaper and a fin that mimics the tail of a comet tinted ecto-green. Mostly monotone colors otherwise.

-Sun Core Jordan, with similar vents to Danny but with flames and plasma. Thick fur at the end of his tail not unlike how Vlad's was, with thick scales that allow for swimming through molten material that could melt anything and anyone else. Blacks, whites, blues, almost like white-hot coals

[lvve-talks]

ghost of an angel 🐚 𓂃 𓈒𓏸‪‪

tw: mentions of blood and death

The Art that came back from the Hunger Games was not your Art.

Sure, he looked just as beautiful despite a mottling of new scars across his skin that lacked some of its sunkissed glow. His eyes were still ocean blue save for that one curious speck of warm brown. But they were haunted.

He stared through people nowadays instead of at them. You rarely saw that glimmering smile and the last time you remember hearing his true laugh instead of a strained sort of performance of his laugh was the day of the reaping, before he was stolen from you.

Of course, he was prepared. He was trained for this all his life, just like so many others from District Four. He was labelled a career, teamed up with the ruthless kids of One and Two. But he was never like them, not really, and stabbing and hacking at dummies is not the same as watching the light leave a person’s eyes, their blood spattering your face.

You saw the difference in him after that first kill, unable to tear your eyes from the screen every time his mop of blond curls appeared. He was quick. Ruthless, but merciful. He knew what he had to do and did nothing else. He refused to perform.

You remembered the way he speared through the throat of the wailing girl from Six as the dark haired boy from One tried to draw out her death for the cameras. He showed her mercy, put her out of her misery.

Nowadays, he almost seemed like a ghost. The ghost of your angel, haunting the Victor’s Village, the marina, the wetlands, all the old places you used to frequent together.

The first few times you went to find him in his new home in the Village and he wasn’t there, you panicked. But then you’d find him standing knee deep in the marsh, unmoving, or staring out into the ocean like he was ready to walk right in and let the waves swallow him up.

The first time he came to you after a nightmare, it was the middle of the night. You awoke to a frantic tapping on your window, nearly drowned out by the downpour of rain and the rumble of thunder. He was soaked to the bone as you let him climb inside, his teeth chattering as he explained that he couldn’t sleep without seeing all of those horrible things that happened in the arena, all of the eyes of the kids he killed staring right back at him.

You could understand, to an extent. You were plagued with visions of him dying terrible, gruesome deaths each night when he was gone, but truly experiencing it, you could never imagine. So you brought him some of your father’s old clothes to change into and you let him slip under your covers and you held him tightly to you all night long. Although he woke you several times whimpering or mumbling something along the lines of “No! Run!” he said it was the best night of sleep he’d ever had.

You spent more nights than not with him now, his bed at the Village much bigger for the both of you than your rickety little one in your parents’ house. You spent weekends strolling along the beaches, letting him weave grasses into your hair. You let him remain mostly silent for as long as he needed, just happy that you had him back at all. Most people who knew tributes weren’t so lucky.

You saw more of his mentor, Tashi, nowadays. She said he was healing, but it would take time. Even she, who was known for her ruthlessness in the arena at 15 before getting maimed in the final battle, said she’s still healing. “That arena.. it rewires your mind. No one ever comes back the same. But he’ll live, he’ll grow, he’ll heal. We all do,” she said in that familiar tone somehow soft and gruff together. She wasn’t much older than either of us were, but she still seemed so much wiser.

You finally got up the courage to ask him one day, when he had begun talking more, what he saw when he looked so wistfully out into the horizon. “What do you see out there?” you asked so softly, watching his eyes stare right at that line where sea met sky.

“I wonder if there’s more out there than… this,” he sighed in return, never looking away from the building and crashing waves. “I wonder if I could swim long enough or sail far enough if there’d be a world that’s kinder. That doesn’t force its people to play deadly games for a time long past.”

It wasn’t an unheard of sentiment, but it was a dangerous one. Before Four became a Career district, before we had the favor of the Capitol, people tried escaping that way. Boats were stolen, stacked with supplies collected over months and months. Those who made it past the horizon never came back. Those who were caught were hanged.

