#makes it hard when you’re an artist and have to go

[dakusan]

UNTOUCH-UP

Tattoo Artist!Lee Minho x Reader | Exes. Ink. Unfinished business. And nowhere left to run.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You go in for a touch-up. He’s the one holding the machine. Your ex. The one who fucked you like he loved you—and left like he didn’t. Now he’s working on your skin again. And you’re both trying not to fall back in. Too late. You never stopped wanting him. He never stopped being yours. This time, he’s not letting go.

💌a/n: bro. BRO. i am ✨deceased✨ this fic nearly ate me alive. i was so lazy writing it my brain was just like . . . O.O static noise the ENTIRE time. BUT I DID IT. I DID IT. SHE’S DONE. Minho's demon dick: delivered. Tattoo angst: served. You: ruined. also not me having a day™️ — my cat knocked over a potted flower like she pays rent in this house?? broke the damn pot. soil everywhere. ON. THE. CARPET. and guess who was sitting in the mess like a chaotic forest gremlin? her. the criminal. not even sorry. anyway enjoy the filth I bled for <3 p.s. reblog for minho's sake. he worked very hard. p.p.s. if you read this and didn’t moan once, you're lying. p.p.p.s. minho said “mine” and I folded like a lawn chair in a hurricane.

⚠️ warnings: 18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI | Exes to lovers with years of tension | Fingering (f. receiving), oral sex (f. receiving), face riding | Protected sex because Minho is a King | Overstimulation, squirting, rough sex | Hair pulling, light choking, possessive behavior | Filthy talk™ and degrading praise | Clit play so intense you might ascend | Reader is gone. dumb. dripping | Minho lives upstairs. You live upstairs now too. It’s canon.

📌 Please read with caution. Scream into a pillow. Mop your floor. Apologize to your downstairs neighbors.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » WANT — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:29 �� ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

BACKSTORY

You met Lee Minho back when he was still building himself. Not the man with a waitlist. Not the name clients whispered like prayer. Just a perfectionist with ink-stained fingers, a cigarette habit, and a sketchbook full of obsessions.

He only took blackwork clients. His designs were architectural. Cold. Brutally beautiful. Like cityscapes carved into skin. Like cathedrals swallowed by shadow. You used to tease him—“Do you ever draw anything soft?”

He never answered.

But he kissed you like his mouth was a vow.

You were chaos to his control. Bright to his brutalism. A fire escape on legs, always halfway out the window—but you stayed for him.

The first tattoo he gave you was on your ribcage. Fine lines. Intricate, dark, permanent. He said, “I’ve never done this for someone I care about before.”

You said, “Don’t make it perfect. Just make it ours.”

He made it perfect anyway.

But love wasn’t enough—not when his world narrowed to ink and reputation, and yours was spinning with needs he couldn’t name, let alone meet. He stopped coming home. You stopped trying to explain. The last fight was quiet. The kind of silence that ends things.

You left. He let you. Neither of you ever reached out again.

Seoul, South Korea. Wednesday, 4:03 PM

The bell over the door jingles.

It’s the same goddamn sound. That soft metallic chime, like a warning.

You step into NO SAINT INK and inhale the familiar scent—disinfectant, ink, citrus cleaner, and something darker beneath it. Nostalgia, maybe. Or just Minho’s ghost.

“Hi! Welcome to—”

Jisung’s voice cuts off the moment he looks up. Eyes widen. Blink. Blink. Jaw slightly drops. He’s behind the counter in a ripped vintage tee, one glove on, holding a paper cup of iced Americano like it’s mid-scene in a music video.

“...Holy shit.”

“Nice to see you too,” you deadpan, stepping up to the reception desk like it’s a confession booth.

From the back, Felix emerges, sliding in with a practiced spin on the rolling stool. His crop top says “NO SAINT, JUST HOT” and he’s chewing pink bubblegum like it’s personal.

He squints. “Wait. Waitwaitwait—no way.” He turns to Jisung. “That’s her, right?”

Jisung nods slowly, eyes still on you like you might disappear if he blinks. “Mm-hm. That’s her. The ribcage girl.”

You sigh, reaching for the clipboard. “Still the same greeting process, I see.”

Felix leans in over the counter, lashes weaponized. “So. What brings you back to the scene of the crime, gorgeous?”

“Tattoo,” you say simply, checking the box marked cover-up on the intake form.

Felix raises a brow. “Cover-up? On what?”

You give him a flat look. Then slowly, deliberately, tap your rib.

Jisung immediately chokes on his iced coffee. “Oh my god. You’re covering Minho’s piece?” he hisses.

“Don’t say it like that,” you mutter.

Felix gasps dramatically, grabbing your form. “Does he know? Does he know you’re here?”

“No.”

“Does he know you're gonna cover the sacred rib tattoo of doomed romance™?”

“Still no.”

Jisung is now whispering to himself in horror. “He’s gonna combust. He’s gonna short-circuit like a printer from 2003.”

Felix pats your hand. “You’re braver than the Marines.”

You slide the completed form back to them. “You gonna let me through, or you want me to relive the breakup right here?”

“Booth Three,” Jisung says instantly. “He’s in there right now. I’ll text him that a client is coming in.”

Felix grins like the devil. “We won’t say who. Surprise trauma!”

You exhale slowly as you make your way to Booth Three and pushing the door open.

Minho is inside, doesn't even look up. Of course he doesn't. He is seated at his workstation, black hoodie sleeves pushed up, long fingers flying over his iPad. The screen glows with precision: a mandala lattice interwoven with brutalist architecture, all angles and absence. It’s violently elegant. Just like him.

He’s got one AirPod in. The other rests on the desk, silent. His tattoo gun is prepped and sterilized beside it. Black gloves folded, still untouched.

You stay silent for a beat.

He’s changed, but not really. Hair darker now. Under-eye shadows deeper. Forearms inked in blackwork he used to say wasn’t “for him.” You recognize his neck tattoo—you designed that motif. He said he’d never use it. Guess he changed his mind.

You speak, voice even, soft.

“Hope you still remember how to do ribs.”

He freezes. Literally freezes mid-stroke, like someone hit pause on a film reel.

His eyes flick up.

And when they meet yours—his stylus drops.

“...No fucking way.”

You smile, tight-lipped. “Hi.”

Minho blinks. Once. Twice. Then leans back slowly in his chair, as if needing distance just to believe you're real. He doesn’t say anything at first. His eyes drag down you like a scan—lips, collarbones, arms. His gaze stops right where it used to rest: the dip beneath your ribs. “What the fuck are you doing here.” You shrug, like this isn’t a slow-burn emotional arson scene. “Cover-up.”

He exhales like he got sucker punched.

You don’t say it. You don’t have to. He knows which one. For a moment, neither of you move. The only sound is the quiet buzz of the fluorescent light, and your pulse hammering against silence.

Minho finally breaks it, voice lower now. Raspier. Rough around the edges.

“Sit.”

You walk forward. The vinyl of the chair squeaks as you lower yourself onto it.

Minho adjusts his stool with one foot, pulling closer—close enough that your knees nearly touch. He reaches for a fresh pair of gloves and pulls them on with a muted snap.

“You still flinch?” he asks, without looking up.

“Only when it matters.”

A breath leaves him like a short laugh, disbelieving and hollow. He nods at your ribs.

“Show me.”

You tug your top up slowly. The air is cool against your skin. But his gaze is colder.

The tattoo’s still there—his lines, his shape, the intimate architecture of a design he once called a cathedral just for you. You watch his eyes trace it like he’s reading a language he forgot he wrote.

He exhales through his nose, once. Then leans in. Not touching. But close.

“Still healed well,” he mutters. “Even after everything.”

He lets out a short sound—not quite a laugh. Not quite not.

Then turns to grab his iPad.

You watch him swipe past old sketches. Lines. Shapes. A few human figures, but mostly… structures. Always structures. Stained glass, brutal staircases, the shadows between pillars. And suddenly—one design with your face sketched into the edge of a crumbling spire flashes past.

You blink.

He quickly flips to a blank layer.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, stylus in hand.

You hesitate. Then: “Something clean. Cold. Geometric. No softness.”

He looks at you. Just looks. Then tilts his head. “So the opposite of what you used to want.”

You lift a brow. “People change.”

“Do they?” He doesn’t say it like a question.

Silence. Only the soft tick of the stylus moving. Drawing. Erasing. Redrawing.

You glance over.

The lines are sharp. Intricate. Interlocking shapes—architectural, yes, but still haunting. There’s depth beneath the harshness, shadows where light should be. He’s already building something brutal.

“You always sketch this fast for clients?” you ask.

He doesn’t look up. “Only the ones who know how to bleed for it.”

Your breath stutters. He notices.

After another beat, he holds the iPad out to you, jaw tense. “You want this? Final answer.”

You study it. And it’s beautiful. Devastatingly so. The kind of piece that erases history—not by covering it, but by burying it in monument.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It’s perfect.”

He huffs softly. “It’s not.”

“Minho—”

“It’s not what I wanted to put here.”

The sentence hits like a quiet car crash. No screech, just impact. You say nothing. He turns away to print the stencil. You watch the lines appear on paper, black and cruel.

“This gonna take long?” you ask lightly, trying to breathe again.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “It’s big.”

“Good. I’ve got time.”

He turns. Looks at you—really looks. The gloves are still on. The stencil in hand. “You sure you can lie here for hours with me that close?”

“You sure you can touch me for that long and not fall apart?”

For one suspended moment, the room goes still.

Then Minho steps forward. “Let’s find out.”

He sets the stencil aside. Pulls out the prep tray. It’s methodical—his ritual. You remember it. He moves with that same detached precision: antiseptic wipe, alcohol spray, barrier film over his tray, black nitrile gloves pulled snug with that quiet snap that used to make your stomach twist.

The scent of alcohol hits first. Then the click of the spray bottle. Then his voice—low, close. “I’m cleaning the area.”

He waits. You nod.

And then his hand—gloved, cold—presses gently at your side, just under your ribs. The contact makes your breath hitch. He feels it. “Still ticklish,” he murmurs, but there’s no amusement in it. Just memory.

His fingers move across the old tattoo and you close your eyes as he presses the stencil on.

“Hold still,” he says softly. Too softly.

You feel the pressure of his palm, the warm slide of his knuckles against your waist, the careful tension as he positions the design.

Then he pulls back. Steps away. And you exhale.

“Mirror’s there,” he says, voice neutral.

You sit up, top still raised, and step to the full-length mirror near the booth’s edge.

The stencil is stark black. Clean. Brutal. It spans from just under your chest down to your hipbone—an interlocking spiral staircase, collapsing inward on itself, surrounded by broken geometry and cathedral archways. Inside the spiral, there’s a single vacant silhouette—like a missing piece in the shape of a person.

“It’s…” you begin. But you can’t find the word.

“Empty?” he offers.

“Yeah.”

Minho shrugs slightly, adjusting the height of the chair. “You wanted cold. Unsweet. Brutal.”

You nod. “I did.”

He doesn’t move until you return to the chair and settle in again. He leans down, pulls the stool closer—so close his knee brushes yours. “Ready?”

“No.”

A pause. Then: “Good. That’s honest.”

The machine buzzes to life. He dips the needle into the ink—pitch black—and presses the foot pedal. Then the first contact hits. The sting. The bite. The sound.

Your breath stutters. His hand is firm on your waist, grounding. “Still breathe like that,” he murmurs.

“Still touch like that.”

The buzz of the machine fills the booth like static between stations.

Minho works in silence. You breathe in silence. Time stretches. His gloved hand stays steady on your waist—anchoring, professional, unyielding. But every time his fingers shift to wipe the ink, every time his forearm brushes your side, you feel something buried rattle. Like bones under floorboards.

You focus on the ceiling tiles. Count them. Try not to flinch when he drags the line near your ribcage. He’s precise. Too precise. You feel every goddamn millimeter.

And still—he says nothing. It’s been maybe an hour. Then—quietly, like a thread being tugged:

“You finish school?”

Your eyes blink open. “Yeah. A while ago.”

“Thought so,” he murmurs. “You used to study here. In this chair.”

You huff. “I used to do a lot of things in this chair.”

He pauses. Then wipes your skin with slow, deliberate pressure. “Still mouthy.”

“Still quiet.”

“One of us had to be.”

The machine hums again. You both fall silent. But the air isn’t. It hums now—charged and heavy. After another few minutes, you speak, voice softer.

“You still living above the shop?”

Minho’s hand doesn’t pause, but you hear the answer in the way he exhales. “Yeah.”

“You ever fix the leak by the kitchen window?”

“Eventually. Felix slipped on the water and broke his assbone, so…”

“Justice.”

A faint smile ghosts across his lips. You catch it. Pretend not to. “What about you?” he asks. “Where are you now?”

You shrug. “Seoul. Still. I work freelance—mostly visual design, some concept art stuff. Clients suck. Pay’s decent.”

“Still draw?”

“Always.”

He nods, as if that explains something only he understands.

Another beat of quiet. Then: “You tattoo now too?”

That makes you pause. “A little. Not full-time.”

“Anyone ever ink your ribs like this again?”

You meet his eyes. “No one ever touched me here again.”

That silence? Not like before. This one cracks. Minho sets the machine down slowly. Wipes the needle. Re-inks. Doesn’t speak for a full thirty seconds.

Then: “Good.”

You shift, heart thudding. “Why?”

He glances up, and for once, doesn’t look away. “Because it’s not theirs to touch.” He says it like he didn’t just lay a claim. Like it’s fact. Like it’s law.

You don’t reply. You can’t. Your ribs ache—not from the needle, but from the breath you’ve been holding since he started this goddamn piece.

Minho presses the foot pedal again.

The machine whirs to life, slicing through the silence. The black ink spreads, sharp and deliberate, marking over what was once softness.

His hand settles against your waist again. Firmer now. Less technician—more… anchor. His fingers brush under the hem of your top again. Not on purpose.

But he doesn’t apologize.

“Gonna do the lower spiral now,” he murmurs. “I need to adjust your position.”

You nod. Try to keep your voice even. “Tell me what you want.”

His gaze flicks up. Something flashes in it—heat, recognition, regret. “Lift your arm. Stretch back.”

You obey. Your back arches slightly. The angle shifts. Your shirt slides up higher. And suddenly, his breath catches. Not visibly. Not loudly. But you feel it—in the tiny hesitation between glove and skin. He moves slower now. Drapes the barrier cloth gently over your chest. Focuses on the lower edge of the design.

His hand brushes the curve of your hip. “Still got the scar,” he mutters.

“From your old chair. That screw that stuck out.”

“I told you to stop climbing into my lap during sessions.”

“I told you to fix your fucking chair.”

Another small ghost of a smile. Another memory you didn’t mean to let through. The machine buzzes. The lines go deeper now. Bolder. You wince slightly—less from pain, more from the weight of his closeness. “Hurts?” he asks, quiet. “Not as much as losing you did.”

The machine goes silent. He sets it down. Slowly. His head tilts up, eyes dark, unreadable. “You think I didn’t lose you too?”

Before you can answer—knock knock knock.

The booth door creaks open an inch, and Jisung’s head pops in. “Hey, just checking—OH.” He blinks. Stares. Feels the temperature of the room. “Never mind.”

Another head appears behind him—Chan, black tee, clipboard in hand. Owner. OG. Quiet ringleader of this whole tattoo circus.

“Minho, did you review the—” He pauses mid-sentence. Eyes shift from Minho to you. To your lifted shirt. To the way Minho’s gloved hand is hovering just above your skin.

Chan arches a brow. “...So this is happening again.”

Minho doesn’t even flinch. “Out.”

Jisung salutes. “Godspeed, soldier.”

Chan just sighs. “Try not to punch holes in the wall this time.”

The door shuts. The lock clicks. Silence again.

You exhale. “They always this nosy?”

“You always this distracting?” His voice is low now. Tight.

You blink. “Minho—”

“Lie back.”

You obey. He pulls the stool closer. Closer than necessary. Then, gloved hands on your hip, he says—quiet, slow: “I’m finishing this. Every goddamn line.”

You nod. And the machine starts again.

You lose track of time somewhere around the fifth wipe.

The sky outside is darker now. The booth hums with that post-tattoo stillness—low light, blood buzz, the deep ache under your skin like something blooming and bruised.

Minho’s working slower now. Not out of fatigue. No—he’s dragging it out. You can feel it in the way he traces your skin. The pauses. The glances.

It’s 7:23 PM.

You know this because your phone buzzes uselessly on the counter and Minho glares at it like it’s an intruder. Then again—he hasn’t looked away from you much at all.

“You’re almost done?” you ask quietly, voice hoarse from the hours of not speaking.

“Final shading,” he says, shifting. “Then bandage.”

You nod, letting your head fall back against the chair. You close your eyes.

Until—click. The door opens again.

“You better not be tattooing her feelings back on,” Jisung says, peeking in once more.

“It’s after seven,” Chan adds, stepping in behind him. “We’re leaving. You can lock up.”

Minho doesn’t even glance at them. “Bye.”

“Damn,” Jisung mutters. “I missed when you were nice.”

Chan folds his arms. “He was never nice.”

Minho wipes your side again. “Do you two need something, or are you just doing walk-in commentary now?”

“We’re giving you the key,” Chan says patiently, tossing it toward the counter. It lands with a clatter. “And also warning you: no sex on the chair.”

“Especially not that chair,” Jisung adds. “That’s the holy one. Client blood and heartbreak juice only.”

You blink up at them. “You do know I can hear you, right?”

“Sweetheart, you’re like three moans away from a confessional,” Jisung grins.

Minho’s hand tenses on your hip.

Chan gives Jisung a sharp look. “Okay, that’s enough. Let the man finish tattooing his ex.”

Minho’s voice cuts in—low, flat, and dry: “I’m raising the booth rent if you two don’t leave.”

Jisung gasps. “You can’t evict my vibe.”

“Watch me.”

With one final laugh, Chan tips an invisible hat at you. “Pleasure seeing you again. Don’t break our boy, yeah?”

You don’t respond. You just hold Minho’s gaze.

The door closes. The lock clicks again. Alone. Again.

He exhales. “They never change.”

You hum. “Neither do you.”

“Not with you.”

His hand brushes your skin again, wiping the last bit of ink away. He doesn’t move it. Just leaves it there. Warm and steady.

“I’m done.”

You nod. Slow. Dazed. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Me too.”

But neither of you move.

The machine is off. The gloves are still on. His hand is still resting on your bare waist.

You watch his throat move as he swallows.

“I need to bandage it.”

You nod.

Minho finally pulls back. Peels off the gloves, slow. Tosses them into the bin with a soft crack. His hands are bare now—warmer, familiar, devastating. He reaches for the tattoo film. The kind that clings like a second skin.

“This part’ll be cold,” he murmurs.

“So were you.”

His hands pause.

Then, with infinite care, he presses the bandage to your ribs. The plastic clings, sealing the ink beneath. His fingertips ghost over your side. Flattening. Smoothing.

Too gentle.

His hand lingers a second too long on your hipbone. Then again on the edge of your waist, just under your breast. You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

Neither does he.

“You’re still warm here,” he murmurs. “Still soft.”

“I never stopped being yours here,” you whisper. “Even after you let me go.”

His hand freezes.

And then—

Minho exhales. Slow. Controlled. Devastated. “Fuck,” he says. “Don’t say shit like that unless you mean it.”

“I do mean it.”

He looks up at you, finally. Face unreadable. But his eyes? Wrecked.

“I didn’t stop wanting you,” you say, soft. “I just stopped begging.”

And that’s when something inside him cracks. Minho drops the rest of the bandage. One hand cups your jaw. The other pulls you forward by the waist. His lips crash into yours—not neat, not planned, not patient. Just real. Messy. Hot. Familiar. Like all the years you lost were just smoke.

He tastes the same. Regret and hunger.

You kiss him back. Desperate. Needy. Home.

When he pulls away, he’s breathless. “The shop’s closed,” he says hoarsely.

“I know.”

“You’re not leaving yet.”

“I know.”

But he can't stop kissing you and his kisses leave you gasping, lips parted, your ribs burning with fresh ink and something even hotter under your skin.

But Minho doesn’t move for your mouth again.

He just looks at you. And presses the last edge of the bandage into place. Palms flat on either side of your ribs, holding it there. Holding you there.

“You need to keep this clean,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Saniderm on for at least a day. No sweat. No friction. No heat.”

You smirk. “So I shouldn’t fuck my tattoo artist, huh?”

He closes his eyes like that physically hurts. Then opens them again, and they’re darker. Gone. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Come here.”

He grabs your face and kisses you again—harder this time. His mouth is warm, demanding. He tastes like ink and restraint and the last piece of something you thought you’d never get again.