You rest your head on his shoulder, heart beating a little quicker as you tried to gauge how serious he was. “There could be,” you sighed, just as wistfully. “Somewhere on this planet there could be people who live their lives unafraid and carefree.”

You look up to see his eyes closed now, almost like he’s dreaming of it. “Where they don’t have to fear their children will be ripped away from them and sent away to die,” he said in return and you didn’t miss the bitterness of it. How dangerous it sounded coming out of his mouth.

You didn’t ask again, but you did keep a more careful eye on him. Even in Career districts, those ideas were not taken kindly to.

Sometimes at night he’d still wake with a start, thrashing and screaming from some arena horror that still haunted him. You always asked if he wanted to talk about it. Usually he’d say no, he’d get up and open the window and let the briney breeze wash through the room. He said it helped to remind him where he was.

But one night when you asked, before he even had the chance to rise, he broke down into sobs. He told you about the mutts that chased him through his dreams and the way he’d envision killing a tribute just to roll them over and find your face staring blankly back at him. He told you about the dreams where he’d be swimming through the sea when the salt suddenly turned metallic and he realized he was swimming through an ocean of blood. He told you about the rare times he’d find himself back on the reaping stage just to hear his own name be called again and watch a little version of the both of you walk up the steps with nothing he could do. He clung to you tighter after that, and you never never let go.

You found yourself wondering if he’d ever be like he was Before again. The easy way his smile spread his lips, how his laugh slipped out without a care. If his eyes would ever sparkle like the sun on the waves instead of all of the light being sucked into that chasm in his spirit. You still loved him of course, you’d never be able to stop doing that. But sometimes you missed him. Your Art. The one the Capitol stole and cut down into little pieces of what he once was.

Other times, you did see moments of him peeking through the cracks. When you’re laying out on the beach, Art holding you close to him as the sun warmed your skin. You peppered his face with kisses, just because you were lucky enough to still be able to do that. And he smiled. That dazzling smile that you hadn’t seen in so long.

On good days, you dreamt of him chasing you down the sand and laughing that unforgettably free laugh, the sun making his hair look like a golden halo. You’d wake to that very sun rising in the window, your angel tucked up against you. Still. Quiet. Peaceful. He looked less like the ghost then; alive and kissed by the sun once more and here with you.

[untitled-document-95]

Music to My Ears (jake seresin x reader)

Summary: Jake accidentally lingers at The Hard Deck, finally seeing a side of you no one knows about.

Warnings: memories of shitty boyfriends ig?

Requested: Nope

A/N: Based on the song "If You Have To" by Ella Langley

*gif is not mine*

On the night that changed everything, things started out as normal as could be. The Hard Deck filled with Top Gun students and graduates and even a few instructors, the crowd peaking around 9 PM before slowly fading out the closer it drew to midnight. Last call came, a few more drinks were poured. Penny wiped down the bar while her junior bartender cleaned tables and stacked stools. Only a few stragglers had yet to drag their happy asses out of the bar and back to base. Unsurprisingly, one was Lieutenant Jake Seresin, who’d gotten himself engrossed in a billiards battle with a few other pilots. 

Finally, the game ended. Penny bid the boys goodnight before calling to her helper. 

“Hey, you still want to lock up on your own tonight?”

“Yeah, I got it handled. Have a good night, Penny.” She smiles sweetly and nods at her boss, hoping she doesn’t see that there’s an ulterior motive for wanting to lock up on her own. Penny waves and heads out the door.

Unbeknownst to the young lady, she is still not alone. Neither she nor Penny saw Lieutenant Seresin head into the bathroom instead of heading out the door with his buddies. Her closing duties complete aside from turning off lights and locking the doors, she sits down at the piano. Warming up a bit, she doesn’t hear the lieutenant exit the bathroom and stop in his tracks when he hears the piano and finds her sitting there, no audience in sight. 

Finally, her fingers begin to dance across the keys and play a song. She plays the same melody on repeat for a bit. Jake wonders if he should do something - sneak out, clear this throat, do something to get her attention? He worries that any of the above will startle her. It’s been over a year and Jake has never once told her anything close to the truth about how he feels about her. He loves the way she interacts with customers, friendly and kind to those who are nice to her but can absolutely destroy a rude customer with her words. He noticed how she was scared to ring the bell at first, but now will walk in that direction until she gets an apology from whoever thought they could mess with her. So unbelievably smart for someone so beautiful, though Jake knows to say that out loud would make him sound like an asshole. 