You whimper into it, fingers fisting into his hoodie, tugging him closer. He moves fast now, pulling you upright, spinning you around so your back hits the wall behind the chair.

Your top rides up, exposing your waist. His hands drag along the un-tattooed side of your ribs, his touch finally hungry.

“Minho—”

“You still talk too much.”

His hand finds your thigh, fingers digging in as he lifts you onto the edge of the chair.

“Don’t you dare come undone on this chair unless you want your name carved into it,” he growls.

“Do it,” you whisper, breath hot. “Like old times.”

He groans. Hands gripping your hips, pulling you forward against the bulge in his jeans. But even now—he's careful. His fingers skirt around the bandage. His mouth trails everywhere but the fresh ink.

“I can’t touch there,” he pants. “But everywhere else? Mine.”

He leans in—bites at your neck. Licks under your jaw. You shudder. “Mine.”

You nod, breathless. “Yours.”

“Say it again.”

“Yours.”

He groans into your skin. One hand slips under your waistband—slow, deliberate, filthy. “Keep still. You move too much, I’ll stop.”

“Minho—”

He kisses your collarbone. Soft now. “I never should’ve stopped touching you.” His voice is low, almost broken against your skin. And then his hand dips further—sliding past the waistband of your pants, then beneath your underwear. You flinch at the first brush of his fingers against your bare heat.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Already soaked?”

You moan, soft and unfiltered. “You did this.”

“Damn right I did.”

He doesn’t dive in right away.

Minho’s fingers ghost along your folds, barely there—just the suggestion of touch. Teasing, cruel, worshipful. Like he wants to remember this. Every slick, desperate twitch.

“Still so fucking warm,” he murmurs. “Still react to me like this.”

“Because I never stopped needing you.”

That does something to him. His jaw tightens. His free hand grips your thigh harder.

His fingers stroke your clit now—slow and purposeful. He still hasn’t pushed in. Just teasing, rubbing, feeling every tremble in your core.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers. “All this time and I still ruin you like this.”

You whimper, hips bucking up—but he presses you down against the chair again.

“What did I say?” he growls. “Keep. Fucking. Still.”

You nod, gasping. “I’m trying—fuck—Minho, please—”

He slips one finger inside. Just one. It glides in so easily, so wet, he groans low into your neck.

“Still tight,” he pants. “Still perfect.”

You clench around him and he curses, fingers curling just slightly as he begins to move.

“Say it again,” he whispers, lips dragging over your ear.

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m—fuck—Minho, I’m yours—”

His second finger joins the first. Scissoring. Filling. So slow it’s maddening. His thumb circles your clit in rhythm, expertly cruel. You’re grinding against him now, trying not to cry out.

But it’s no use.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let me hear you. You think I forgot what you sound like?”

You moan—loud this time—and he smiles against your skin.

“There she is.”

His fingers curl again—deep, deliberate, cruel. You cry out, thighs trembling, body completely unhinged on his tattoo chair.

“Fuck, you’re clenching so hard,” he groans, dragging his fingers out almost entirely before plunging back in with a wet sound that makes you whimper. “You missed this, didn’t you?”

“Y-Yes,” you gasp.

“How much?”

You can barely breathe. “So much—Minho—fuck—”

“That’s not good enough.”

He pumps harder. Faster. His fingers scissor deep inside you, stretching you wide while his thumb circles your clit with just enough pressure to keep you right on the edge. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged, jaw clenched like he's holding back a growl.

“Feel how fucking hard I am for you,” he grits, grabbing your free hand and dragging it down between you both.

Your fingers brush the bulge in his jeans and—fuck. He’s thick. Hard in a way that hurts even through the denim.

“All that from just your voice,” he rasps. “From your pussy sucking my fingers in like it still belongs to me.”

You whimper, hand tightening instinctively over his cock. He twitches under your grip.

“You’re gonna make me cum just from your fist at this rate,” he breathes, panting into your mouth. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Your hips roll against his hand, the wet slap of your cunt obscene now, the squelch of each pump making your eyes roll back.

“M-Minho—can’t—too much—”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Take it. You used to take it so well.”

You cry out, grinding shamelessly against his hand, your wrist still caught against the outline of his cock. His fingers are relentless now—deep, punishing strokes that angle just right, hitting the spot that makes your back arch.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, voice hot and filthy. “You gonna cum for me?”

“Please—need to—”

“You think I’m letting you go home with anyone else’s cum in you again?” His hand grips tighter. “Nah. You’ll cum on my fingers. Then my tongue. Then my cock. One by one. Until you remember who you belong to.”

You sob into his shoulder, body locking up.

“Then cum,” he growls. “Let me feel you fucking fall apart.”

And you do. You shatter. Right there in his chair, cunt clenching around his fingers so hard he curses, hips bucking involuntarily, thighs shaking. The orgasm crashes through you like a wave that never breaks.

You’re still gasping, barely coming down, when he kisses you again—rough and breathless.

Then he pulls his hand out and brings his digits to his lips, licking his fingers clean with a sinful groan. “Still the sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Minho leans in—presses a soft kiss just beneath your jaw. Then another. Then pulls back, his lips swollen and wet with you.

“Stay,” he says simply.

“Yes.”

“Upstairs.”

You nod again, dazed. He grabs a clean towel, wipes his fingers off, then flicks off the booth lights.

You stumble to your feet. He steadies you with a hand on your lower back—protective, but firm. The other hand? Already sliding down to cup the curve of your ass.

“Don’t test me,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Or I’ll take you right here. Front door be damned.”

You laugh breathlessly. “You always talk this much now?”

“Only when I’m starving.”

He steps out first. Walks to the front.

The shop’s dark now—just the glow of the neon sign outside, and the sound of him flipping the lock with a click. Pulling the blinds. Turning the CLOSED sign.

The only other sound is your breath. And the creak of stairs.

Minho turns back to you. Extends his hand. “Come home.”

And you do. You follow him up the stairs—your fingers tangled in his, your heart in your throat. He pulls you behind him, not once looking back.

The upstairs apartment is dim, clean, and familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

His hoodie hits the floor first. Your shirt follows. Your bra is gone with one snap of his practiced fingers.

“Fuck,” he breathes, stepping in closer. “I’ve dreamed about this. Exactly this.”

“Then stop dreaming.”

“I’m not stopping anything tonight.”

He kisses you hard, mouths crashing, tongues tangled. His hands roam over every inch of skin he missed—the good side of your ribs, your back, your thighs. He lifts you. You wrap your legs around his waist.

Your back hits the hallway wall.

Your pants are yanked down, barely a memory. His belt clinks open, jeans shoved past his hips. You’re both gasping, biting, pulling, years of silence poured into filthy, reckless touch.

“I missed your body,” he mutters into your mouth. “Missed how you sound. How you taste. How you fucking feel.”

“Then take me.”

“You think I won’t?”

He kicks the bedroom door open with one foot, lays you down onto his bed, and finally—finally—he crawls over you like you’re something holy. You are.

Minho kisses you again, slower now, lips dragging down the column of your throat. Over your collarbone. Across the top of your chest. He palms your breast—squeezes, just enough to make you gasp—and then closes his mouth over your nipple.

You arch.

“Still so responsive,” he murmurs, flicking his tongue over the peak before sucking hard, slow. “Still so good for me.”

Your hands knot in his hair.

He kisses across to the other one—giving it the same attention, tongue lazy, mouth open and hot. Every sound you make fuels him.

Then lower.

His mouth trails down the center of your stomach—soft kisses, open-mouthed and hot, then bites just sharp enough to leave blooming heat behind. He kneels between your legs, hands parting your thighs.

You’re soaked again. Dripping. Panties long gone.

He growls low, eyes locked to your pussy like it’s fucking divine.

“You knew this was next,” he says, voice low, hands sliding under your thighs to lift your hips. “I told you.”

“Then shut up and—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

Minho licks one long stripe up your slit—slow and filthy—from the bottom of your entrance to your clit. And moans. Loud.

“Still taste like a fucking fever dream.”

Your hands shoot into his hair again. “Minho—fuck—”

He flattens his tongue against your clit, then circles it. Slow, heavy pressure. Just enough to make your thighs jerk around his head. “Keep them open,” he mutters, pulling back only to kiss your inner thigh, your hipbone, your mound. “Let me see all of you.”

And then he devours.

Tongue pressed deep. Lapping. Sucking. Flicking. He eats like he missed meals for years and this is how he survives now. Your moans go from soft to broken, gasps ragged, legs shaking around his head.

“Oh my—fuck—Minho—”

He groans into you, the vibration making your hips buck. His arms wrap tighter around your thighs, holding you down, keeping you right there as his tongue circles your clit in tight, ruthless rhythm.

He sucks your clit—harder now. Lips wrapped around your clit, tongue swirling in circles so precise it feels like he mapped this out. Every flick is a promise. Every kiss, a punishment.

“Minho—fuckfuck—please—”

Your thighs tremble against his shoulders, toes curling, head thrown back into his sheets. But he’s relentless. Focused. Cruel in the way only someone who knows your body this well can be.

Then—suddenly—his tongue dips lower again.

He licks into you—deep—pressing into your entrance, slow and wet and hot.

Minho—”

He moans into your cunt, arms flexing around your thighs, nose pressed into your mound like he never wants to come up for air. He tongue-fucks you harder, the slick sounds obscene now, spit and arousal dripping down his chin.

He pulls back just enough to suck your clit again, messy and loud—then goes back down, tongue fucking you like it’s a competition. Like it’s penance. Like he’s going to draw the second orgasm out of you with his mouth alone.

“You’re close again,” he pants. “I feel it. You gonna cum for me, baby? Gonna soak my face?”

“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. In fact, he doubles down—tongue driving in and out while he rubs tight, fast circles on your clit with his thumb. Your thighs snap around his head. You try to pull away, too sensitive, too much—

But Minho just growls, deep and possessive.

“Fucking take it.”

Fuck you do. You fucking do take it. How can you not. And you finally break apart on his face, legs locking, body spasming as that second orgasm rips through you harder, wetter, longer. He holds you through it, licking and sucking until your voice is nothing but choked whimpers and your body can’t stop twitching.

When he finally pulls away, his mouth is glossy, chin soaked.

He smirks—wild, satisfied, dark before kneeling up, grabbing a condom from the drawer, tearing it open with his teeth.

“Now I’m gonna ruin this pussy properly.”

You’re barely conscious of the way he tears the condom wrapper open—just the sound of it, sharp and needed in the haze of your wrecked body. He rolls it on quick, jaw clenched, hand pumping his cock once, twice, eyes locked on you like you’re prey he’s finally allowed to devour.

“Get on all fours.”

You try to move, limbs shaking, but he grabs your hips and flips you himself—effortless, firm, like muscle memory. You barely get your arms under you before he’s behind you, one hand gripping your ass, the other dragging along your spine.

“You remember how loud you used to get?” he mutters, voice thick. “Gonna make you scream into my fucking sheets again.”

He guides his cock to your entrance—rubbing the tip through your soaked folds, slow and teasing, soaking himself in your mess.

“Fuck—you’re dripping,” he groans. “You came so hard for my mouth, and you’re still ready for my cock?”

“Please—Minho—need it—need you—”

He sinks in. Deep. One smooth, devastating thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

“Oh my fuck—”

“That’s it,” he growls, bottoming out. “Tight as ever. Like your pussy never forgot me.”

You choke on a moan as he pulls out slow—just to slam back in, harder this time. Your arms buckle, face falling into the mattress as his hips snap against your ass with punishing rhythm.

“Minho—fuck—you’re so—deep—”

“Yeah? You missed this cock?” His voice is ragged, filthy. “Tell me. Tell me who fucks you like this.”

“Only you—fuck—only you, Minho—”

“Damn right.”

He grips your hair, pulling you up by the back of your neck, arching your body so your back curves into him. His mouth is by your ear now, panting, biting.

“No one touches you here,” he growls, fucking into you harder, deeper. “Not your mouth. Not your thighs. Not your pussy. All mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours—Minho—I’m fucking yours—”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours!”

He snarls into your neck and slams into you so deep you see stars. One of his hands slides down to your clit, rubbing fast, relentless circles while his cock drags against your g-spot.

“You gonna cum again?” he pants. “On my cock this time?”

“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

“Let go for me, baby.”

You don’t even need to try.

His thumb circles your clit with such devastating precision, and his cock hits so deep, so right, you come apart again—body locking up, mouth falling open in a moan that barely sounds like your own.

Your orgasm slams into you like a wave, sharp and overwhelming, your pussy fluttering around him, gripping him, milking him like your body knows he’s supposed to stay there.

“Fuuuuck—Minho—!”

“That’s it,” he growls. “Cum on my cock like a good girl. So fucking wet—so tight—I can feel you pulsing, fuck—”

Your vision blurs. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps thrusting through it, relentless, dragging it out with brutal pace, your pussy so sensitive now you can barely breathe. His hand’s still on your clit, rubbing slow now—just enough to make you whimper.

“Minho—please—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.”

He leans over your back again, teeth dragging along your shoulder, breath hot and harsh. “You gonna take it, baby,” he pants. “You’re gonna be good and take it. All of it. Until I cum too.”

You cry out when he fucks you harder, cock slamming in deep, hips slapping skin, the sound so obscene it makes your whole body flush. You feel your own slick running down your thighs, pooling under you—and still he keeps going.

“You said you were mine,” he groans. “So act like it. Let me fuck you how you need.”

“Minho—f-fuck—it’s too—too much—”

“It’s never too much,” he hisses. “Not for my good girl.”

His fingers leave your clit, only to grip your throat—lightly, possessively, pulling you up so your back is flush to his chest. His cock drives into you deeper from this angle, the stretch unbearable, perfect.

“You feel this?” he whispers into your ear. “You feel how hard I still am inside you? I’m not even close, baby.”

“Oh my god—”

“You’re gonna take every fucking second of it.”

You moan, broken and needy, as he slams into you again and again. His hips are ruthless now, fucking you straight through your oversensitivity, chasing his own high while demanding you keep up.

“Gonna ruin you,” he groans. “Gonna fill you up and fuck you until you can’t even stand—until all you know is my name in your throat.”

“Please—Minho—yes—yes, please—”

You feel another orgasm building and he knows it. His hand snakes down again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing quick tight circles just as he starts fucking you even deeper, fucking into your sweet spot with perfect, punishing rhythm.

“Cum again,” he growls. “Do it. Show me how good your pussy gets when it’s mine.”

Your legs are trembling now, slick and spent, but Minho doesn’t let up.

“C’mon,” he pants, voice wrecked. “Give it to me again. You know you can.”

His fingers never leave your clit—tight, ruthless circles in time with the brutal rhythm of his thrusts. He’s fucking into you so deep you swear he’s carved out space inside you. Your body’s a live wire, too sensitive, too soaked, too close.

And then—

You break.

A cry tears out of you as your body convulses, squirting hard around him, wetness gushing as your vision whites out. He curses low and vicious, gripping your hips to ride it out, holding you through the aftershocks.

“Fuck—just like that, baby. Look at this mess. All for me.”

You’re limp, gasping, gone—and he’s still fucking you, chasing the edge with a growl in his throat. His rhythm stutters, hips snapping faster, deeper, until he finally buries himself to the hilt with a sharp gasp.

“Mine,” he groans. “Taking all of me—fuck—mine.”

You feel the shudder of him spilling into the condom, body tight, muscles locked, every filthy, pent-up second poured into you.

And then—

Silence.

Only breath. Sweat. Your heartbeat in your ears. He doesn’t pull out right away. Just stays there, chest pressed to yours, mouth by your ear and pressing soft kisses.

Then finally—slowly—he pulls out. You both shiver from the loss.

Minho moves carefully now, the storm in him simmered down to something softer, raw-edged but human. He slides off the condom, ties it off, discards it in the bin by the bed. Then he vanishes for a beat—into the bathroom maybe—but returns just as fast with a warm cloth, water, tissues.

“Easy,” he murmurs as he wipes between your legs, his touch gentle, reverent. “Let me take care of you.”

You wince slightly when the cloth brushes too close to your clit, overstimulated and twitchy. He notices immediately.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “You okay?”

You nod. Too gone to speak yet, but he sees it—your blinking gratitude, the softness returning to your breath. He kisses the inside of your knee before tossing the cloth aside.

And then he climbs back into bed, arms open. You crawl into them without hesitation. He pulls the blanket over both of you, tucks your head beneath his chin. One hand rubs slow circles into your back; the other is tangled in your hair.

For a long time, neither of you say anything. Just breath. The muted thud of his heartbeat under your ear. The faint creak of the studio pipes somewhere above.

Until you finally whisper, “Why’d we stop talking?”

His fingers still for a moment. Then resume. Slower. “I was angry,” he says. “And stupid.”

You hum. “Me too.”

He sighs. “I hated that you left without saying goodbye.”

“I hated that you let me.”

A pause.

“You came back,” he says quietly.

“I never stopped thinking about you.”

Another beat of silence, heavier now. “I never moved on,” he admits.

You look up at him, eyes glassy. “Neither did I.”

His jaw flexes. His thumb brushes your cheek. And this time, when he kisses you—it’s slow. Deep. No lust. Just longing. A kiss built on what-ifs. On might-have-beens. On maybe-again.

He whispers against your lips, “Stay the night.”

You nod, barely breathing. “Okay.”

It’s been three weeks since that night. Since Minho locked the studio door, fucked you senseless, and told you—without words—that he never stopped wanting you.

Now?

Now, your toothbrush is in his bathroom. Your sketchbook’s on his kitchen counter. Your bra’s been living on his bedpost for four days and counting.

You’re upstairs more than not—first it was overnight visits, then a drawer, then a closet, then one morning he just grunted, “Your stuff’s already here. Might as well stop pretending.”

So you stayed.

Mornings are quiet. Shared coffee in oversized mugs, his hand on your thigh while he skims client bookings. Nights are louder—sometimes it’s just TV and takeout, sometimes it’s moaning into his mouth while he fucks you over the arm of the couch, one hand tangled in your hair and the other keeping your legs spread.

Rebuilding hasn’t been linear. You argue. You remember old fights. You see old wounds still healing. But you talk now. And when you don’t have the words, he kisses the silence out of you, palms framing your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks too long.

One afternoon, Jisung barges in to drop off a delivery and freezes at the top of the stairs. You’re half-naked in one of Minho’s shirts. He’s behind you, tattoo gun still buzzing.

“Are you seriously tattooing her naked again?”

Minho doesn’t even flinch. “My apartment. My rules.”

Jisung groans. “I’m gonna start charging rent for the trauma.”

Minho just smirks, wiping your skin clean and pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Close the door on your way out.”

You laugh into the sleeve of your shirt. You’re glowing. A little inked, a lot in love.

And Minho? He’s not going anywhere this time.

[ppyopulii]

🎸 tour date | ft. lee jihoon

PREVIEW. The limelight is yours—you’ve been itching for it ever since your debut only six months ago, and your pathway to stardom is a straight-shot after being recruited to be the opener for the world-famous rock band CH33RS. This a hundred day tour is sure to bring you the fame you know you’re deserving of, especially after the announcement of your upcoming debut album. The only catch? WOOZI, lead singer of CH33RS, seems to hate you.

FEATURING. rockstar!lee jihoon x risingstar!reader GENRE(S). drama, angst, fluff, smut (mdni.) LENGTH | WC. <3.5 hrs | 27.5k (PHEW) TAGS | EXPLICITS. cursing, miscommunication, not really e2l more like they just get off on the wrong foot, lots & lots of tension, mentions of drug use, mentions of alcohol use, reader suffers from anxiety, mistreatment of idols by staff, mentions of needles from piercings (belly button, lobe, eyebrow, nose), descriptions of violence, frieren spoilers (!!!) | dom!ljh, sub!r, oral (r), fingering (r), finger sucking, reader has breasts, one (1) pussy slap, riding, doggy style, unprotected sex (pls be careful y'all…), sir kink, nicknames (ljh calls r pretty, baby)

JAY’S MUSINGS. FOR YUKI'S 100 MILESTONE COLLAB! i had an absolute BLAST getting to meet so many new ppl thru this collab & am excited to read through everyone else's work! additional warning: this is the craziest, longest projection I’ve ever done onto the mc for a fic. pls don't perceive me too hard. this is ALSO my smut debut (つ﹏<。)… I fear they get hella freaky. once again, pls don’t perceive me too hard. BIG BIG thank you to calli & hershey (@hhaechansmoless & @junplusone), my loves, for seeing me through this. (those sprints were insane btw. u guys rock. love u eternally.)

LISTEN TO THE SETLIST HERE! (🎧) fan favorites include california & he gets me so high by beabadoobee, r u mine, snap out of it, do i wanna know?, & 505 by arctic monkeys.

📍 SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

The photoshoot set is loud—too loud, if anyone were to ask you.

No one does, of course. Your make-up artist instead squeezes another shot of red cherry lip stain to your already plumped lips, batting her eyelashes and gushing over how your eyes are being complimented just right. Behind you, a photographer with a neon green mohawk mutters to themselves that you’re wearing too few layers for what’s supposed to be a corporate setting, but they’re shushed by the stylist who starts to preach about rebellion against a capitalistic and patriarchal society. There’s a flashing show of cameras going on up front where the office setting is, dulled-out office furniture turned over and papers scattered everywhere, with the camera staff making their final adjustments to the illumination.

The light hurts your head. You kind of want to take a Tylenol and pass out.

Just when the make-up artist begins to babble on about some sort of skin care routine to take care of the acne scars on your cheeks, your savior shows up.

Joshua.

“Oh, thank fuck that you’re here,” you sigh, pushing the staff member off of you in a barely professional manner. “Are we starting soon? It’s been like, two hours now.”

Your manager has the nerve to raise an eyebrow like he’s not the one causing you to be put through overstimulating torture. “Weren’t you the one begging to have a shoot with Rolling Stone? I went through hell trying to get you this gig.”

Tugging on the garter for one of your fishnet sleeves, you begin to fix your outfit from the horrors of prolonged sitting time, readjusting the tiers of silver jewelry around your neck. Joshua waits for you patiently, holding out a bottle of water that you gratefully chug down once you’re done.

“Look, this photoshoot is going to be good for you, you know. You need the exposure, especially with your upcoming debut album and tour.”

“Upcoming debut album and opener for a tour,” you sourly correct. “Instead of going on my own world tour, I get to be the background music to a merch line full of idiots who are probably high out of their minds, waiting for the main performance.”

You can tell when Joshua’s patience wears thin. He does this thing where his left eyebrow twitches in an attempt to stop his face from twisting into a scowl, and sometimes he’ll even pinch the bridge of his stupidly perfectly bridged nose with his index finger and thumb, rubbing it like a lucky charm.

The man sighs and surprisingly regains composure before speaking. “You’re still a rising star, Sairen. Rising doesn’t mean world-renowned. Rising means just starting out. We’ve had this conversation before.”

Your body involuntarily stiffens at the mention of your stage name. Sairen. A classic take on the seducing mythological creature that lures sailors to their death with an irresistible voice. When signing with the label PHOENIX, they insisted you use a stage name to increase your appeal to the target audience.

A persona raging with lustful eyes and dripping in confidence would make sales rocket, they praised, holding their breaths as they listened to your first playback. Embrace this mask on stage—it’ll give you the courage you need to score big.

But I’m already scoring big as I am right now, you wanted to argue.

Of course, your signature ended up neatly scribbled onto the contract anyway.

It wasn’t like you hated performing—no, you lived for the stage. Memories of your first live performance seep into your mind, the crowd’s energy shaking you to the core. Hearing people scream the lyrics to a song you wrote from the depths of your heart, and knowing they related tenfold to your words meant more to you than anything else in the world. From handmade bracelets to thank-you notes thrown on stage, you swore to continue giving back to your community. Your fans were one of the only things holding you together.

Because the constant hiding from on-slaughtering paparazzi? The diets your staff started to put you on, claiming they would help you lose weight? The fake interviewers with their fake smiles and even faker compliments?

You were tired of it—too tired of it, if anyone asked you.

But once again, no one does, and with only one more moment of hesitation does Joshua usher you to the front of the set.

📍 BUSAN, KOREA

Lee Jihoon can barely believe his ears.

“Sairen? You’re telling me Jeonghan got Sairen onboard for our tour?”

Soonyoung’s nodding so hard one would think he’s headbanging into another universe. The two of them were currently at a low-lit diner, enjoying kal-guksu over a shared beer.

“Yeah! Apparently he’s friends with their manager. They go way back or something, and he owed ‘em.” Soonyoung slurps a spoonful of noodles into his mouth. “Dude, this is huge. We’ve never had an opener who was this big before.”

“That’s because we’ve never had an opener, Soonyoung.” Jihoon raises an eyebrow at his friend’s antics and takes a sip of beer. The alcohol is bitter and tastes cheap on his tongue. “This is our first time going on a tour big enough to have one.”

“Oh. Right.”

The lead singer sighs and, in a bad habit of poor table manners, swirls his chopsticks around mindlessly.

Sairen. The indie rockstar was barely his age, but they were already reaching fame he could only have wished for back then. Jihoon remembers the restless nights waiting in anticipation for CH33RS’ album drop; he remembers the blood, sweat, and tears poured into the debut of the decade, and how the three of them had pushed themselves to limits they didn’t even know they had. He wonders how Sairen managed to do it—on their own, nonetheless—and with what will.

Letting out a low whistle, Jihoon kicks back his feet on the booth’s seat, right next to Soonyoung. The drummer makes a whine of protest before reluctantly obliging, scooting over so Jihoon’s clunky boots have more room.

“This Sairen,” Jihoon picks at his nails, “They’re pretty good, from what I’ve heard. But they don’t exactly fit our concept that much.”

Soonyoung scoffs, pointing his chopsticks at his bandmate accusingly. “You’re just jealous ‘cause you like their style. You wanna copy, don’t you?”

He tsks. Jihoon’s never been one for being read, especially by someone like Soonyoung.

It’s true; Sairen’s sound is unique and, like their stage name suggests, utterly captivating. He still doesn’t understand how they’re able to hit those haunting, spine-chilling high notes in their songs; Jihoon’s tried a shameful number of times to recreate the sounds, all unsuccessful.

Maybe this tour will prove useful, after all.

“Do you know when we’re meeting them?” Jihoon asks, totally ignoring his friend’s prior question.

Soonyoung tilts his head and rests his chin on his palm. He’s staring daggers into Jihoon’s soul again, a slitted eyebrow perfectly arched under the dim diner lighting.

“What? You interested in them or something? They are pretty hot.”

Jihoon moves his heavy-footed boot, and Soonyoung yelps. Rubber meets skin and Jihoon knows he’s hit a nerve when the older man starts whining for him to stop. He, albeit reluctantly, stops digging into Soonyoung’s thigh and opts for tapping a beat on the worn wood of the booth seat.

“I fear your lust is what’s going to disband our group,” Jihoon scowls.

The waiter comes at the perfect time with the check, and he watches Soonyoung neatly stack their bowls and cups together.

Flipping his hood up, the two band members shuffle their way out of the diner, the Busan wind meeting them head-on from the second they step out the door. Seungcheol is probably in the studio refining his guitar strings, Jihoon notes, as Soonyoung calls for a cab.

It’s still early in the evening, the sky on the brink of darkening into night. If he were farther inland, Jihoon would be craning his neck trying to see the stars that twinkle into view. Here, though, in the heart of the city, he knows it’s futile. There’s too much light pollution competing with the organic phenomena of the galaxy.

Jihoon purses his lips in thought. Humankind really knows how to fuck up natural beauties.

Soonyoung is calling his name, waving eagerly from the open back door of a taxi that will take them back to the studio. Raising a hand to signal he’s heard the obnoxiously rowdy calls of his friend, Jihoon trudges forward, forcing the stars out of his mind.

After all, forward is the only way to go around these parts.

📍 SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

WOOZI is… shorter in person.

You’re not sure why you notice him first; maybe it was indeed his height, or perhaps it’s because he’s the only one who’s actively not paying any attention to the matter at hand. It’s silent, save for murmurs of staff in the background, as Jihoon chugs water from a bottle someone gave him. A sliver of his abdomen is revealed as his head tilts back to get the last few drops, and to your surprise, you catch a peek of shiny black ink from under his white tank top.

Was it always this warm in the lounge room?

You shift awkwardly from one foot to another as a blondie with a mole on the apple of his cheek begins to introduce the members of CH33RS. Not like you needed one, anyway; you were more than familiar with the band.

CH33RS, a rock group that debuted barely two years ago. Composed of S.COUPS, HOSHI, and WOOZI, they’ve made an impressive dent in the K-rock world, hitting chart numbers you wouldn’t think were possible in someone’s early twenties. Their debut album, CHANGE UP!, charted in the top ten for Billboard, practically shooting them into stardom with people worldwide eagerly anticipating their release of new music.

Now, with their comeback and announcement of their world tour, RUBY, it’s a pure miracle you were able to even get a greeting from them. It’s even more of a miracle that you were able to score an opportunity to be their opener for the North America shows.

There’s a hand shaking yours. Breaking out of your trance, you’re met with the bright smile of HOSHI, the band’s drummer. His energy must be what got him the role of their percussionist, because you physically feel the drainage of your social battery from the vigor he has in shaking your hand.

“Hi! It’s so nice to meet you, Sairen, I can’t wait to see your performances,” he’s saying with a smile that rivals the sun.

His English is tinged with an accent, but you don’t find yourself minding. Your lips stretch into a smile, spurred on by his youthful spirit, and tell him he can call you by your real name.

“There’s no need for formalities when we’ll be working together.” You brush a stray hair out of your eyes and bow slightly to him; Joshua practically whacked good manners into you like you were some unruly kid who never learned how to take their muddy shoes off in a house. “I’m looking forward to working with you for the next few months as well.”

HOSHI’s eyes light up. He tells you that while he doesn’t mind being called his stage name, Soonyoung works just fine too, and for once in a blue moon, your heart warms for a coworker.

S.COUPS, also known as Seungcheol, is next. He bows deeply to you and extends his hand like a businessman. He was only adorned in a worn hoodie and baggy jeans, but if you didn’t know any better as an outsider, you would’ve guessed that the man was about to propose the best deal of your life.

To your right, the blonde man with the mole mutters something in Seungcheol’s ear. Seungcheol dips his head to you once more and steps back with a polite smile. “It is nice to meet you.”

You give him a brief smile. His eyes are the only thing that isn’t serious about him, and remind you of the gaze of a fawn’s that you would see in your backyard when you were younger—big, and filled with wonder.

Finally, WOOZI raises his hand in acknowledgment. You’re taken by surprise once again by him, as he doesn’t even bother stepping forward to greet you.

“WOOZI. Looking forward to working with you.”

You blink. “Sairen. Likewise.”

The air feels thick, and it takes Joshua coughing to get everyone back in action. Blondie with the mole introduces himself as Jeonghan, their manager, and you’re not quite sure if you like the twinkle in his eyes when they sweep over you and your manager.

“Now that introductions are over, our first schedule with the four of you will be a promotional shoot for the tour.” Joshua is clapping his hands like a director, and some staff members begin to scurry around for your guys’ belongings. “We’ll be taking separate cars, but we’ll see you at the shoot.”

You’re out the door before you can say formal goodbyes, but you manage to catch the friendly smiles on Seungcheol and Soonyoung’s faces while you’re being bustled along by staff members. Your ever-loving manager clicks the button to the elevator and heaves a sigh.

“Still angry over who you’re opening for?” he inquires. “I promise, they’re not a bad bunch to be around! Even Jihoon—er, WOOZI. I actually know all of ‘em pretty well; Jeonghan and I, we grew up in the industry together. You’re in good hands.”

You choose not to respond as you board the elevator, pressing the level for parking and reaching for your phone. There are no notifications, of course, but you fiddle with the folders of apps on your homescreen anyway to busy yourself. Joshua whistles a tune.

Maybe if you were lucky today, you’d be able to sneak away to a park somewhere and use that new gardening app you’ve been meaning to try out. You think back to your busy schedule and sigh; if only another miracle could happen, where someone with good intentions kidnaps you and steals you away.

“The photoshoot,” you finally say. “How many people are gonna be there? Same as last time?”

Your manager tenses. “I requested for less staff this time, but I’m not sure how well it came across to the company. Let me know if we need to schedule an early leave, okay?”

The elevator halts in time with your tightening chest. You blink hard and fast, trying to rid yourself of the images of bright lights and too many people talking to you at once. There’s a hand on your back, and though you want to curse Joshua for reminding you of your predicament, you instead find yourself aching for the circles he rubs into your shoulder blade.

“Fuck you,” you mutter. Joshua only laughs. “If I react this way later, don’t be surprised.”

—

You do, to your credit, react that way later.

Someone’s shouting for you across the set room. The room is alive with people, animated laughter ringing out as staff members run to and fro. It’s even worse since it’s not just you who’s being attended to, but three additional men. You can hear the cheerful voice of Soonyoung combined with Seungcheol’s requests to staff members for more water. Jihoon, on the other hand, is nowhere to be found.

Your name is called again and you flinch, muttering a half-hearted apology to the makeup artist who gives you a stink eye for messing up their work. The denim shorts they’re having you wear for this shoot are chafing your thighs. It takes everything in you not to throw a tantrum right then and there.

“There you are!” the sound manager barks, and you startle again, much to the stylist’s displeasure. “I’ve been looking all over you. Why haven’t you been to the front of the set yet? The lighting manager wants to ask for your opinion on filters.”

You want to bite back that what they’re asking is definitely a Joshua question, but you hold your tongue, sighing. Think of the park. Think of the flowers.

“I’ll be right there in a second, I’m almost done here.”

The makeup artist scowls. “You are not almost done here, are you kidding me? I’m gonna need a lot more time than a second.”

“Please hurry it up, then. We’re on a tight schedule; CH33RS is almost ready and we only have about two hours booked for this shoot.”

The sound manager leaves without another word. Your knuckles are paling from how tightly you’re gripping the arms of the styling chair, chewing the inside of your cheek until you taste the familiar metallic flavor of blood.

“You heard the man,” the makeup artist huffs. “Stop moving and maybe I’ll actually get something done to make you look better.”

Their brush clatters to the floor.

Before you know it, you’re out of the chair and in their face, teeth bared. It’s gotten eerily silent in the room way too fast. “You’re lucky my manager pities your company enough to work with you. How dare you treat me this way, and over a problem that’s not mine, no less.”

You’re about to say more, but there’s a cold tap of a finger on your shoulder. You twist, ready to charge yet again, but the sight of Jihoon’s sharp expression halts you in your tracks.

“Care to tell me why you’re yelling at a staff member? One your manager personally hired, too?” He raises an eyebrow.

You scoff. His perfect English pisses you off; it tells you his short introduction wasn’t due to lack of vocabulary, but lack of desire to greet you. “Stay the fuck out of this, Jihoon. You don’t know shit.”

The man’s eyes turn icy. You warily take a step back.

“My name to you is WOOZI. If you can’t even have the decency to treat your own staff members with respect, the least you can do to make up for it is refer to me by the name I prefer. Know your place, Sairen.”

With that, WOOZI turns around, coolly walking away without even a glance back to check if you’ve heard what he’s said. Seungcheol claps WOOZI on the back and says something in Korean, and Soonyoung starts up a conversation to kick the room back into action.

It works, and you’re left alone as the room bustles back to life, the makeup artist disappearing somewhere you couldn’t care less for.

Your cheeks sting, hot from embarrassment at being treated like a misbehaving child in front of dozens of people. You can hear the rumors already—Sairen, known for a biting tongue, finally humbled, and by no other than one of the members of the band they’re opening for. A classic powerplay that will haunt you even when the stage lights dim and the crowd cheers for an encore.

You barely register Joshua at your side. He’s speaking to you, pressing a cold water bottle to your neck to snap you back to reality.

Instead, tears prick your eyes, and your bottom lip wobbles. The sound manager from before is yelling again, no doubt trying to rush you, but the last thing you want is to be around people. The park will have to be saved for another day.

“I’m going to the bathroom. Tell the director I’ll be a bit.”

You don’t even wait for Joshua’s response before you’re walking away, arms crossed and head down.

📍 SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

Your head leans against the glass, the material cool against your forehead. The clouds across the sky streak red and pink as the sun peers out from behind a vast forest of evergreens. You stare at the outlined branches, imagining the rough, spiky bumps of a pinecone in your hands. Would it be less painful to hold a thousand of them bare, rather than have to be the bearer of WOOZI’s wrath?

A sudden lurch halts your reminiscences, the driver apologizing for the sudden brakes being hit, and you can faintly hear Joshua with his hasty forgiveness.

At least the tour was going well, you think bitterly.

You hate that it’s true; Joshua had excitedly woken you up this morning for your four o’clock flight with the news that three of the next upcoming shows for RUBY had sold out. In your stupor, you had spilled the poorly-made hotel coffee he had brought on yourself, leading to the man worriedly giving you treatment for any mild burns.

“Joshua, it’s fine,” you had stammered, hurriedly trying to ease the sting by pressing cold towels to your thigh and left wrist.

Contrary to how he acted with you in the industry, your manager was a kind man—it was one of his few redeeming qualities. He shooed you into the bathroom with a change of clothes, telling you he’d brief you more on the matter on the car ride later.

Now, on the vehicle, he sits beside you as you listen to him rattle off all the things you should theoretically be giddy about.

“Tonight, Vancouver, and Salt Lake City all were bought out once you finished up in San Francisco,” Joshua is puttering, typing away at some very important work emails on his laptop. “The crowd was great for a first show, of course, but because of how well your and CH33RS’ energy was, the internet is going wild with clips. Streams with How Tomorrow Moves have upped like, 16% overnight. You’re doing really well.”

“Just as they predicted,” you muse, tapping your chin with an indifference that makes Joshua’s eye twitch.

“Hey, their predictions don’t dictate that stuff, you know.” You feel the brush of his hoodie against your skin; a familiar way of his to show that in the end, he truly does care about you. “You dictate that stuff. Your energy, your performance, it all comes down to you. Not some shabby company that uses you like a pawn.”

You snort, slightly pushing him away and grinning at him. “Can’t believe you’re shittalking your boss, just like that.”

Joshua rolls his eyes as the trees start to give way to suburban developments, signaling that a restroom stop is close.

“You’re a human, too. Don’t forget that.”

His words stick with you throughout the remainder of the road trip.

You know CH33RS took a bus, them having more staff compared to you and your manager, and you’re grateful that Joshua listened to your request of taking a separate car to allow you to get more rest.

The flight itself was awful enough—two hours of staring straight ahead and trying to ignore WOOZI’s distant nature beside you. Soonyoung, who had been on your left, fell asleep rather quickly, leaving you no choice but to daydream about being anywhere but next to the lead singer of CH33RS. 

You knew that WOOZI had an aloof nature; it was something fangirls giggled relentlessly about in the comment section of his Instagram posts and YouTube covers. You were expecting his lack of emotion, even, but you never would have guessed he would have been so openly hostile towards you on your first day of meeting.

And over a staff member who was disrespecting you, nonetheless!

Out of the corner of your eye, you had taken a peek at him, earbuds in and eyes shut. If he hadn’t been so arrogant about being the bigger person in that situation, maybe the two of you could be talking about inspiration for music instead of sitting in complete silence on the flight.

Too bad he had to be a complete dick who inserted himself into situations that didn’t even involve him.

You sigh, dragging your luggage out of the elevator and into the luxurious hallway of yet another hotel. Tonight’s show was sure to be highly anticipated, but all you wanted to do was curl up on your bed and watch anime. You heard Frieren was being highly reviewed these days, and you were itching to watch it.

“Remember that once you unpack, you’re scheduled for a dinner with the guys to discuss plans for the next few shows, now that they’re sold out,” Joshua calls from behind you; there’s the sound of shuffling and the unlocking of a door to your right. “Text me once you’re ready. We’re heading deeper into the city, so it would be wise to wear something that’s easy to disguise yourself with.”

Biting your tongue, you numbly nod, and without any more words you hear the heavy hotel door click shut.

—

Jihoon knows he should apologize to you.

He stands backstage, a staff member making sure the mic on his outfit is secure. With his forefinger and thumb, Jihoon twirls his iconic red microphone in his hand, letting the sensation of applause from your latest performance wash over him with satisfaction. That dramatic high note at the end was something he only ever dreamed of hearing, but here he was, listening to you belt your heart out live to a bunch of strangers.

That day, back during the photoshoot, Seungcheol had cornered him during a scheduled break. He remembers the crazed look in the bassist’s eyes, lips turned so forcefully upside down that Jihoon had to steady the man before asking him what was wrong.

“Why’d you upset Sairen like that?” Seungcheol huffed. “Man, we just met them today. You’re gonna get rumors to spread and our tour hasn’t even started yet.”

Faintly, the sound of a vase clattering to the floor flashes through Jihoon’s mind. He remembers cupping a face in his hands and shouting for someone to call an ambulance.