It’s not as though Jake hasn’t tried to talk to her, though. Problem was, when he tried that very first time he ever saw her tending bar, she mentioned a boyfriend. Jake had even seen him once or twice, picking her up or just hanging out at the bar to talk to her. Wrapping an arm around her waist, dipping her into a deep kiss. In his presence, her face lit up with joy. It was clear to any outsider that she loved him, and they were best friends. So Jake kept his distance, but he always wondered if that guy truly reciprocated her feelings. His face never seemed as bright, never as deeply consumed during their interactions the way she was.

Jake is enamored with her playing, and it only gets better when she begins to sing. 

You know I never lied

Went home with someone else 

So why you acting like I put you through some kind of hell?

The first verse pulls Jake under, as though he begins drowning in the same sea of emotion. Was this about that guy? The one Jake had always seen before? Come to think of it, there’d been several nights Jake had come to the bar to find her absent. Ever since, Jake couldn’t recall another night with that guy at the bar or there waiting for her at the end of the night. 

Hate me if you have to

If it helps you sleep at night

Paint me in whatever light

Baby that you want to

Finally, the song fades to an end and the last chords ring out across the empty room. It becomes painfully obvious that Jake must now make his presence known in some way that makes it evident he wasn’t trying to hide from her on purpose. Turning around to find him standing there silently would give stalker vibes. 

“Wow,” is all Jake can muster. She whirls around on the piano bench to lock eyes with the green-eyed pilot, chest heaving with the efforts of the song and now adrenaline coursing through her. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” she accuses. 

“I…I’m sorry,” Jake says, holding up both hands in surrender. “I was in the bathroom and when I came out…well, it’s rude to interrupt a performance.” He’s fairly certain he hears her mutter an expletive under her breath as her hands find her head, rubbing her temples and seemingly trying to wipe humiliation from her features. 

“You heard all of that, huh?” she asks. Jake approaches, hands in pockets, nodding. From the piano bench, she looks up at him, lips pursed. 

“That was…some song,” Jake says, his tone laced with all the things he wants her to know but can’t say. That he understands the meaning of the lyrics, that he’s sorry anyone would ever do anything to make her feel that way. “That why you wanted to lock up alone?” 

“It’s the only time I can ever have a piano to myself.” She seems both sad and frustrated by this.

“You are incredibly talented.”

“Thanks.” She speaks quietly and slowly, as though she’s embarrassed of her own skills. “I’ve been working on that for months. That was probably the best I’ve ever done.”

The pair are silent for a few moments, unsure of where to go from here. Finally, Jake remembers his manners. He sticks out a hand to formally introduce himself, and she returns the gesture, also giving her name. The pair stare at one another for several moments, neither one wanting to break the anticipatory silence. 

“Why are you staring at me?” she finally asks. 

“I’m wishing,” Jake whispers, serious as can be.

“For what?” 

“That I knew what to say or do right now to make sure you don’t ever feel that way again.” There’s no arrogance or inflated sense of self behind his words. They are not empty, a mere catalyst for getting her home. They are real and raw and it surprises even Jake that he let them slip. She raises an eyebrow, looks to her lap, then lets out a quiet, joyless chuckle. 

“Well when you figure it out, let me know, will you?” she says, sounding defeated like she knows he never will because she doesn’t know the answer herself. She closes the lid to the piano, standing and sliding the bench in. She crosses to the bar, double-checking her last minute tasks and grabbing her car keys, all the while leaving Jake to the left of the piano, dumbstruck or perhaps awestruck but most certainly struck with her. When she reaches the door, she gives him a look as if to say, “I can’t leave until you do, so get a move on.” Jake slowly approaches, mind still spinning.

“Would you be open to getting coffee with me in the morning?” he asks cautiously.

“Define ‘morning’” she asks, which throws Jake for a loop, leaving him unable to answer her simple yet mind-boggling question. She locks the door behind them, and they meander to their respective vehicles. 

“Um,” he begins. Her mouth forms a smirk. If he didn’t know any better, Jake would say she was enjoying the amount of control she obviously held here. 