His worry must be evident on his face, because Seungcheol’s frown eases into a sympathetic grimace. “You know, Sairen was being mistreated first. They had the sound manager on their ass, and I heard from Jeonghan that their makeup artist wasn’t the greatest to them, either. Cut them some slack, will you?”

“That gives them no right to treat their staff that way, hyeong,” Jihoon points out, gritting his teeth together. “They should know better than to outright challenge a worker like that. It won’t work in their favor—not here. Not when all they have is Joshua behind them.”

Seungcheol heaves a sigh; one that Jihoon knows all too well, when Soonyoung steals too much of the kimchi without permission or when Jeonghan plays another nasty prank on him.

“We were in their shoes once,” Seungcheol chides, nudging his shoulder. “And you, out of everyone here, should know what it’s like to be looked down upon by everyone except a select few. Try and have some sympathy, even if it only lasts the hundred days we’re together with them.”

Now, in the present, Jihoon watches you hype up the crowd for the main event of CH33RS. You’re decked in an outfit that emphasizes your figure just right, the red crop-top letting your belly button piercing take full stage in the twinkling lights. He never knew you had one; you weren’t one to post pictures often on social media, and when you did for brand collabs, it was never flaunted.

Maybe it had been an impulse decision before the tour started—before you met him, and before your life changed too much for you to keep up with.

Shaking his head, the singer turns around and looks for his bandmates. It was no use overthinking the past; he had done what he did, and now you avoided him like the plague. Your stink eyes could rival Seungcheol’s, that’s for sure.

“Thank you, Seattle!” He hears you shout into the mic. “I’ll be back, don’t you worry!”

The roar of the crowd is deafening, and he knows you’re taking your final bow. There’s probably glitter running down your neck from the sweat you’ve gained onstage, your makeup being ruined from the performance, and he wonders what it would be like to wipe away the cold expression off your face and be the receiver of a smile, instead.

No matter. The music fades to instrumentals of CH33RS’ songs as the sound of your chunky boots treads offstage. Soonyoung’s running up to you with a grin, saying that you outperformed the first show in San Francisco, and you’re laughing in his arms. Jihoon feels like there’s a frog in his throat.

“Well done, Sairen.” Seungcheol beams. “If we’re not careful, you’re going to be the main performance instead of us.”

“Seungch—S.COUPS,” you correct yourself, smiling bashfully up at the bassist. “Thank you, but you know that isn’t true. Those people are out there for you. Me being here doesn’t change that.”

Jihoon’s heard enough. One of the staff members calls for last-minute bathroom runs and outfit changes, saying CH33RS will be up in no less than fifteen minutes. Before he can rationalize with himself to congratulate you on your show, he’s scurrying off to the bathroom, cheeks alight with something he refuses to recognize.

—

For the first time in days, you don’t want to tear your hair out when interacting with a staff member who’s not Joshua.

Sakura, one of the permanent stylists for CH33RS, sits you in a chair and begins to help you take your makeup off. Your breaths are still coming in heavy pants, chest rising and falling all too quickly, and the girl responds by handing you a bottle of water.

“Drink, please.”

It’s the most care you’ve gotten in the industry since Joshua became your manager. You sit, quietly sipping the water, a warm feeling in your chest rising as Sakura begins to wipe your face and moisturize it without any cruel remarks or biting, back-handed comments.

Even from backstage, inside a well-padded dressing room, you can still hear the audience’s booming cheers accompanied by the high-pitched strum of a guitar. WOOZI’s voice, a symphony to your ears, begins to ring faintly. You close your eyes and let the calmness wash over you.

Maybe Joshua was right; maybe you were doing well this time around, and this tour was going to be your key to stardom. The stomach in your pit ached to be seen, to be known, to be heard, and tonight it feasted on the crowd’s voices singing along to your music. Flowers and handmade beaded bracelets notes had been tossed onstage, making your heart melt as you profusely thanked Seattle.

This is what you were made for—putting your all out there for those who needed a voice. Not to perform some shitty, fake and lustful persona that PHOENIX wanted to market you for.

Your eyes flutter open as Sakura murmurs that she’s almost done. Letting out a breath of relief, your lips curl into a smile. “Thank you, Sakura. I appreciate you.”

She pauses in putting away the moisturizer. Joshua had taught you some simple Korean, especially for etiquette, but you guessed that Sakura was still surprised at hearing you speak to her so willingly.

Her big brown eyes blink once, twice, thrice at you before she dips her head. “Ah… you’re welcome. Please let me know if you need anything else.”

“Of course. Thank you once more.”

There it is again—Sakura lets her lips part oh-so slightly. You tilt your head, a quizzical smile on your face, but she quickly waves her hands in dismissal before offering you another goodbye.

Once she leaves, you’re left to your own devices, your manager off somewhere making plans for the upcoming days before the next show. The guys shouldn’t be here for about another hour, you muse, idling on your phone. You had started Frieren last night, but the oncoming slaughter of cheers from outside gives you the impression it would be hard to enjoy at the moment. Maybe you should order some food instead.

The brief thought crosses your mind of ordering food for CH33RS now, so the wait time wouldn’t be too long. It has you hesitating over the screen, thumb barely brushing the Order Now button on your favorite takeout place.

You wonder what WOOZI’s favorite food is.

Scoffing, you turn your phone off and throw it onto the vanity, its case clattering against the wood. Now was no time to think about a man who had majorly upset you.

There’s a knock on the dressing room door. You let your chin fall to your palm. “Come in.”

When Joshua enters, he finds you in deep thought, still sitting in the chair Sakura had you sit in almost half an hour ago. You watch him reach for the half-empty bottle.

“Still has a lot left. You should finish it,” he simply says, handing it to you. “Nice job out there. We’ll have to post the pre-show photos we took later tonight, with a thank you again to Seattle.”

Begrudgingly, you drink the rest of the water, swishing it back with a satisfying gulp.

“I was thinking of ordering some food,” you offer, trying to change the topic. “Do you know what kind the guys like?”

At this, Joshua hums thoughtfully. “Didn’t know you were the considerate type.”

Though his tone is in jest, your stomach twists in a way unrelated to hunger. You roll your eyes as you hear the crowd go wild at Soonyoung’s drum solo.

“Please. I have to at least try and be cordial.”

The left side of Joshua’s mouth lifts in turn. He takes a step back, right out of reach to not be a victim of your quick fingers, before taking out his phone.

“Lucky for you, there’s this place nearby I know of. Jihoon likes jjajangmyun a lot, and it’s a pretty popular dish there.”

Ding! Your phone buzzes on the vanity. Eying him with distrust, you pick up the device, only to be met with the address to a Korean takeout place not too far away.

Joshua’s back is to you before you can form a coherent answer; you watch, flabbergasted, as his hand reaches for the door. When it opens, it creaks slightly before being drowned out by the cheers of fans.

“Don’t forget to post those photos once CH33RS ends their show,” he throws over his shoulder—and then he’s gone.

Damnit, Josh. You grit your teeth, your fingers pressing hard on the screen of your phone. It lights up to reveal your screensaver, the late time of 10:36 gleaming in the dressing room’s fluorescents. A sigh falls out of you.

Your chin rests on your palm again as you contemplate your manager’s suggestion. You’re irked by that pit in your stomach once more; the one that curls in your gut during the night as you lie awake, wondering if this career path was the right one to take.

The guilt screams at you to give WOOZI another chance—after all, perhaps you had just gotten off on the wrong foot. Your index finger hesitates over the menu button for the restaurant, the choice feeling heavy in your hands.

And then a sweaty, shirtless WOOZI barges through your dressing room door, his face red and neck veins prominent.

“Get out.”

You let out a shriek, covering your eyes in embarrassment. “Oh my god, dude—”

He’s not even listening to you. You hear something crash to the floor—a bottle of some sort of product, probably—and then WOOZI’s snarling at you again.

“Get. Out.”

Meekly, you stand and bow. That feeling of shame rises within you, hot and burning, as you make a beeline for the door. You want to—no, need to—get out of here, as fast as possible.

In your hurry, you fail to notice the tears staining WOOZI’s cheeks and his heavy breathing, tormented by a feeling you knew only too well.

—

“Who the fuck do they think they are!?”

Jihoon’s frustrated scream echoes throughout the hotel room. He’s got his head in his hands, raking his hair and taking pleasure in the feeling of his nails scraping against his scalp. It sends shivers down his spine in the most sinfully alive way possible.

“We should fire them all,” he fumes. Soonyoung is quietly criss-crossed on the bed, hands in his lap, while Seungcheol’s got his hands rubbing what’s supposed to be calming circles into Jihoon’s back. “Fuck them. How dare they say those things to you?”

“It was my fault,” Soonyoung mumbles, head hanging low. “I deserved it. You know as well as I—”

“—that this is no way for staff members to treat musicians?” Jihoon finishes, raising his head sharply at his bandmate’s resignation. “That you did nothing wrong other than try and say hello to the fans? That the staff members are treating us as some species of zoo animal to be put on display?”

“Jihoon.” Seungcheol warns.

The younger man wipes the back of his hand across his face. When he brings it away, his fingers are coated in saltwater and snot. Jihoon feels like his whole body is on fire, tingling with energy he cannot let loose.

America is different from Korea. That much, Jihoon knows.

However, he never imagined that the difference would be so… stark. Here, fans were wild and unpredictable, unlike the routine nature of Korean fans who stayed silent during performances, except for fan chants. There were hecklers during their crowdwork, and wolf-whistlers weren’t uncommon throughout shows.

Jihoon slides another hand down his face. He knew Soonyoung meant well with his plan, and was trying to be careful—the show was well over, with the crowd dissipating almost at once to the merch booth over by the entrance.

He had watched the entire thing from the stage: Soonyoung’s whoop of joy as he jumped the barricade, accompanied by the screams of fans. They swarmed him, practically tearing at his clothes, and security had to drag the drummer out of the mass of people.

It ended in a scolding, not from Jeonghan but from one of the leading managers of the venue. Curses had been thrown, saying that if Soonyoung had gotten more hurt than a scratch, they’d be liable for damages done to a foreign artist.

Jihoon’s fists clench again at the memory of the manager’s tone. He was some old guy in his early forties, no doubt, but the contempt held in his voice would make one think he had been from early colonial days.

“This is why we can’t let these kinds of people perform here,” the singer had heard the man murmuring to another staff member.

A soft knock at the hotel door startles Jihoon out of his thoughts. Soonyoung jumps up from his place on the bed, alarmed, but Seungcheol waltzes to the door like he’s been expecting the visitor for a while now.

“Delivery,” comes a muffled voice from outside.

Yoon Jeonghan’s arms are full of takeout bags and drinks. It’s more than enough for four men, but Jihoon knows the intention behind the gesture. 

Sometimes, one has to drown out the sorrows in good food and company.

“Wow,” Soonyoung breathes, immediately reaching for the chopsticks Jeonghan supplies from one of the various bags. “Where’d you get all this food?”

Jeonghan snorts. “A restaurant.”

He watches as Seungcheol snickers at the drummer’s whine. Jihoon accepts the wooden chopsticks he’s been given, cracking them apart and methodically swiping them together to get rid of the wood shavings peeling off. Sending a quick thanks to the universe, he digs in without another thought, absentmindedly listening in on the rambling conversation of the other guys.

“…they recommended it to me. Said they’d heard it was good, and thought it would cheer you guys up after what happened,” Jeonghan’s explaining.

Jihoon’s ears perk up at this. He’s slurping on a jjajangmyun noodle when he tunes back into what his manager’s saying.

“I should thank them tomorrow,” Soonyoung sighs solemnly. “We should’ve invited them to eat with us, actually. I bet Sairen has good food recommendations everywhere, and it’d be nice to hang out with them outside of work.”

Jihoon makes a face. Him? Hanging out with Sairen?

“Oh, is the jjajangmyun not good, Jihoon?”

Seungcheol is looking at him with concern, his chopsticks neatly placed on the cover of his takeout box.

“No, they’re fine,” Jihoon shakes his head; quietly, he adds, “Good, even.”

A head of blonde whips to face him. “Oh? You have Sairen to thank for that,” Jeonghan smirks, dabbing his face with a napkin. “They made the recommendation specifically for you and your love of jjajangmyun, actually.”

The noodle suddenly tastes like dirt in his mouth. He’s choking before he realizes it, reaching for the water bottle on the coffee table and downing it in one go. A splatter of water dribbles down his chin from how fast he’s drinking it.

Soonyoung gawks. “Jihoon, you’re red as fuck.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I just choked on water, idiot,” Jihoon argues, though he knows it’s futile—knows that Seungcheol’s looking at him with concern in a different tone, and knows that Jeonghan knew what he was doing when he brought up you.

Clearing his throat, he flips the lid on his takeout box and sets it on the coffee table with little care. He doesn’t like the look on Jeonghan’s face: eyebrows raised slightly, lips curving upwards with a knowing turn. Seungcheol and Soonyoung’s matching expressions are even worse—confusion mixed with a healthy spoonful of apprehensive perception, like they’re on the brink of a breakthrough.

“Thanks for the food, but you guys can have the rest of it,” Jihoon grumbles. “I think I’m gonna go back to my room. Goodnight.”

📍MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA

After the incident at the Seattle show, WOOZI has been staring at you more often than you’d like.

Your thumb releases from the grip it has on the water cooler’s knob. As you watch the last few drops drip into your bottle, you simultaneously feel the shift of WOOZI’s gaze fall away from his perch on the couch.

You don’t say anything to him as you walk past, shoulders tense with unspoken words at the tip of your tongue. It’s been a little over two weeks, but nothing has been said between the two of you other than greeting formalities.

You can’t help but think you’ve done something wrong.

The stop in Denver, Colorado, helped shape your hypothesis. Briefly, you remember the familiar nerves spiking in your heart before you were meant to go on. While it had been a smaller venue, meaning fewer people overall, it meant a more intimate stage with equally intimate crowdwork.

Soonyoung, slowly being able to pick up on your mood swings and anxious bouts, had sat with you as you vented about the woes of being an American rockstar. It wasn’t so different from Korea, he explained, pouting and picking at a protein bar.

Diets still existed. Crazy fans everywhere. Shitty staff, too.

“You learn to live with it, especially when the good people finally stick around,” Soonyoung had spoken around a mouthful of granola. “Like Jeonghan. Or, I guess for you, Joshua.”

Humming noncommittally, you twirled a stray strand of hair. Even though Soonyoung meant well, the buzzing under your skin had continued, your teeth beginning to chatter even though it was well above freezing backstage.

“Oh, Jihoon.”

The name of the lead guitarist and singer made you flinch. You had blanched at the sight of him in his all black stage attire, the boxy button-up accentuating his broad shoulders and cargo pants resting dangerously low. Silver rings adorned his fingers, a particularly thick-chained one sitting pretty on his index finger.

Swallowing heavily, you gladly accepted the towel given to you, dabbing your sweat off your forehead and neck. You didn’t even realize it was WOOZI who had handed you the towel, fingers brushing his as you rushed to give it back before you were able to give it another thought—to your horror, your skin still remembers how his fingers felt sliding against your wrist, the metal of his accessories having done nothing to help your pounding heart.

“Good luck,” he then offered.

Now, almost a thousand miles away from Denver, Colorado, you were sipping your water, watching WOOZI bounce his leg up and down from your place leaning against the vanity. Stage call was soon, so there was no reason for him to be back here—yet, here he sits, a mere five feet away from you.

Tonight’s show has him in a sleeveless red tank, a worn-out white star plastered on the front. The chains around his neck glimmer in the dressing room light as he shifts in place, scrolling aimlessly on his phone while he pretends he’s been paying you no mind.

You want to scoff, maybe throw a snide remark at how he has the nerve to stare at you after treating you like trash—but then WOOZI tosses his head back onto the couch with a groan, pectorals heaving, and all coherent thoughts scurry right out the exit of your brain.

Were tank tops supposed to be that revealing? Perhaps it was time to go back to Victorian ways, after all.

A rap on the door startles you, but not the singer. He merely lets out a loud huff, making a show out of getting up and beginning to stretch his arms out in an attempt to get blood flowing.

“On in five,” comes the muffled call of a stage crew member outside the door.

You catch the face he makes: his nose scrunches up a little, and he lets out a little shake of his head in dissent. “Yeah, yeah. Be there in a minute.”

Capping your bottle, you move to sit on the vanity, eyes following WOOZI’s pre-show routine. He’s shaking his hair to get his bangs to hang a little more in his face, and that damned part of you that you try to keep hidden away aches to push his fingers away and fix his hair yourself.

You don’t, of course.

WOOZI’s making his way to the door now. Something gets stuck in your throat—a good luck, maybe, or a have fun—but you gulp it down when his fingers meet the knob and twist.

Ah. Your gaze is cast to the floor, forlorn. Next show for sure.

To your surprise, your head darts up at the sound of his voice, melodic and soft and everything you’ve never been on the receiving end of.

“See you after?”

It’s posed as a question, thrown over his shoulder, with his warm brown eyes meeting yours. The silence is so loud you curl your hands so as not to end up covering your ears.

You finally exhale, breath billowing out. The guilt on your shoulders eases up.

“Yeah. Take care.”

—

It’s a little past one in the afternoon when you and CH33RS leave the upskate cafe, laughter ringing out from behind you as you let the glass door close. The Minneapolis breeze hits your face, inviting and warm, and you reach your arms towards the cloudless sky.

“God, it’s so nice out today!” You sigh, stretching in satisfaction.

Seungcheol nods his head in agreement from a little way behind you, his eyes crinkling as he smiles. “The weather is nice. No need for a jacket.”

“And your English, it’s getting better with every show! Good job,” you encourage, shooting him a thumbs up; the man brightens at your response.

Beside you, Soonyoung swirls his iced coffee around with his straw, taking a sip and seemingly relishing in the aftertaste of grounded coffee beans.

“That cafe was so yummy,” he groans, squinting up at the sky. “You know the best food places.”

He stuffs his other hand in the leather jacket he’s wearing, his blonde hair gelled and spiky in the sun’s light. You offer him a grin, subconsciously leaning into him as a gesture of gratitude.

Sightseeing wasn’t exactly in your plans during the tour, but when Joshua encouraged it last night as a way to grow closer with the boys, you took up the opportunity with renewed determination. WOOZI’s reluctant acceptance of you makes your heart warm with the feeling of coworkers finally getting along after many unsuccessful trials.

At least, that’s what you reason with yourself when your heart rate picks up at the sight of him.

The aforementioned singer walks quietly beside the manager assigned to you four today, his wired earbuds bright against the black clothes you had grown used to seeing on him. You eye him, gaze tracing the wire that travels from his jacket pocket to the curve of his jaw and the slope of his ear.

He didn’t have many piercings, you noted—unlike Soonyoung, who had enough for a full set of stackers, WOOZI only sported the common, everyday single lobes. Huh.

An idea rises within you, but before you can speak, your body meets all things leather. Thud.

“Oh my god! I’m so s—Wait!—Are you—is this group—CH33RS? Sairen?!”

Bewildered, you hear someone start to speak Korean. You begin backing away from who you ran into only to be met with an equally confused man with short brown hair. He’s looking down at you like you’ve appeared from nowhere, but the shorter man beside him hurries to you with awe displayed plain on his face.

“Oh my god, it is you—out of all people to run into him—wow, nice going, Hansol—”

Shaking his head, the man bows deeply to the four of you. When he straightens up, you take in his bleached tips and pierced eyebrow. Hansol, the man you had crashed into, adjusts his gloves with pure shock written all over his expression.

“Oh. Sorry, dude. Didn’t see you there.”

His companion nudges him, hard. He says something again in Korean that gets a muffled laugh out of WOOZI.

“I am so sorry for him,” the unknown blonde dips his head again. “My name is Seungkwan. This is Vernon, but I call him Hansol. We’re big fans of you!”

Seungkwan begins to excitedly converse with Soonyoung, who reciprocates much too eagerly, leaving you to stand awkwardly in front of Vernon. You almost want to bow and leave to the back of the group where the manager is positioned, but the man begins to speak before you can.

“Seungkwan’s a big fan of yours.” He gives a nod to the man, who has retrieved a permanent marker from somewhere and is getting his arm signed by the drummer. “We like to blast your music during rides. Pretty calming, especially around the mountains during sunset.”

“Oh, are you guys bikers?”

Vernon nods. The left side of your mouth lifts at how, instead of ending the gesture, he lets it bounce on for a bit—almost as if he’s listening to an imaginary beat in his head. “Super fun stuff. You think you could sign my helmet or something?”

Your heart leaps. Random fan meetings outside of shows weren’t new to you, but every time you did get noticed, your entire day was made.

“Sure. Hey, Soonyoung, could I borrow that when you’re done?”

The commotion that is Seungkwan begins to die down once signatures are given and pleasantries are exchanged. You have to bite your lip to suppress your laughs; he’s too endearing, rushing around to congratulate everyone on the world tour and comebacks.

When he gets to you, his eyes brighten, and you swear you can see stars twinkling in them even though the sun is happily high up in the sky.

“Sairen, I’ve been meaning to get into music—I’ve actually worked on some of my own songs and they’re all inspired by you!” Seungkwan bashfully admits.

At his confession, you brighten. “That’s awesome! Could I hear one?”

The man deflates, your lips parting in an ‘o’ at how easily his entire demeanor changes in the blink of an eye.

“Ah… I don’t have the files on me right now…” He trails off and fiddles with the collar of his jacket, obviously downcast at the missed opportunity.

“It’s okay,” you smile, reaching out to pat his shoulder. “You can just message me on Instagram. How does that sound?”

Three things happen at once.

One. Seungkwan’s entire face lights up at your proposal, beginning to shake like a chihuahua without a sweater.

Two. WOOZI gasps.

Three. The manager’s hand flies out to grab your wrist, pulling you away with the strength of ten men, and forcing an ‘oomf!’ out of you quite easily.

The last occurrence takes the longest time and has the largest impact on you, your left wrist stinging slightly from his hold. Seungkwan, now a few feet away from you instead of smack dab in front, backs off in surprise.

“I apologize, but at this time Sairen is not accepting messages on Instagram. Perhaps if you come prepared to one of their shows, they can give you some proper feedback?”

Vernon wraps a comforting arm around his partner’s shoulders as Seungkwan stammers out an, “O-oh. That’s fine! We’re so sorry for bothering you. Could we get a picture before we go?”

The two bikers hastily leave. Your jaw clenches as the manager turns to you, his condescending stare rendering you frozen in place.

“Are you crazy?” He spits, pulling you towards him.

You cry out; WOOZI takes a threatening step forward, but he’s stopped by Seungcheol. There’s fury in his eyes as you give a minuscule shake of your head.

“What if they did that stuff with ill intent?” The manager’s breath reeks of the onion from the caprese he got from the cafe. “You’re not that stupid to just give away your information, are you? Do you not have a PR manager or something?”

Gritting your teeth, you wrench your arm away, rubbing your wrist with a scowl. “It’s Instagram, Carter. My account is managed by Joshua. If you got a problem with me interacting nicely with my fans, take it up with him. I’m sure he’ll have a blast telling you how wrong you are.”

Carter lets out a tch, turning away and beginning to walk ahead of the group. When he’s out of earshot, Soonyoung rushes to you, apologizing profusely. You barely pay him your regards; instead, your eyes catch WOOZI’s, the fire burning in his pupils trailblazing a pathway right through your strong facade.

You turn away.

—

You’re not entirely sure how you end up here, sitting a few inches away from WOOZI of CH33RS while munching on some potato chips.

Frieren plays out on his laptop screen, propped open awkwardly at the edge of the bed. The singer, clad in a black tee and gym shorts, shifts against the headboard of his bed and clears his throat.

It’s one of the earlier episodes, where Frieren is looking back on her memories with Himmel. She’s going on some monologue about not understanding how good things were until they were gone, and the scene pulls at your heartstrings, making you sigh.

“I can already tell this show is going to be so coming-of-age,” you frown, relaxing slightly and causing the bed to dip. “Classic story of personal growth, spurred on by past memories.”

WOOZI barely reacts to your comments, instead opting to open his palm up to you. Wordlessly, you place a few chips in his hand, which he crunches between his teeth earnestly.

It’s a while before he speaks. “You know, I didn’t take you for the anime type.”

“Same could go for you,” you dig at him, rolling your eyes. “Who knew the great WOOZI could have interests?”

“Hey,” he frowns. “Come on, don’t pretend you weren’t excited when I brought up Frieren.”

You bark out a laugh. “Excited? More like surprised. Never knew you could willingly give me the time of day, much less start up a conversation about the show I was trying to watch on the car ride home.”

Frieren is yelling something now. You watch in amusement at her and Heiter’s, the party’s priest, antics.

“Y’know,” you continue. “I even had the impression that you thought you were better than conversing with little ol’ me.”

Right. That’s how you got here. Memories of the dark insides of the van contrasting with the colorful scenes of Frieren on your screen come flooding back, along with WOOZI’s soft inquiries about how far along you were with the show. Surprisingly, he made for a good conversationalist about the topic, and you remember begrudgingly agreeing to have him join you on your marathon.

Joshua was going to have a field day with this one.

Don’t let his friendly demeanor fool you, a voice inside you chides. Remember how he treated you before. Some sappy anime isn’t going to change that.

The scene onscreen is violently different than before. Now, Frieren is blinking away tears, covering her face with her arms as her party consoles her. You find yourself mirroring her, self-pity beginning to swallow you whole.

WOOZI is silent again, but this time, you know he’s pondering what to say.

“Ah, sorry,” you choke out a laugh. “Forget about what I just said. Can we watch this episode another time?”

You’re reaching for his laptop when he stops you, grabbing your wrist. Unlike Carter’s, WOOZI’s touch is gentle and light, and you shiver at him running his thumb along the ball joint.

“Wait.” He inhales. “Just… wait.”

And you do, peering through your lashes at him. He drops your arm, drawing in on himself, and lets out another sigh.

“When CH33RS first started out,” WOOZI begins. “We were treated awfully. This was before we met Jeonghan; we had to fight to be given decent practice equipment and fair schedules. It was like our previous company wanted us to go through hell before reaching the top.”

You stay quiet, eyes trained on his fingers reaching to twist with the hoop in his right ear. It’s on the smaller side and made of black metal, but you think it suits him well.

“Then… along came Seokmin.”

“Seokmin?” you echo.

WOOZI nods, though it’s not without a hint of pain. “Our last manager from the previous company. He fought so hard for us. Didn’t let any of us get trampled on, and always made sure we knew we were his top priority.”

He leans back on the pillows, black hair billowing out to form a slight halo around his head. You blink down at him, fingers clawing at the mattress and heart being twisted in the worst way possible.

“He was the one who got us signed with our new company under Jeonghan,” he finishes softly. “It didn’t go over well with the higher-ups, but he took all the blows. Haven’t seen him since the big fight when our contract properly ended and we refused to renew.”

The show credits are running as his voice trails off. At this point, one of you would reach over and hit play on the next episode, but now you’re glued to the hotel bed.

“I’m sorry,” you console. “But… this still doesn’t answer why you snapped at me the first day.”

The singer throws an arm over his eyes.

“About that—I’m sorry,” WOOZI breathes out. “Can’t stand bullshit like that no matter who it’s from, and I didn’t realize at the time that the staff member started it. I know it's super late and also probably an incredibly lame apology, but… I really admire you and your work, Sairen. I hope the rest of the tour goes well and that we can at least be cordial.”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you scrunch your face to avoid the giggles threatening to spill out of you. Part of you is annoyed, sure; couldn’t the dickhead just have asked you before jumping to conclusions?

But another part of you understands—this industry was notorious for wildfire rumors and miscommunication. That, coupled with the stress of being around a bunch of crappy staff members for hours on end, would be enough to drive anyone to the brink of snapping.

“I’m sorry, too,” you offer a bittersweet smile to him. “I get to be kind of an ass when I’m around people who don’t know how to be decent human beings. Kind of backfires on me a lot of the time in this field of work, though.”

To your utmost surprise and increasing delight, WOOZI lets out something between a witch’s cackle and a belly laugh.

He slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound, but you’re already grinning from ear to ear, watching his own turn a shade of cherry red.

“Well,” he clears his throat. “Glad we can relate on that part, then. And thank you for the apology.”

You knock your knee against his. “No problem, rockstar. Hope to be more cordial with you too. Or whatever you said.”

WOOZI raises an eyebrow at you, but you wave him off, turning back to his laptop with a satisfied hum and hitting play.

Your heart feels lighter knowing you can enjoy the rest of the tour without having to walk on eggshells around the people who are supposed to know you best. It makes you wonder just how much you’ve missed out on with WOOZI, and how many episodes of Frieren you could be caught up with by now if this hadn’t happened.

Oh well, you mumble to yourself, stealing a glance at the man beside you. His face is once again illuminated by the screen, dimly lit yet glowing with an emotion that is hard to put into words. You hope it can be described as contentment.

Frieren is recapping her adventures with the knight of the party, Himmel, and promising to make the most of the time she has left. You turn your attention back to the screen, watching the elf girl finally cave into her heart’s desires.

Better late than never. 

📍 ONTARIO, TORONTO

Your hair is dripping wet when you bumble through the door, Soonyoung and Joshua hot on your heels. The rain outside was never-ending, puddles forming on the ground from your damp clothes as you try to wipe your shoes on the welcome mat. The guys aren’t any better; Joshua’s wringing his hair out as much as he can while Soonyoung shakes himself off like a dog.

A woman behind the front desk peers up at you before smiling brightly. “Hello! Are you here for an appointment?”

You dip your head as you approach, taking notice of the woman’s inked skin. She’s got a dragonfly drawn across her forearm, the swirls of its wings mesmerizing to your eyes.

“Yes, with Minghao?” you tilt your head, sliding your ID across the table. “I really appreciate you taking us in so last minute. I’ve been meaning to get a tattoo at a local place while I’m traveling.”

“No problem,” she reassures, checking you in with ease. “What prompted you to come to ours, though? Lotsa good ones around these parts.”

You jerk a thumb back at the two wet dogs you’ve pulled in from the rain. Soonyoung perks up at your attention and you roll your eyes.

“My friend back there wanted to get some flowers as congratulations for… someone,” you clear your throat, to which Joshua makes a face at. “We were at the florist across the street yesterday, and he praised you highly.”

“Junhui?”

The new voice makes you look up to see a slender, lean man propping himself against a doorway to another room. He sports a black mullet that shows off the various piercings he has, ranging from a silver hoop through his daith to the metallic rod he’s got going through a flat and his helix. He purses his lips as he takes you in, crossing his tattoo-sleeved arms with intrigue.

“Yeah,” you confirm in surprise. “Pretty sure his name was Jun, at least. You’re Minghao?”

He nods. When he speaks again, his voice is slightly tinged with an accent—Chinese, you think, listening intently. “So, you’re the famous Sairen that’s got this city in an uproar,” he muses, motioning for you to come to the back with him. “I’m guessing the blonde dude is Hoshi from CH33RS, and your manager is the one who looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here.”

At this, you let out a laugh, especially when Joshua bumps your hip with his own.

“Yeah, something like that.”

Minghao leads you to a table with various drawings spread out, papers cluttering the surface with ink spilling all over the wood. You sit down without having to be told, in awe over his workspace. Joshua and Soonyoung tell you they’ll be waiting for you outside, and you wave them off with a smile.

“Alright, what were we thinking today?” He takes a seat on the other side of the table and pulls an already-open sketchbook in front of him, uncapping a pen with his teeth. “What’s on your mind?”

You begin to describe the design you’ve had rattling around in your mind the past few days. Minghao takes your words in stride, slow strokes working faster to conjure up a messy drafted sketch. It’s easy, conversing with him—he’s straight to the point with his questions, but won’t hesitate to take a moment to linger on an answer he finds interesting. His wit catches you off guard.

“Do you have any other tattoos?”

To his inquiry, you straighten up a bit and pull on the hem on your shirt, revealing a section of your torso. Minghao raises an eyebrow before leaning over the table, his face instantly shifting to one of admiration once he sees the blotches of black.

With wondrous eyes, he hums in satisfaction. “Nice. Crescent moon?”

“Supposed to be a claw moon, actually,” you offer softly. “I was born on a night where the moon was so thin it looked like a cat’s claw. My mom—she would never stop talking about it when I was younger. Thought it was so cool.”

Then, you walk to his side of the table and lean over to slide down your ankle sock. Right above the ball joint of your left foot is a faded dahlia, the petals worn and just barely crackling at the edges.

“Official flower of San Francisco, California.” Your nostalgic tone doesn’t go unmissed by the tattoo artist, and he makes a noise of encouragement. “I got it when I was like, sixteen, without my parents’ permission. Whoops?”

Minghao snorts, angling the lamp onto the patch of artwork with a scrutinizing eye. “Glad you told me it was a dahlia, otherwise I would’ve thought it was a weirdly puffed up microphone. Or a sex toy.”

You curl your lip in disgust. “Okay, ew. I may be tacky, but not that tacky.”

Pretty soon, the artist is settling you into a more comfy chair, instructing you to raise your thigh so he has a good canvas to work on. The marker he uses to paint your skin tickles, and you tell him such, much to his dismay.

“I hope you aren’t going to move as much as this when I’m actively putting a needle in your skin,” he deadpans, but you only laugh.

Minghao’s quick, you’ll give him that. He lays down the basic outline in only about twenty minutes, give or take, though you suppose it also has to do with how you’ve opted for a simpler design.

He tells you about how business has been going for him lately; you make a big deal about how huge the sunflowers were in Jun’s shop. Minghao listens with the intensity of a therapist, making light remarks and comments that have you spluttering for an answer.

The next hour is spent lightly bantering with him, and listening to Joshua rattle off your next few schedules after he comes back from his trip to the café down the street. Soonyoung, ever so helpful, chugs a milk tea he got before offering you a sip.

“Dude, that tattoo looks fire. Jihoon’s gonna be in shambles.”

Minghao hisses as you promptly stiffen, your eye twitching. The drummer is quick to apologize while you give him your best death glare.

“Jihoon, huh?” Minghao clicks his tongue. “What, you getting this for him?”

“It’s not like that,” you quickly say. “Don’t listen to Soonyoung, he’s being stupid.”

The mentioned man makes a guffaw at this. “You’re literally getting the Frieren flowers tattooed on you.”

“They are not just ‘the Frieren flowers,’” you say indignantly. “They’re Blue-Moon Weed flowers. Which you would know the context and history of if you watched the anime.”

“Man, why’d you even ask me to come?” Soonyoung shakes his head good-naturedly. “Jihoon would’ve appreciated the invitation much more than me. He’s also basically getting to see the bottom half of you n—”

Joshua drags him out of the room before you can release your anger on the drummer. In front of you, on his knees, Minghao mutters something about trying meditation, which you gladly accept.

“Though,” he looks to the ceiling in mock thought. “What he said was true. I’ve seen the videos from last night’s show. If you haven’t gotten laid yet, that’s a mistake on your part.”

Your nose scrunches. Maybe you shouldn’t have listened to Jun the florist, after all.

—

WOOZI doesn’t react to your new tattoo right away.

Instead, he admires your older ones, questioning why you’ve never talked about them before.

To this you respond with a snort. “You’ve never asked, so I never talked.”

He seems to mull your answer over, before giving a sheepish nod.

“Touché.”

The bus hits a bump in the road, causing you to wince in pain. You shift in your seat, trying to get into a more comfortable position so as to not lean too harshly on the wound, before returning your focus back to the situation at hand.

This time around, you chose to make do with CH33RS for the ride to the airport, knowing that taking separate cars would only end up making matters more complicated. Joshua, Seungcheol and Jeonghan are upfront, giddy about some new pitch of a show that came out, while Soonyoung’s snoring away a few seats behind them.

How you all have gotten so close in such a short amount of time will never fail to amaze you, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“That reminds me,” you turn to face WOOZI again; the singer raises a single eyebrow at your words. “You’ve never shown me your tattoos before.”

He pauses in untangling his wired earbuds, apt fingers twisting the cords and making your stomach drop just slightly. WOOZI meets your gaze head-on, a challenge in his expression.

You swallow and muster the courage to look him in the eye. It’s not the first time he’s been the leading cause of the pleasing prickle of your arm hairs, but every time he is, you feel like you lose five years off your lifespan.

“Guess you’ll just have to see them for yourself,” he says smugly, before barely dodging your oncoming slap to his shoulder with a loud laugh.

📍 NEW YORK, NEW YORK

The East Coast is violently different from what you’re used to.

You fidget with your tank top, fanning yourself. The air conditioner was on full blast, but you still found your throat thick with heat, hydrating every chance you could get. You missed San Francisco.

Sure, the wind could get violent there, but the air itself was never as full as it was here. The humidity was awful, especially when smoke surged from sewer plates every five feet and clogged up the environment.

“Maybe because we’re more up north, where a bunch more cities are?” He had offered as an explanation. You raised an eyebrow full of judgement.

Oh, well, you muse. At least it gave you another justification for constantly wearing shorts other than to not irritate your tattoo. You had admired it this morning in the mirror of your bedroom, the early sun’s rays through the window causing the ink to appear quite nicely.

The flowers were healing well; you had marveled at Minghao’s handiwork, twirling stems lacing together before exploding into bundles of petals. While you wished it could have been colored the famous blue color that gave it its name, you had opted for leaving it as an outline, and you didn’t regret it.

Now, you sit and wait for the pizza to arrive, cozy on the couch of the suite you were given. Jeonghan had charmed his way into having the hotel grant you and CH33RS a proper penthouse for your stay in New York. Tired from your show the night before and having visited NYC before, you had opted to stay behind to rest.

Soonyoung wanted to explore the area, gushing about how he’d only ever heard stories of the city from when he was younger, and Seungcheol was close behind in his agreement. Jeonghan and your manager promised them a day full of sightseeing and good food, and the two were sold, letting out hoots of joy in following them out the door.

WOOZI, however, was adamant about staying in the suite. The man was full of surprises, it seemed.

Your name is called faintly from the foyer. Rising to stand, your slippers scuff along the wood as you pad to the source of the sound and take a peek around the corner.

There he stands, baseball cap on with compression sleeves fit snugly along his calves. The sight almost makes you sigh in pleasure. Almost.

“I’m going to go out for a run,” WOOZI says. “I’ll be back in like, thirty minutes or so. Just a few blocks down and then I’ll turn around.”

You’re not sure why he’s telling you this. You’re also not sure why your feet carry you to stand in front of him.

Both happen anyways, and in the end, you muster up a hesitant, hopeful smile at him. “Alright. Be safe.”

He pauses, just slightly, and for a second you almost fool yourself into believing he’ll give you a kiss on the forehead.

You wonder how his lips would feel—smooth, like the petals of a magnolia from the tree in your childhood backyard? Or perhaps a little chapped and roughened, like the strawflowers you saw back in Jun’s flower shop?

What the fuck? You immediately gawk at yourself. What the hell were those thoughts?

The silence drags on impossibly long, turning into an awkward pause you’re not too confident you can break. Thankfully, the singer clears his throat, and you startle.

“Save some pizza for me,” WOOZI finishes, giving you a firm nod.

A part of you deflates. Right, of course—WOOZI was professional above all else. And up until recently, the two of you had been nothing more than flies on the wall to each other.

To hide your disappointment, you scoff and nudge him playfully, twirling around and throwing a wink over your shoulder.

“Then be back soon,” you stick your tongue out at him. “Don’t keep me waiting!”

—

WOOZI comes back right when you’re about to dig into the pizza—the cheese hits the roof of your mouth, actually, as you hear the door click open.

“Pizza’s ready and hot,” you call out to him, and you get a muted grunt and some shuffling in response.

He’s panting lightly as he walks over to you and plops down on the floor, right at the foot of the couch. You study how his hair parts slightly to the side and is matted from being suffocated under his hat.

“Good run?” You ask, chewing through a bite of pizza.

The man turns his head, his gaze dropping to the new tattoo lining your thigh before rising to your lips. A part of you wants to ask his thoughts on the design, but his fixed stare makes your breath hitch.

You must have something on your face, you realize, and dart your tongue out to catch whatever crumbs have to be on the side of your mouth.

He tears his eyes away. “Yeah, but the city stinks of sewage.”

WOOZI grabs a slice of pepperoni and begins to scarf it down, focusing his attention to the episode of Frieren you’ve got pulled up.

“Hey, weren’t we supposed to watch this episode together?” He complains, and if you didn’t know any better, you can almost swear he’s pouting.

“You took too long.” You hide a smile behind the last of the crust you’ve got in your hand. “I told you to hurry back and not keep me waiting.”

He huffs. “I did.”

Something about his intonation has you pausing. Your eyes flit to his comfortable position against the couch and your lax posture across the cushions.

On the coffee table sits two cups and a plaque of napkins. He had brought a cup of water for you from the kitchen, and you had made sure to ask for extra napkins from the delivery man so it would be enough for the two of you. You blink in surprise at the revelation.

When did domesticity become second nature with him?

It’s like you’re hit with a bullet of clarity, the aftershock radiating through your system one bone at a time. WOOZI, as if noticing your silence, casts another glance back at you and holds your gaze.