“There’s a reason I work in a bar, Lieutenant. You won’t find me outside of my bed before 9 AM if I have any say in the matter.” 

“9:30 AM it is,” he retorts. She smiles.

“See you then. Goodnight, Jake,” she says.

“Goodnight.” 

[brklynbxby]

closed starter for @mysteriousxgirls

Azriel’s formal Oxford shoes struck the pavement with a sharp, deliberate cadence as he emerged from the sleek black SUV, his presence undeniable amidst the chaotic hum of the nightclub’s entrance. Dressed in a sharp navy suit that hugged his frame just right, the crisp lines of the jacket contrasted against the casual edge of his unbuttoned white shirt underneath — a look both refined and dangerously laid-back. Luca moved just behind him, ever silent, his gaze cutting through the crowd with a cold, methodical precision. Maria was several paces ahead, her movements deliberate and laced with purpose, the subtle sway of her hips punctuating her every step. Her laughter, infectious and slightly careless, rose above the pounding bass, already weaving its way through the crowd as she set her sights on her prey. She was working her angle—feigned inebriation, the slightest tilt of her head, eyes cast toward a handful of strangers—an artful distraction.

The club pulsed with life, a kaleidoscope of flashing lights and bodies crammed into a space that left little to the imagination. Their movements were synchronised with the relentless beat of the music, each step in perfect harmony with the next. The air was dense with the acrid tang of cigarette smoke and the cloying scent of overpriced cologne, a suffocating haze that blurred the edges of reality and rendered everything just a shade too intimate. Azriel navigated through the throng with purposeful intent, every step measured, eyes scanning the room with surgical precision. They were here for a singular purpose: the ex-gang chemist who had vanished, now resurfaced under a new alias, peddling party drugs in places like this. Azriel had studied the intel; the man was tall, dark-haired, with a jawline as sharp as his calculated gaze. His eyes—those eyes that never quite met yours—locked onto him in an instant. The man they sought was stationed near the bar, his predatory gaze sweeping the room, searching for an opening. Luca’s eyes flicked over the dance floor, always alert, always assessing. “I don’t like this place,” He murmured, his voice barely rising above the incessant pulsing of the music. “Too many eyes, too many distractions.” Azriel shot him a glance—steady, unwavering, the calm in the midst of chaos. “That’s precisely the point. We blend in. We don’t attract attention. Keep it tight.”

Already in motion, Maria’s gaze locked onto the dealer across the room. With the precision of a seasoned operator, she moved toward him, her walk artfully exaggerated by a slight stumble, as though slightly tipsy. Easing onto the bar stool beside him, her posture languid and seductive, she leaned in just enough for him to catch the faint scent of alcohol on her breath, a calculated invitation. “Hey there, big guy,” she purred, her voice a syrupy blend of faux sweetness. “I’m not usually this fun, but tonight’s been... one of those nights,” A slow, tipsy grin curled at her lips as she spoke, the expression lazy and deliberately drawn out. Her gaze, deliberate and inviting, lingered for a fraction of a second longer than needed, crafting the subtle illusion of vulnerability, as though she were irresistibly receptive to whatever temptations he might extend.

Azriel’s attention remained fixed on the dealer. The ex-chemist’s features were unmistakable—his angular jawline, the shrewd, calculating gleam in his eyes, all wrapped in that same predatory allure. Subtle flickers in his gaze, darting between Maria and the sea of bodies, betrayed his intentions: he was poised, waiting for the perfect moment to act. Azriel’s focus was laser-sharp. There was no room for distraction, no tolerance for delay. The objective was clear. If this man was indeed the one they sought, the truth would be pried from him with ruthless efficiency. If he wasn’t, Azriel would ensure that he became irrelevant, swiftly and decisively. Maria had already captivated the dealer’s attention, and Azriel, knowing her methods all too well, recognised the delicate dance she performed. She was a master of misdirection, playing the role of a tipsy seductress with effortless precision, drawing him in with the promise of something more. Azriel knew some games required patience, so he pushed off from the wall and made his way to the other side of the bar, casually ordering a drink. His gaze never strayed from her, though, keeping a careful watch without drawing attention.