He has a mole under his right eye. This, you notice, and you notice well. The explosion of feelings only further seethes under your skin, roaring to be let out through words.

Nothing leaves your mouth, though.

You let the shockwaves pulse through you until they simmer down to something calmer, as if nothing had ever happened in the first place. Uncharacteristically, you swallow down the words bubbling up in your throat. WOOZI takes another bite of pizza. 

And of course, the show goes on.

—

It’s well past four in the afternoon when you perk up and roll over, resting your cheek on the couch cushion and insistently poking WOOZI with your foot. Frieren is long paused on the TV screen, and you’re careful to not rest too much of your weight on your thigh.

“Hey, hey. Wake up.”

Half-asleep and slumped over a pillow, he hums in response, shifting away slightly. From your position on the couch, the glint of his single lobe piercing glares blatantly in your eyes, furthering the newfound determination thrumming beneath your skin.

“Crazy idea, but what if we got our noses pierced together?”

The man’s mouth moves in a mumble, clearly giving his response no thought. “Mmm. Sure.”

Without thinking, you tumble towards him, letting your arms find home around his neck. WOOZI stiffens, finally jerking awake and glaring at you. You grin back, trying not to seem unaffected by your instinctive action, and release your hold.

“Really? Okay, get ready then!”

A small, huh?, leaves his lips, but you’re already up and disappearing into your bedroom. He scrambles after you, but you leave him dumbstruck outside your door, his heart throwing itself against his ribcage and cheeks flushed red.

—

“A nose piercing?” you can practically feel his disapproval as you tug him towards the shop; it’s sundown, and golden hour sets his black hair on fire in a way that has you covering your eyes from the shine. “You, want me, to get a nose piercing with you?”

“You heard me the first time,” you reply nonchalantly, as if this were an everyday occurrence. “And I mean, who else if not you?”

The bell above the door jingles in greeting as you step through the doorway. You barely did any research of the surrounding area; your impulsivity left you walking into the first piercing shop near your hotel that had the flickering OPEN sign outside.

“Your tattoo is still healing,” he points out to you. “Shouldn’t you be resting before damaging your body even more?”

Though his words are rough, WOOZI still hasn’t let go of your hand, thumb running along yours as if it was nothing but a subconscious thought. You flush and pull away to grant yourself some dignity back. When did he think it was alright to touch you?

“It’s been a few days and I have high pain tolerance,” you shrug, before turning to the man at the counter. “Hi! Sorry to bother, but do you take walk-ins?”

WOOZI stares in wonder as you navigate through an impromptu conversation with ease. Sure, you’ve been cordial with him up to now, and even friendly enough to joke, but today has been something else entirely.

The person in front of him is nothing like the Sairen he knew from the media or interactions with staff; unlike before, where you would barely give him the time of day, you are now within arms reach. You are tolerable. Tangible. Holdable.

He rids himself of those preposterous thoughts and joins you at the counter.

You beam up at the man behind the desk with your best smile. He’s got cropped black hair and an equally cropped black shirt that shows off a belly button piercing, and the vertical labret he dons is nothing short of captivating. You watch as he scribbles something down on a piece of paper and excuses himself to the back, waving him off with a, it’s okay, take your time!

“When did you get so friendly?” WOOZI taunts, nudging you with his foot.

Your eyes are going to pop out of your sockets from how much you’re rolling them to the back of your head. “I’ve always been friendly. You’ve just been too unfriendly to notice.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but the staff member comes back, flashing the two of you a bright smile.

“Wonwoo will take care of ya in the second room on the left.” He gives you in particular a wink, to which you giggle at.

There’s a bad taste in WOOZI’s mouth. He hmphs—there must’ve been onions in the pizza, or something.

Wonwoo, thankfully, seems to be the complete opposite from his coworker. Wearing a simple sleeveless white tank and pierced with eyebrow studs, he stands up from his seat on a stool at your entrance.

You greet him with a polite hello, but the man’s eyes flicker to you for barely a moment before merely dipping his head in acknowledgement. Instead of starting up conversation, he brings the two of you over to a small glass display of studs.

“Whoever picks first can go first,” is all he says before disappearing off to who-knows-where, leaving you two in front of the display alone.

Instantly, your eyes are drawn to a silver star stud. It’s simple and serves its purpose as an easy sleeper piercing as well. Nudging the man next to you, you point it out with a smile, automatically leaning into him when his arm brushes yours a second time.

“This one would be cool, what d’ya think?”

WOOZI looms over the display, peering intently at the one your pointer finger is hovering over. From his position, you can easily trace the vein in his neck that snakes past the collar of his jacket, leading all the way down to the ones that bulge from his forearms. He presses his lips together in thought.

Standing up straighter, he gives a small nod. “Yeah, I like it.”

Wonwoo comes back a moment later, hands already gloved and holding a small kit of something in his hand. He lifts his head towards the stool, as if surprised that neither of you are sitting on it yet. “Did either of you choose one?”

“Oh! Yes, sorry,” you hurriedly show him the piercing, and he rummages around for a fresh stud.

The alcohol is cold on your nose. You have to stop yourself from wrinkling it as Wonwoo marks a dot right at the curve of your nostril. He steps back, gesturing for WOOZI to take a look.

“Look good to you?” He’s asking, but WOOZI’s eyes are already fixated on you.

Slowly, the guitarist nods, eyeing you up and down. It makes you squirm in your seat.

“Yeah. Looks good.”

Wonwoo instructs you to keep as still as possible, prepping the piercing needle with experience only a professional piercer could provide. Eyes flickering to the side, you take comfort in the sight of WOOZI, hair tousled and leisurely blinking at you with his hands in his pockets. He reminds you of a cat watching their owner do mundane tasks.

You hold your breath as you feel the needle go through your skin, before being quickly pulled out. It stings and you bite the inside of your lip. Air rushes through your lungs, wanting to tumble out of you, and Wonwoo successfully slots the star stud in with a satisfied hum.

“Nice work,” he compliments; you’re not sure if he’s talking about you or him, but you thank him anyway, stepping off the chair and making sure to be mindful of your tattoo.

He’s turning to WOOZI before you realize it, and your eyes widen in surprise.

“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry WOOZI I forgot to help y—”

But the singer is shaking his head, nodding casually to Wonwoo with all the nonchalance in the world. “I’ll have the same stud as them. Same place, too.”

Your jaw is on the floor for the whopping two minutes it takes for WOOZI to get his nose pierced. He watches you with amusement the entire time, eyes following your furrowing brows and flushing cheeks.

“What?” He smirks as the two of you leave the room, bidding Wonwoo a goodbye; the man just gives another nod. “Didn’t expect me to get the same one as you?”

“You…” You grit your teeth. You want to yell at him to stop playing with your feelings—it’s a dangerous thing, to play with fire. “You are such a copycat.”

WOOZI only shrugs. “I didn’t feel like looking at the display again and I liked your choice. What’s wrong with that?”

Everything, you want to confess. Everything, because it gives me stupid hope for something that’s never going to happen.

The man at the counter brightens at your reemergence. You offer a shy wave, and out of the corner of your eye, you see WOOZI’s mouth press into a thin line.

“Your piercing turned out well,” the man says—it’s pointedly towards you, his eyes never leaving your face. “I like the star you chose.”

“Thank you, Wonwoo did a great job,” you manage a nod. He was welcoming at first, but the way he’s looking at you now reminds you of the journalists who crowd you after a social event.

Thinking the conversation is over, you give him one last smile and turn towards the door. WOOZI seems eager to leave; he’s already five steps ahead of you, holding the wooden door open.

“Oh, um,” the man clears his throat loudly, and you half-turn, giving him a quizzical look. “I was thinking… maybe we could grab dinn—”

“Mingyu.” Wonwoo seems to appear out of nowhere, a broom in his hand. “We need to start cleaning up. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten you’re on the closing shift already?”

His stern voice makes you nervous; did you do something wrong?

The newly named Mingyu grumbles out an okay, sending you an apologetic smile before grabbing the broom and disappearing into the back. Wonwoo turns to you and WOOZI again, giving you two a final nod, though for some reason you feel like it isn’t exactly directed towards you.

“C’mon, let’s go,” WOOZI’s voice is rough, and it reminds you of your relationship with him early on: cold, and purely business. “It’s getting late.”

With what feels like no other choice, you follow him out the door and let the bell chime in farewell.

—

Strangely enough, the guys aren’t there yet when you come back to the suite.

The emptiness of the penthouse almost scares you. You’re not used to the stillness of a place, more attuned to the bustling of backstage prep and the liveliness of concerts. Slipping off your shoes, you make your way back to the living room, collapsing on the couch.

“Careful of your tattoo,” comes WOOZI’s belated reproach as the lights flicker on.

You groan and try to hide the burning sensation that rises in your leg. “What are you, my dad?”

He slides in next to you effortlessly, clicking on the remote to connect his phone to the TV like he had earlier in the afternoon. “No, but it’s clear that you need parental supervision at all times,” he remarks, his knees spreading slightly apart.

You do your best to keep your eyes on the TV screen when his leg presses lightly to yours. “I do not need parental supervision.”

“First the tattoo in Toronto, and now the nose piercing in New York.” WOOZI raises an eyebrow at you, and you feel caught red-handed, like a fly in a spider’s trap. “What next? Cutting and dying your hair in D.C.?”

“Come on,” you drawl, landing a soft smack on his shoulder. “Where’s your joy? Your whimsy? We all need to have fun sometimes!”

WOOZI scoffs.

“Oh yeah, I bet it was real fun flirting with the piercer,” he mutters under his breath.

There’s a pregnant pause. WOOZI stiffens and brings a hand up to his lips, as if, by doing so, he could stop the words that have already poured out. You’re equally as shocked, frozen in place at what now hangs in the air between you two.

Huh?

Trying to break the tension, you laugh nervously, heart pounding in your chest. “First you act like my dad, then you act like my jealous lover. Pick a struggle, dude.”

Another pause, and then WOOZI huffs. Puts the remote down.

He doesn’t say anything—instead, WOOZI leans in impossibly close to your face, studying the colors of your eyes with such intensity it has you blushing.

“You know what? Why don’t you pick for me, rockstar?” He challenges, breath mingling with yours. It smells like the Coke Zero you two shared earlier.

You swallow, lips parting ever so slightly with no sound coming out. WOOZI takes this chance to drag his fingers down your leg that doesn’t have the new tattoo on it, his touch sending your thoughts into a crazy whirlwind. A soft, high-pitched whine leaves your throat, and he lets out a heavy sigh in response.

Noses touching, your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks, whispering his name. WOOZI stills.

“Call me Jihoon,” he murmurs, and the care that’s packaged into his voice is swallowed by your lips as you gulp again. “Just Jihoon.”

Jihoon. Biting your lip, you feel emboldened by his actions, as if he’s got you under a spell only he can undo.

“Alright, Jihoon,” you place your own hand on his knee, drawing circles on his skin; he shudders in the most delicious way, and you file it away in your brain for later. “How about this? You kiss me, and you might just find out the answer to that question.”

He tsks in response, lips brushing yours.

“We’re home!”

Soonyoung’s echoing shout has the two of you scrambling away from one another, ending up on opposite sides of the couch. You wince from the pressure on your thigh, quickly using it as an excuse to bury your burning face in your arms and knees.

“Whoa—hey, Seungcheol, check this out! Jihoon got a nose piercing!”

You hear the drummer barrel into the living room, excitedly chattering in Korean, as a warm hand lands on your shoulder. Yelping, you raise your head to meet Joshua’s concerned glance.

“Hey, you alright? Did you hit your leg?” He asks worriedly, eyes searching yours.

Vigorously shaking your head, you rise with a wobble in your step. “No, I’m fine,” you squeak out. “Just really tired from today.”

The glint of the light must catch your stud, because Joshua lets out a laugh of disbelief. “Yeah? Tired from going out and getting a nose piercing?”

“What? You got one too?” Soonyoung bends down to try and get a glimpse. “Let me see! Aww, I can’t believe you two went without me!”

You finally get your friend off your back with the promise of getting another piercing with him before the tour ends, to which he immediately lights up at. He’s off to the kitchen where you can hear Jeonghan putting leftovers from the day away, no doubt accompanied by Seungcheol.

It leaves you with Jihoon and Joshua in the living room; the former is awkwardly inspecting the couch for lint as your manager worries over you once more.

“Joshua, I said I’m fine, honestly,” you smile tiredly, stomach doing a flip at Jihoon’s glance your way. “I think I just need some rest. Tell me all about your adventures tomorrow, ‘kay?”

Reluctantly, the doe-eyed man lets you go, and you trudge back to your room to get ready for bed. The bathroom is a quick trip, not wanting to chance running into Jihoon again, and before you know it, you’re buried under the covers.

You can still feel the warmth of Jihoon’s hand on yours, and the sweltering heat of his eyes on your lips. It makes you jostle uncomfortably under your blanket.

Call me Jihoon. Just Jihoon.

His voice fades to white noise, and you find yourself succumbing to sleep, uncertain of whether you wish for a dream tonight or not.

📍 WASHINGTON, D.C.

“I can’t hear you, D.C.!”

You lean against a pillar in the back of the venue, lips curved in a smile at Jihoon’s shout into the mic. The crowd thunders with applause and cheers, and from your vantage point you squint to see Seungcheol take his in-ears out, cupping the side of his face with one hand and gesturing to keep the screams coming.

Curious to get a different view, Joshua had allowed you to sneak to the very back of the venue, where the sound mechanics were handled. You were perched right on the edge of the outer balcony, hood and sunglasses obstructing the view of yourself from onlookers.

Jihoon starts jumping on stage again, his iconic boots thumping against the plywood. Enjoying your disguise, you take this chance to drink in his loosened tie and the flex of his biceps as he engages with the front row.

He’s beguiling, face so round and cheeky compared to the hard and chiseled statue of his body. Dangerously, you see his tongue loll out as he adjusts the collar of his shirt, unbuttoning the two top ones and giving a boyish grin to the crowd.

Cheeks flaring with desire, you look away, focusing on Seungcheol beginning to arch his hands up in time with the rhythm of the next song.

No wonder CH33RS was so renowned for their crowdwork; their energy was marvelous, no doubt wrecking the eardrums of any bystanders nearby the venue. You clap along to the beat that Soonyoung’s drum as they launch into their last and one of their most popular songs, 505.

Stop, and wait a sec’ Oh, when you look at me like that, my darling What did you expect? I’d probably still adore you with your hands around my neck Or I did, last time I checked

Leaning on the balcony, you nibble on your thumbnail. You don’t know where to look: there’s Seungcheol’s focused lip bite, his mop of hair swaying to the beat as his fingers work the bass he’s got; or maybe Soonyoung’s energetic trills, twirling his drumsticks in the air as a show for the crowd.

“D.C., sing it with me!” encourages Jihoon.

Ah. Your eyes find their target, sweating and panting and oh-so-captivating. You sigh longingly, the pit in your stomach flickering to life. He gestures for his fans to get louder, curling his fingers in time with the music, as their chants grow.

Then—he finds you.

You don’t know how he does, but he stares right through to soul, offering you a nod when your fingers flit in a small wave.

From your point on the balcony, you watch Jihoon’s face glow under the stage lights. His eyes are crescents, reminding you of the claw moon etched into your torso right below your heart. Voice low and gravelly, Jihoon begins to sing again, eyes never leaving yours.

“I’m going back to 505, if it’s a seven-hour flight or a forty-five minute drive,” you murmur along breathlessly; Jihoon mimics your expression.

Your legs feel like jelly as he hones in on the next sentence—the beat slows down, and Seungcheol opts for only plucking the mandatory strings for the bassine. Jihoon’s eyelashes flutter as he ends the pre-bridge, staring straight at where you’re stationed with dark eyes.

“In my imagination, you’re waiting lying on your side,” he sighs, “With your hands between your thighs.”

For a second, time slows down. The swirling pit in your abdomen screams to be let loose, and if he were to do anything more, you greatly feared for your remaining sanity.

Taking a breath, Jihoon wrenches his gaze from yours and clenches his fist to his chest, as if it physically pains him to do so.

But I crumble completely when you cry It seems like once again, You have to greet me with goodbye I’m always just about to go and spoil a surprise Take my hands off your eyes too soon

You’re incapable of watching anymore. Sinking to your knees, the air in your lungs comes out in harsh pants, sweat dripping down your chin and landing on your exposed thigh.

The Blue-Moon Weed flowers peek out from below your shorts, and you draw a shuddering breath that’s easily drowned out from the screams of the audience.

Lee Jihoon, what have you done to me?

—

The alcohol burns in your throat.

You tip back your head again for yet another shot, the yogurt-flavored soju tasting enticingly sweet on your tongue. Soonyoung claps your back from next to you.

“You’re getting good at taking it!”

He… must not know what he’s saying anymore, you think as you choke on the liquid from his words. Dirty images flash through your mind, horrifying you to no end.

You’re handed a napkin from somewhere that you gratefully take, wiping the dribbling fluid that’s escaping down the column of your neck. “Watch it,” Jihoon mumbles into your ear. “Don’t want you being rendered too speechless during our tour.”

Jumping in your seat, you murmur a slurring apology, face burning when he hands you another napkin. You can barely make out Joshua from across the table raising a delicate eyebrow in your direction.

Without warning, you reach across the table and give him a hard smack to his shoulder, taking pride in the way he lets out a sound of indignance.

“It’s not what it looks like!” You pout. “Stop… Stop doing that!”

“I didn’t even say anything,” he’s laughing, and Jeonghan’s leaning into him with a giggle. “What did I do?”

The blonde manager angles his head towards you. Your cheeks puff up as your lips press together, clearly dissatisfied, as Jeonghan speaks like he’s talking to a child—which he is not.

“Sairen, honey.” You blink drowsily at his cheeky grin. “What’s your tolerance for alcohol?”

“Good,” you blurt out. “It’s good.”

Laughter crows from your friends around the table. Seungcheol has his mouth latched onto Jeonghan’s shoulder in a bite, burying his laughter underneath sharp teeth and a wide smile.

Biting. You want to do that, too.

Your teeth land sloppily on the shoulder beside you, the taste of skin flooding your senses. Soonyoung has a nice shoulder. Humming, you dig your teeth in just a little more, enjoying the sensation that comes with your love bite. The drummer wouldn’t mind another one, right?

“Oh-kay,” Jihoon splutters, pushing you away from his bare shoulder lightly; you admire the marks left by your canines with a lopsided smile as Jeonghan cackles in the background. “I think you’ve had enough alcohol for the night. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

“No!” You whine, and now he’s pulling you to your feet, easily hooking an arm around your waist. “Wait, I don’t wanna go…”

It takes a few minutes, but you do end up in your bed, bottom lip jutted out in a pout as you’re tucked into your sheets by a messy-haired Jihoon. It’s clear the alcohol’s getting to him too, apples of his cheeks red and eyes glossy. You reach out to touch his forehead and brush a strand out of his face.

“Pretty,” you mutter.

Jihoon lets out a sigh—it’s heavy, burdened by something that rests on his conscience, and you drop your hand onto the cool comforter. He hangs his head low, not looking at you anymore. You miss his eyes.

You decide to try your luck again. “Jihoon.”

While the man doesn’t raise his face to meet yours, he does make a noise to let you know he’s heard you. Carefully bringing your hand to his head again, you card your fingers through his hair, basking in the long, slow intake of breath he gives in response.

There’s a bite mark in his shoulder. You study it, eyes narrowing. Did Soonyoung bite him earlier?

“Did you mean it?” He asks suddenly.

Your lips part, tongue swiping along your bottom lip. “Mean what?”

“What you said. Back in New York. Did you mean it?”

Blurry images of your face pressed to his come rushing back, and you let out a whine. “Of course I meant it, stupid. I wanted you to kiss me so bad!”

Jihoon says nothing. You, inebriated as ever, take this as a sign to continue your tangent. “And then you pulled that… that stunt at your show tonight. I was already going fucking crazy from the tension between us after New York, but you—you kept being a tease! Do you not remember what happened on the bus? And now here you are, in front of me, and all I wanna do is…”

Your impudent speech tapers off into silence. Jihoon’s finally looking at you, really looking at you, his eyes glassier than before. You cradle his face in the palm of your hand, thumb careful to not disturb his still-healing nose stud. The bejeweled star gleams in the light of your bedside lamp.

Ever so attentively, you bring his lips to rest just against yours, craving for the now familiar feeling of your breath mixing with his. This time, it smells faintly of the citron soju he was nursing in the living room of the suite.

Does he taste the same? You wonder, and lean closer to find out.

“Wait—” Jihoon gasps, your name falling off his tongue in a plea that has your knees weak again. “Wait, we can’t. We can’t.”

He’s got his hand pressed against your lips and your wrist captured in the other. The two of you are breathing heavily, even though nothing has happened, and a part of you shatters.

“Whaddaya mean we can’t?” You frown, already small voice muffled further by his fingers—you give a tentative bite to his palm, and Jihoon yanks his hand away from your mouth like he’s been burned.

Shifting in bed, you reach for him again, but Jihoon is shaking his head violently. His brown eyes, usually so warm, are instead blown out with widened pupils.

“I—we can’t,” he repeats, standing up in a hurry. “Not like this. Not right now.”

“Wait, Jihoon—!”

“Please.” He’s at the door to your bedroom, forehead knocking against the wood. Jihoon takes another quivering breath, and you watch his whole body shake at the gesture. “Just… get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

There’s some more mumbling from him; curses, you realize too late, and then he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him and you’re left with nothing but the buzz of the air conditioner and your thoughts.

A part of you wants to stumble to your feet and crawl to him, begging for him to come back and explain yourself. Another part of you wants to scream like a child throwing a tantrum, tears threatening to spill over your lashline.

“Jihoon,” you whimper into the darkness, lamp clicking off automatically from no movement sensed. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Do you not want me as much as I want you?”

📍 ORLANDO, FLORIDA

In the days following that night, Jihoon’s been ignoring you.

You thought it was just your imagination at first; maybe he was just busy with the next upcoming show, you reasoned, shrugging your shoulders as he gave another lame excuse for not being able to watch the next Frieren episode with you. The amazing show at D.C. caused yet another uproar, Orlando and Atlanta selling out soon after videos started circulating.

But then one Frieren episode turned to two, and two turned to three, until he was a whole arc behind you. The last episode you had watched together had been the one in New York, where Frieren counseled Fern and Stark on their relationship. You remember huffing in disbelief at the main character finding out the real meaning of the mirrored lotus, and what that entailed about Himmel’s feelings for her.

“I can’t believe it. He loved her so much, yet was so content with just staying by her side,” you lamented, your back hitting the couch with a thud. “He was so selfless about that shit. Even until the end.”

Jihoon had eyed your complaining from his newfound position across from you, knee bent at an angle to be able to brush against your thigh. He just shook his head, the credits rolling, and shrugged.

“Anything to be by her side.”

Back then, you had rolled your eyes for the umpteenth time at him, griping that he was much more of a sap than he let on.

Now, his words linger in your head as you stare at the news headline, Soonyoung worriedly trying to snap you out of your daze.

New Foreign Love? WOOZI, Lead Singer & Guitarist of CH33RS, Seen Embracing Anonymous Person Last Night at Mango’s Club in Orlando, Florida!

“Hey, you know how people get about the media,” he tries to console. “It probably wasn’t even him. We get into dumb scandals all the time, and—”

“Soonyoung.” Your grim tone makes him flinch. “What happened that night?”

“That night?” He recites, thinking hard for a moment. “Oh! Do you mean last night? Don’t listen to Seungcheol, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about with billiards—”

You sigh. “No, Soonyoung. The night we all got drunk in D.C. What happened?”

“Ooooohh.” Soonyoung lets the note drag on, his vibrato reverberating through the dressing room you’re in. “That night!”

Yes, you want to groan, mentally slapping your forehead. Memories were nonsensical from that night—all you remember was biting someone’s shoulder and then being dragged to your room, feeling incredibly down about it.

You chalked it off the next day as silly drunk antics, as everyone—save for Jihoon, who said he wasn’t feeling well that day—was acting normal around you.

But now? After gathering the evidence of ignorance, and seeing this headline? Your heart hammers with fear of the unknown, and you have to do a breathing exercise for a second before you’re able to respond.

“What happened?” You ask again, more firmly this time.

The drummer scratches the back of his neck, eyebrows squeezing in thought. “...I dunno. We were all drunk and stuff. Jeonghan was teasing you a lot for your low tolerance, and Jihoon took you to your room right after.”

Slumping, you wrack your brain, trying to fragment some semblance of what could have happened that night. Maybe you had embarrassed yourself by letting out a particularly gut-wrenching burp? Or, perhaps, you had disclosed something incredibly personal to him, and he felt awkward about it?

But nothing was brought up. Frustration laces your thoughts and makes itself comfortable in your heart, throwing its arms up in the air with a sigh. Surely he would’ve talked to you if you did anything embarrassing, right?

Or, maybe, your anxiety murmurs, he’s so disgusted by you he doesn’t even want to bring it up.

Burying your head in your hands, you will the feelings away, trembling with emotion. Soonyoung, put off by your desolate state, rubs a comforting hand in circles along your back.

“I’m sure it’ll all blow over,” he reasons. “And Jihoon will come around. I’m sure of it.”

Not even half a second later, the mentioned man pushes the dressing room door open. You don’t catch it, too entangled in your woes, but Jihoon takes a sharp inhale at the sight of his bandmate comforting you in such an intimate manner.

“Soonyoung,” Jihoon rasps, and you involuntarily stiffen at the sound of his voice. “We’re needed soon for pre-show photos.”

Soonyoung mutters that he’ll be there soon. Turning your head, you meet Jihoon’s eyes, hope flaring in your chest when he hesitates at the door.

“Seungcheol and I will be waiting in the stairwell. See you then.” He takes a step back and lets the door shut, the wood creaking for a moment in protest before ultimately giving in.

You let out a long, resigned sigh, tears welling up in the back of your throat.

“I’m sorry,” Soonyoung mumbles your name, and you look at him with what you hope is a grateful smile; by the expression on his face, it’s far from one. “I promise, he’ll come around. Maybe he just needs some space. Talk to you in a little, okay? Drink some water.”

He abandons you then, draped over the arm of the couch with a tissue box and half-empty bottle of water. Your sniffles are quiet in contrast to the loud cheering from outside—it’s definitely Soonyoung trying to lift the mood.

Maybe he just needs some space. The words, empty with promise, ring in your head.

Space your ass. Your jaw clenches. Jihoon should know better than to hide from communication with you—it’s what had you two at each other’s throats in the first place.

Right then and there, against better judgement, you make a decision. Tonight you would confront Lee Jihoon, WOOZI of CH33RS, and you would do it scared to absolute death.

—

You find Jihoon in your dressing room after the opening show, tinkering with the make-up products on your vanity.

He must’ve just gotten out of his own last-minute touch ups, the red eyeliner making those half-crescents you like to stare at so much become just that much more endearing. Jihoon adjusts the leather jacket he’s wearing, fiddling with the pocket’s button, before finally glancing up at you.

He speaks your name, sweet and soft and everything you could ever hope for.

“Did the show go… well?” Jihoon scans your figure as you make a beeline for the vanity, pushing past him and grabbing your water bottle. “You’re shaking.”

“Show went well,” you reply curtly; the water easily goes down your throat, and you welcome it, using it as an excuse to not talk to the man beside you.

“Listen, I… wanted to explain—”

“Look, Jihoon.” You bring the bottle down from your lips, fixing him in place with a long look. “If it’s about the scandal, forget it. I need to talk to you about something more important—did I do something wrong?”

Jihoon blinks, lips parted in an ‘o’. “No?”

So he was brushing you off for the fun of it. Cool. The feelings of frustration and anxiety come flying back at the speed of light, smashing into you with such concentrated strength you end up crushing the plastic water bottle in your hand. Jihoon’s eyes flicker between you and the bottle in fear.

Good, you think. That makes two of us scared right now.

“Great, awesome,” you manage with a terse nod. “Have a good show, then.”

You make a move to leave, but there’s that familiar warmth around your wrist again, and you’re jerked back by Jihoon’s nimble fingers. He’s pleading your name, and—

Wait—I... we can’t.

Gasping, you snatch your hand away, stumbling back with your head whirling.

We can’t. Not like this. Not right now.

Please, just… get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?

Wait, Jihoon—!

Your lower back meets the couch, and you gawk at him, hurt slowly fanning out in your expression to reach even the tremors of your pinkie fingers.

“You—you stopped me that night. From kissing you. Didn’t you?”

Jihoon lets out a tch and rips his eyes away from you, running an agitated hand through his black locks.

“You stopped me—why? Was I not good enough for you? Is that why?” You cry out, fists shaking at your sides. “Did you realize at that moment that you didn’t want me? Is that why you ended up hooking up with someone from the club?”

“That’s not—” Jihoon clenches his jaw. “That’s not why I did that.”

Though his words are supposed to comfort, they instead overwhelm, the confirmation of the scandal looming over you like a taunt.

“So you did hook up with someone,” you say slowly, betrayal etched into your features.

He’s reaching for you, arm outstretched and eyes as glassy as the night he stopped you from kissing him. “God, okay, let me just explain—”

“What? Did you need a new lover, or something?”

It comes out much harsher than you intend. You watch as Jihoon’s arm falls and silence engulfs the two of you once more, save for your labored breathing and the squeaking of his boots on the floor when he shifts.

“Just… just for Orlando,” he mumbles, dropping his head.

You let out an incredulous laugh. “Just for Orlando?” You echo, disbelief written across all your features. “What, so you’re going to find someone new for Atlanta, too? Houston, even Los Angeles?”

He says nothing.

A knock comes at the door. The two of you stand still as statues as a staff member pokes their head in. If they heard anything, they don’t show it, sparing you only a glance before calling out to Jihoon.

“Stage in ten!”

The door closes as fast as they had opened it, the wood giving no resistance this time. You think Jihoon’s going to say something again, but as he’s quite loved to do during the time he’s known you, he surprises you once again by simply making his way towards the exit.

You can’t tell if you want to laugh or cry.

He passes you, intentionally making sure to not even have his jacket brush yours, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

“So that’s it.” Your voice cracks on the last syllable and you hate it.

Jihoon stops in his tracks. His back is to you now, but you turn to watch the rise and inescapable fall of his broad shoulders. If you look closely, you can see the new silver hoops you had helped him pick out at a random flea market on the road.

“Is that all I was to you? Is that all I am to you?” You clamp your fists together, thumbs pressing on your knuckles until they pale. “Just a—just some event that happened to you that you can then make your own dumb conclusions based off of?”

He doesn’t say anything again—you wished he would. The words can’t stop spilling from your lips, like a cup that’s been left uncared for too long under a fountain.

Your impulsivity will be the death of you.

“I’m not a tour date, WOOZI,” you spit. “I’m not just some random location you can think of and go, Oh, right, I visited that place. I’m a person too. I have feelings. I thought you would’ve known that by now, with those stupid memories we shared. I guess I was wrong.”

WOOZI’s low, grainy voice reaches your ears a moment too late. “That’s not what I’m trying to do—”

Crash!

Wrapped up in your emotions, you had forgotten that you were right next to your vanity, your elbow knocking off a jar of perfume. The delicate, rose-colored pieces of glass now lay shattered on the floor, a floral scent filling the air. It’s so pungent you want to gag.

“Fuck,” you mutter, stepping back and plugging your nose. “Ji—WOOZI, I—”

He’s rooted to the ground, hands pressed over his ears and eyes screwed shut. Your eyes widen when taking in how his shoulders shake.

Worriedly and without hesitation, you dash over to him, extending the tips of your fingers to run along the stitches of his leather jacket.

One of WOOZI’s eyes crack open. The iris of brown meets you, his pupil practically a slit, and you falter just enough for him to recognize what you’re trying to do.

He strikes your hand away, fast as lightning, and you yelp in pain.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” WOOZI regards you with a voice that doesn’t sound like his own; it’s roughened around the edges, and so, so cold, that you shiver despite the jacket around your shoulders. “I’m leaving. And you can’t stop me.”

He does exactly what he says he’ll do, slamming the door so hard behind him it rattles in his wake. Sinking to the floor, you let out a sob.

The perfume bottle’s rose-colored pieces are left untouched.

📍 ATLANTA, GEORGIA

Jihoon traces the outline of your side-profile from backstage, eyes taking in your loose tank top and baggy shorts that fall just a little above your knees. The stage lights burn brightly onto your newly colored hair, freshly dyed the night before, and your lips are bruised with the cherry red lip stain he knows you love. You’re in the middle of Real Man, fingers holding the guitar pick so tight he’s a little scared you’ll break it by force.

And I already told you I just wanted to dance Could you see me standing out here with my outstretched hand? I guess no one ever taught you how to be a real man, ooh

He feels Seungcheol before he sees him; the hand on his shoulder is weighted, resolute. The bassist says nothing to him as you launch into the second verse of the song.

What Jihoon hates the most is how much of a coward he is—how, even back then with Seokmin, all he knew how to do was put up a cold front and sneer.

Seokmin, with his bright laugh and hopeful gaze. Seokmin, with his neverending optimism, who cheered the three of them on during late nights at their old company’s studio. Seokmin, who took a slap for him from their bitchy CEO, ushering him and his bandmates to flee and never come back.

Crash!

“Seokmin!” He had yelled—never before had he yelled so loud. Jihoon remembers his hoarse voice the day after, how Seungcheol had to brew him ginger tea for his throat.

He also remembers how Seokmin had just laughed, blood dripping from a cut across his cheek. The vase that had smashed to smithereens lay right below him, knocked over when he stumbled back from the CEO’s hand, and Jihoon remembers the smell of the daisies all too well.

“Jihoon,” Seokmin grinned. “It’s okay. The contract isn’t renewing. Go. I’ll always believe in you.”

Walking as the morning beckon You said you'll be a second Locked the back door Yeah, you should have mentioned Guess I should expect it I'm out here, blue What to do?

“Did you know today marks a hundred days since we properly met them?” Seungcheol asks, startling Jihoon out of his memories. “And soon we’ll hit the hundred day mark with them as our opener.”

He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his trousers. Pauses in opening his mouth. Thinks about how he can’t see your eyes from this angle, but doesn’t quite know what he’s looking for in them anyway.

“Where’d you hear that? Soonyoung?” Jihoon finally snorts. “Him and his weird anniversaries.”

From his peripheral vision, he sees Seungcheol shrug. Instead of giving a proper answer, the bassist lets out a low whistle and runs a hand through his hair.

“Man, they must be really worked up about something.”

Jihoon’s already staring at you when you drop to your knees, head tilted back and eyelashes flush against your cheeks. Real Man isn’t a ballad song by any means, but your stage presence has made it infinitely more personal this time around as you cry the lyrics into the microphone.

Would you hold it down and take it if I gave you a chance? Need the reassurance, baby, not a silly romance Guess I'm used to being disappointed, falling too fast If you want it, go and get it, and I hope you last

“If you want it, go and get it!” Tears stream down your face; Jihoon ashamedly thinks you look like an angel with your hair framing your face so perfectly, head still tilted back to the light.

“And I hope you last.”

You punctuate the last word with a fist to the air. The stage lights darken, the music stills, and all that can be heard is the heavy breathing from you onstage.

That is, until the audience bursts into screams, of course.

He feels a hard clap to his shoulder. Seungcheol’s expression is stony, written with thick strokes of disappointment, doing nothing to ease the onslaught of bullets that are currently being shot into Jihoon’s chest.

Fix your shit, man, is what his friend says without words, before he leaves to go further backstage.

You’re standing up again, facing the crowd and away from Jihoon’s anxious eyes. He sees you readying your guitar for the last song.

“Thank you, Atlanta,” you say into the mic. “It’s been a pleasure being able to open for you tonight. This song… it’s dedicated to someone very special to me. I hope one day I’ll be able to introduce you to him.”

The crowd goes absolutely wild, and Jihoon becomes a deer caught in headlights. He’s listened to your setlist enough times to have memorized the order—knows that after Real Man, comes a song that you hold so close to your heart.

“Atlanta!” You strike a chord. “This is He Gets Me So High!”

There’s no time for him to react before you jump into the music, your mellifluous voice sweetening the sickening lyrics of the song as you strum. Jihoon can’t bear to watch anymore.

A staff member comes to remind him that he’s up next, and he gratefully takes the opportunity to leave—but not without throwing one last look over his shoulder. The entire show you’ve been facing away from him, but this time, you’re angled so he can see the glimmer of your star stud.

Then, you move, and that light fizzles out.

“A hundred days, huh,” he mutters, following the staff to his dressing room. “You’d think we’d have moved past square one at this point.”

—

You trace a light line across the dahlia on your ankle. Minghao had offered to touch-up on your old tattoos for free, but you had turned him down, liking how the fade of the ink added to the sentiment.

If only all your tattoos had such lighthearted meanings to them.

“Sit up a little straighter for me, please.”

Sakura, after your soft pleas, became one of your go-to staff members after shows to help you tidy yourself up. She gives a tiny pat to your leg, indicating you should put it down from its place propped up on your knee, and you oblige.

From outside your dressing room, you pick up on the now-familiar shouts from CH33RS’ crowd. While each city’s audience had their own unique sound—New York was full of screamers, whereas San Francisco had sweeter tones to them—they all bled into the same stream of being wildly captivated by the rock band.

Which, to your utter shame, you can’t exactly say is not hard to do.

“Sakura.” She hums to show she’s heard you, combing a hand through your hair to work the product out of it. “Do you enjoy being a staff member for CH33RS?”

The girl doesn’t stop in her ministrations, but she does fall into a different kind of silence from before, and you can only imagine the gears turning in her head.

“They’re very chaotic.” She states—this gets a giggle out of you. “But they’re very genuine in their actions, and I respect them for that.”

You wring your hands together. “Genuine?”

“I’d like to think so.” In the mirror, you see the reflection of her smile: it’s gentle and coats you with warmth, like one’s favorite quilt would do. “Especially Jihoon. He may seem prickly, but I think he’s just bad with words. He’s much better at showing sincerity through his actions.”

With a bite to your cheek, you carefully formulate your response, hoping Sakura doesn’t see through the cracks of your facade.

“He’s definitely… a character,” you confess. “It’s been hard to get along with him.”

To your surprise, Sakura only chuckles, as if she expected your answer. “I think it’s because you’ve been trying to be someone you think he would get along with. It’s hard to be someone you’re not, you know.”

Her words leave you silent, and she finishes up with pulling your hair back from face to start taking off your makeup. While Sakura doesn’t say any more than that, you feel squeamish in your seat—almost as if she knows something you don’t, and is waiting for you to realize it.

—

The water of the hotel stings.

You rub your eyes with your hands, blinking away tears that crowd the corners of your eyes.

It’s hard to be someone you’re not, you know.

A spray of hot water hits your back as you turn around, leaning against the tiled walls with a sniffle. Sakura’s words hit you with a truck of feelings you’re not sure you’re ready to face.

Sairen. The stage name echoes in your mind, and you repeat it out loud, hating how it rolls off the tongue with such an alluring mystique to it—the sigh of a maiden’s whisper before being grounded with a firm, calm ending, one that leaves you aching for more. It sickens you to the bone.

You cry softly into your hands. Sakura’s right. Pretending to be a magnetic pull when you are instead a sporadic force of resistance has led to the baring of your teeth one too many times. You desperately wish you could mold yourself into what society is begging you to be, if only to stop the relentless torment you endure every time someone mistreats you.

Because pray, do tell—how are you supposed to be the gentle, enticing waves of the ocean, when all you are is the barreling torrent of a tsunami?

Slowly turning the knob of the shower, you shiver as the heat of the bathroom begins to dissipate, condensing into little water droplets on the glass of the shower’s door. Goosebumps prickle your skin and you hurry to wrap yourself in the towel you had prepared before getting in.

The hotel room is dark when you step out, but you’re taken away by the sight of the Atlanta skyline at night. Lights twinkle from various apartments and city buildings, looking like a galaxy some thousand light years away, and you find yourself standing at the bay of your window, hair still dripping wet onto your shoulders and fluffy towel warming you to your toes.

Tap, tap.

Your breath hitches at the soft knock of the door. It’s well past two in the morning—Joshua wouldn’t come bothering you at this hour, and Soonyoung knows better than to try and show up unannounced. Heartbeat quickening, you rustle around for a shirt to throw on, hastily hanging your towel on the metal rod inside the bathroom.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re at the door, rising to peek through the peephole on the hotel room door. “Hello?”

The sight on the other side of the door makes your stomach drop.

WOOZI, hair messy and bearing grey sweats with a black tank. He’s shuffling about awkwardly in his sandals, but his head snaps up at the sound of your voice, and in the half-heartbeat that you see his face it looks like he’s been—crying?

“Hey, it’s me.” WOOZI speaks in a low, muted pitch, and it has your heart aching.

Whatever. Your face burns as you clench your jaw, your back pressed to the door, the sound of your breath coming out in rough gasps. Just make it back to your bed. Just go to sleep, and he’ll be gone.

Then—your name is uttered.

Suspended in place, the air is stuck in your lungs as a dull thump comes from behind you. Though the door is dense, you can practically feel the heat radiating off of him through it. You don’t know whether to run or let it embrace you.

He says your name again. The sound is loudest right at the shell of your ear, causing you to shiver despite the muffling of the door.

“I—I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’ve been a jerk this entire time. Even when you treated me with nothing but kindness—it’s… I have no other explanation or reasoning or justification, but I’m sorry.”

“I just had to let you know before the next show.”

Unfurling your fists and against better judgement, you turn to flip the lock of the hotel door open.

WOOZI’s eyes are tinged red. The beauty mark you like to study when he isn’t looking is bold against his pale, blush-fevered skin, making your heart leap in your throat.

“At least have the decency to apologize to my face, dickhead.” It comes out in a pitiful attempt to insult him; a blurt, which is followed by the sound of you sniffling and walking away from the doorway.

He must come in right behind you, because the hallway light goes out not even a second later as the door clicks shut. The city lights glimmer from your window, illuminating your hotel room with a dim glow, and the soft hum of the air conditioner has made itself comfortable in the silence.

“Decency?” echoes WOOZI.

In the blink of an eye, he’s got your wrist caught in his hand, spinning you around to look him in the eye. The expression on his face is a new one—there’s a crease in the middle of his forehead, lips pressed into a small frown, and a small part of you wants to believe he’s worried about you.

“If we’re talking decency, then you should at least also have the decency to look me in the face,” he murmurs, running a thumb along your knuckles.

Your cheeks burn. He must notice this, because he drops your hand soon after, opting to rub his forearm and clear his throat. “Y’know, you’re pretty bad at that. Eye contact.”

This gets a proper reaction out of you. Huffing, you turn away again, wanting nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

“WOOZI. What are you doing here? What are you trying to possibly gain from this?”

There it is. At the last word, your voice breaks. Cringing, you inwardly curse at yourself, hating the evident flash of hurt in your tone.

“Didn’t you hear me earlier?” WOOZI’s walking around your figure to get you to face him again; the city lights disappear, his shadow looming over your body and sending shivers down your spine. “I’m—I’m apologizing. I’m trying to make things better—fuck, can’t you just look at me?”

Your hands shake as you tear at your hair. “No, I—I can’t. I can’t do that, I’m sorry. And I can’t accept your apology.”

“Why not?” You see him reach for your hand once more.

“Because!” Tugging your fingers away, the electricity jolts you alive, and your breaths start to fall shallow. “Because—how can I know you’re for real this time? How do I know you’re not going to push me away, again? How do I know that you’re not just spitting empty words at me like you have been the past few weeks?”

You don’t even realize you’re crying. The tears come slowly, at first, dripping down your cheeks and making droplets on your tee. Soon enough, though, they’re the flooding rapids of a river, all the emotions that you’ve bottled up over the course of the day exploding like a shaken can of soda.

“I’m tired of this, Jihoon,” you sob. “I’m tired of whatever the fuck this friendship—this, this situation is. Maybe you were right. Maybe we should just stay as memories on a map to one another.”

It all happens so fast; one moment, the cool air of the hotel surrounds you, and the next WOOZI’s got you tightly wrapped up in a hug. It’s the first time he’s voluntarily touched you the entire tour, a sickening part of your brain hoping it’s not the last. His hands are cold, fingers splayed firmly across the small of your back, but his torso—it’s warm.

“I’m sorry,” he’s croaking into your shoulder; you long to feel the brush of his lips against your bare skin. “I’m so, so, so awful with words. I’m sorry.”

His arms, heavy with muscle and firm with his quiet determination, guide you to your bed. The backs of your knees hit your comforter, and you sink to sit on the edge, letting go of him to cover your blazing face with your hands.

You’re expecting WOOZI to leave after sitting you down on the bed, fully convinced he’d be too off put by the surge of your emotions to have a proper conversation with you.

Of course, in true WOOZI nature, he surprises you by beginning to comb his hands through your hair.

He stands between you, not talking with words but with his fingers. I’m sorry, his index and middle finger mumble, disentangling some strands that veil your expression from him. I’m sorry, whispers his thumb, oh-so-carefully tracing the outer shell of your ear down to the point of your jaw.

I’m sorry.

“You still won’t look at me.” His murmur of your name is stained with defeat. “Please, just look at me.”

With a gulp, you lift your chin, trembling eyes meeting his. As you do so, his hand slides to cradle the side of your cheek in his hold. You try to fight the urge of pressing a kiss to his palm.

“There you go,” WOOZI lets out a sigh. “Wasn’t that hard, was it?”

He stands in between your legs, looking down at you with a gaze full of utter reverence. It almost makes you laugh.

“I should be the one saying that to you,” you croak out, the words getting stuck halfway in your throat. “It only took me several breakdowns for you to finally apologize. Wasn’t that hard, was it?”

Though the words are supposed to have a bite to them, they instead have a subdued acceptance to them, your heart pounding loud in your ears from how intimate this moment is. Now that you can get a good look at him, you spot your favorite manmade mark thus far—his star stud now shines brightly, spurred on by the Atlanta lights.

“Yeah,” WOOZI draws his hand away; you make a soft noise of protest at the lack of his touch. “Wasn’t that hard. Should’ve done this way sooner.”

His hands are on either side of you on the bed, leaning forward while you simultaneously lean back on your own hands. The tips of your noses touch and you don’t know where to look—his lips are parted, coffee-grounded eyes trained on the slope of your cupid’s bow, thumbs just barely skimming the surface of your thighs.

Time is awfully slow at times like this. You breathe a sigh into his mouth, one that makes his eyelashes flutter with a heaviness you’re quite sure you could get used to, and the seconds just keep on ticking.

“You’re not going to tell me to stop this time,” you murmur. “Are you?”

And then he fucking grins. “Nah. Been told I’m bad at words, so I’ll stick to letting my actions talk for me.”

You’re not ready for the swell of emotions that overcome you when his lips eagerly press to yours, drowning your senses in the smell of his shampoo. Your arms give out, and you fall back onto the bed, a whine escaping you when you feel the dip of his knee on the bed next to your thigh.

Kissing WOOZI is like taking your first dip in the ocean—the temperature initially shocks you and sends you into a gasping spiral, but then gradually gives way to the relaxing thrum of the waves against your body. His tongue darts out and takes a swipe along your bottom lip, your back arching in pleasure, and you feel the grin on his face when his teeth bump with yours.

“WOOZI—” You start, pulling back with a gasp.

Adjusting his position above you, the man’s head dips to press open-mouthed kisses along your jaw. He gives a nip to the column of your throat, making you let out an embarrassingly loud noise of content.

“I told you to call me Jihoon, didn’t I?”

Cheeks flushed, you let your arms snake around his neck, tugging lightly on the hair at the base of his neck. “Bed, please, Jihoon.”

Jihoon huffs out a laugh, detaching his lips from your neck with one last kiss. When he gets off you, you mourn the loss of his body heat, a long sigh leaving you at the glance you get of the tent in his grey sweats.

He guides you to sit much more comfortably on the bed, your head resting against the soft feathery pillows the hotel provided. Wasting no time, Jihoon settles between your legs once more, just barely dipping his hands underneath your already-bunched up shirt.

Leaning over you again, Jihoon tugs at your ear with his teeth, giving it a small kiss after. “Better?”

His fingers are a welcome chill to your feverish skin, and your quivering eyelashes tell him as such as you finally give into your desires, bringing one of his hands to your lips to press chaste kisses to. Jihoon’s own lips part in shallowing pants. His pupils are blown wide as he watches your ministrations turn less than innocent when you take the tip of his thumb in your mouth.

Your eyes are dark and half-lidded as you stare up at him with a challenge, swirling the digit around your tongue and sucking lightly. When you sigh, he sighs; when you let your eyes flutter close, his eyelids close half-way, becoming half-lidded in the dim light of your bedroom.

“You look so good when you’re like this, you know that?” Jihoon intones, the newfound sensation of the slow roll of his hips making you gasp and let his thumb fall out of your mouth with a pop!

You let out a shy mewl; he’s so hard against you, the friction of his sweatpants and your underwear catching onto your clit in the most delicious way. Chest heaving, your head tilts back on the pillows, exposing the column of your throat to him once more.

And he takes, dragging his teeth down your neck and sucking at the base of your collarbone. His hands are relentless on your body, squeezing your waist so hard you hope it bruises.

Jihoon pulls at the offending piece of clothing still on you. “Can I take this off, pretty?”

“Yes, please,” you beg. “And you too, Ji.”

“Of course I can.” He presses a long, sweet saccharine kiss to your shiny lips, one that leaves you breathless.

Jihoon sits back on his haunches, tugging his tank top off in one quick and smooth pull. Your eyes widen at the ebony serpent engraved into his skin, its tongue flicking out with a glint of danger in its expression.

The man quietly observes you reaching out to outline the tattoo. His abdomen tenses at your touch, but he lets you continue your journey down his torso, silent awe in your eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, gaze finally meeting his. “What does it mean?”

Swallowing thickly, Jihoon places a hand over yours, extending your fingers to fully splay over the mystical creature.

“Supposed to be the serpent Ouroboros, from Egyptian mythology, before he was doomed to his eternal fate of consuming himself over and over.” Jihoon’s voice is impossibly low. “A reminder to myself to never succumb to my greed.”

“Might have to go back on that promise, though,” he chuckles, eyes drifting to where your nipples are perked up underneath your shirt. “You’re making it kinda hard to keep myself in check.”

Jihoon lifts you up with a surprising amount of strength, helping you get your shirt off and throwing it off the bed without as much as a look. You let out a squeak when he dives between your breasts, massaging them with both hands and hungrily pressing sloppy, wet kisses to the valley between them.

All the while, he’s started grinding against you again, and you’re left a little unsure of the source of the stickiness between your legs. Jihoon’s presence is overwhelming, as if his goal is to make you think of him and him only, and this thought makes your stomach churn with need.

His mouth makes its way down your body, biting at your skin with his fangs before smoothing the lovebites over with his tongue. The saliva he leaves in his wake burns cold in the air conditioned air of your hotel room, but it’s nothing compared to the fire in your lower stomach.

A groan leaves his throat when he comes to the new flowers lacing your thigh—right next to the delicate material of your panties.

“When you got this tattoo,” he sighs, and you squeal at the sudden press of his tongue, flat against the darkening spot of your underwear between your legs. “It took everything in me not to crack at the sight of you in those damn shorts you wore for days after.”

Your panties muffle his words, but as if to make up for it, the vibrations coming from his lips on your clit send waves of pleasure through you. Moaning, you raise your hips to meet his face, your back lifting off the mattress.

Inevitably, Jihoon grows tired of only tasting cotton. In a flash, your panties lay somewhere behind him on the bed, and his mouth licks a stripe up your folds, your moans music to his ears.

“Jihoon—oh, fuck—” you whimper, covering your face with your arms in embarrassment. “Feels—feels s’good, please don’t stop.”

He hums a melody into your cunt, letting his tongue kiss the insides of your gummy walls. You’re delicious, a taste he could only imagine of on nights with no one but him and his hand. Jihoon buries himself further into you, nose rubbing against the bud that draws the loudest sounds out of your throat, and loving every second of it.

You’re squeezing his head between your thighs with all your might, frantically trying to get him to go deeper with his tongue. Fingers scratching at his scalp, your voice comes out in a babble as Jihoon does something with his tongue that leaves your legs shaking.

“D—do that again, please, sir.” The title falls out of you with shockingly little thought, and you clamp around his tongue with a deep flush.

Jihoon pulls back from your folds, cocking his head with a smirk. You whine at the sight of the wetness coating his chin; it dribbles down onto the comforter with little to no regard for your sanity.

“Sir, huh?” He mumbles, teeth moving to nip again at your sensitive spot; you jump and let out a moan. “That’s a new one.”

The singer prods at your entrance with his tongue once more, one of his digits tracing circles around your puffy clit. “You want me to do what again, rockstar?”

Keening, you struggle to keep your eyes open, pathetically pawing at his hair and hoping Jihoon gets the message. He only raises an eyebrow at you, much to your dismay, before devilishly slurping the new juices flooding out of your hole.

His fingers, the ones you’ve only watched pick at his guitar strings until now, make quick work of you, sliding in a V-shape around your bud—up, down, up, down. The wet smacks of his mouth against your pussy echo in the quiet hotel room, loud and lewd. Your noises of pleasure accompany them to create what Jihoon would call his favorite orchestra.

“Th—that! Oh my God, Jihoon!” You yank at his hair, hard, when he does that stupid thing with his tongue again. “Sir—oh god, please… I’m gonna—”

The coils in your lower stomach are threatening to burst. It’s a searing kind of pleasure—one that borders on pain as Jihoon vigorously works his tongue and fingers simultaneously faster, until you’re left a sobbing mess for him to pick up the pieces of. Too much, you want to cry out. Too much, but please don’t stop.

Your legs are convulsing, endless in their tremors as you get lost in how good he’s making you feel. However, just as you’re about to let go of that star, letting it explode into oblivion—

Slap!

A shriek escapes you and you tear your eyes open, hips jolting with the force of Jihoon’s slap against your cunt. He’s grinning, fingers tapping your clit three times before his hand drops.

“Sorry, rockstar,” he teases, shifting upwards to engulf you in a kiss; you taste yourself on his tongue, gooey and sweet, and whimper in response. “Didn’t want you to cum before I’ve had my share of fun, y’know?”

Jihoon rocks his hips forward, his hard-on barely concealed by his sweatpants and dragging enticingly along your pussy just right. Breathlessly, you hold onto his broad shoulders, pouting up at him with your release smeared all over your lips from his kiss.

“Please,” you whisper; he doesn’t even have to ask what you’re begging for, too entranced by the soft spoken sound of your plea.

Shuffling his pants and boxers off, you’re finally met with the sight of his cock: girthy and curved ever so slightly, with a tip tinged so red it leaves your mouth aching to be filled. He grunts as it slaps against his lower stomach, choking out a moan when you immediately reach down to spread your fingers around his tip, smearing pre all over himself.

Jihoon catches your wrist in his hand, looking at you with a gaze so dark it has you clenching around nothing. “Careful what you wish for, pretty,” he mumbles aloud. “Don’t bite off more than you can chew right now.”

He lets his cock slide deliciously between your folds, your juices mixing with his pre to create the perfect lube. It’s so messy, with Jihoon gasping every time the tip of his cock brushes against your entrance. The sheets below you are soaked with your arousal, and you silently pray that the hotel staff won’t mind too much in the morning.

“Ride me,” Jihoon suddenly says. “Need you to ride me. Please.”

 You’ve never heard him beg before, but you decide right then and there it’s one of your favorite sounds.

His eyes are so dark you can barely see the irises anymore, and are so, so glossy, that you worry he’s about to cry. Cradling his cheek in your hand, you swipe your thumb along his beauty mark with a soft smile.

“Of course, Jihoon,” you whisper.

He flips you over so you’re straddling him, your left hand splayed against Ouroboros. Jihoon tortures his bottom lip with his teeth as you mentally prepare yourself.

The stretch is painful. You squeeze your eyes shut as you lower yourself onto his length, whimpering from the dull sting of him. Jihoon isn’t doing any better; you hear his groan of pleasure, his hips twitching, before he’s desperately trying to still them as to not start frantically thrusting up until you.

“S’too big,” you fret, lashes fluttering along your cheeks with tears beginning to line the corners of your eyes. “Sir, s’too big.”

Jihoon grasps your hand in his and kisses it delicately. “You’re doing great, baby. Just breathe. M’right here.”

Slowly, you inch your way down his cock, until your hips meet his. You sniffle and try not to cry; he’s so deep in you, making you feel so full it has your head spinning.

“Good job, pretty.” Jihoon massages your hips with his fingers, squeezing the flesh with a gentleness you didn’t know he had. “You did so well. Feel good yet?”

“Uh-huh,” you nod, trembling above him.

“Good,” says the man. “Now ride me.”

With a small whine, your thighs shake as you lift yourself once, before dropping back down onto his cock. The loud, unabashed sound of his skin meeting yours makes you squeak in surprise, and Jihoon lets out a long, drawn out groan.

“Keep going, baby,” he encourages.

His hands help to guide you until you’re a bouncing wreck, cunt slamming down onto his dick with so much force the bed frame creaks in protest. Jihoon grabs your chin and pulls you into a smoldering kiss, your spit mixing with his as you unashamedly moan into his mouth.

“God, fuck, you’re taking m’so well.” Jihoon moans, lips sliding against your teeth, beginning to piston up into you at an impossibly harsh speed. He’s hitting that one spot that’s making you see absolute stars, your walls violently fluttering around him. “You—fuck, you feel s’good baby—tell me how much you like it.”

Your hips are starting to slow, especially with the new oncoming force of his thrusts, but you do your best to keep up with his pace. “Love it so much, sir—shit! Oh god… please, keep going…”

He must notice your slowing rate, because Jihoon makes a show of gripping onto your hips with a brutal hold and moving you in time with him.

“C’mon, baby,” Jihoon grunts. “Thought I told you to ride me.”

It’s so unbelievably hot, your skin sticky with sweat and whatever fluids have ended up on it. You let Jihoon take control, fingernails dragging down his chest as he lets out a hiss of pleasure. They leave little trails of red in their wake, and you take this chance to suck a bruising hickey or two into his shoulder, shuddering at his cock pressing into you in all the right places.

The squelching noises are what really get to you. They ring in your ears, directly fueling the pit in your stomach that’s already about to explode again. You feel so dirty.

“J—Jihoon,” you warn, the last syllable coming out in a garble. “Oh—oh, sir, too much! Gonna—”

And then Jihoon’s flipping you two over again, your face being pushed into the hotel pillows as he sets a pace so brutal it has you screaming. His cock rams into you, hands spreading your cheeks apart, as he finally lets loose of all control.

“Y—yeah?” He’s moaning. “Gonna what, pretty? Gonna cum all over my cock?”

Fisting the sheets, you nod your head eagerly, voice small in contrast to the loud, lewd noises coming from the two of you. “Yes—yes, please let me come sir, please please please please—”

“Go ahead baby. Cum.”

With a broken wail, your pussy flutters around his length, a burst of pleasure peaking within you as you see white. Jihoon still doesn’t stop, working you through your orgasm, until he’s whining and bent over you, mouthing at your shoulder with love bites.

“Fuck, baby—”

He pulls out and you sob at the loss, liquids rushing out of your hole as Jihoon works himself over with his hand. His cum spurts, hot and thick, all across your back and ass, and you clench around nothing to cope.

Breathing heavily, you turn your head, gasping for air. Tears stream down your face that you wipe away hastily. Jihoon, above you, has his breath coming out in harsh pants, leaning his weight onto the backs of your thighs.

For a few minutes, there’s nothing but the sound of your shared breathing, the air conditioning kicking in again to rid the room of the smell of sex.

“Jihoon.” Your voice is tiny, but he hears it all the same, taking a moment before moving so he can stand up and crouch beside the bed at your eye level.

With an inquisitive look from him, you blink the remaining tears away.

“Atlanta won’t be just another tour date to you, right?”

Jihoon’s shushing you before you can even get the question out. “Baby, baby, no. Atlanta is so much more than that to me, I swear. You’re much more than one night to me.”

He punctuates his words with kisses to your fingertips. You melt under his gaze, so soft and inviting it’s hard to ever remember a time where he looked at you with such contempt.

“Then…” You swallow tersely, pain lacing your every word. “Why did you sleep with that person? In Orlando?”

Jihoon’s expression turns solemn. He squeezes his eyes shut, heaving out a sigh, and when he speaks next, his tone is charred with regret.

“To try to forget.”

You frown. “That’s kinda hard to do.”

Smiling bitterly, Jihoon turns his face towards you again. “Yeah. Really hard to forget you, y’know. Especially now.”

Pouting, your cheeks flush, and you huff. It’s quiet again before you ask what’s been on your mind.

“Does that mean we’re dating now?”

The man chuckles, bringing your hand to cup his cheek. “You’re asking that now? You are so…”

“Let’s take it slow.” Jihoon stands up and disappears from your vision; you hear the click of the bathroom door, followed by the sound of the sink running, before he’s padding back to you with a wet cloth in his hands. “There’s no rush when it comes to us, ‘kay?”

You have the audacity to let out a snort as he begins wiping your back down, the towel feeling like heaven against your skin. “Right. Like how there was no rush to eat me out, I’m sure.”

He pauses, and you snicker at his dumbfounded expression. Jihoon sighs and shakes his head.

“Save it for when you aren’t covered in my cum, rockstar.”

“…Touché,” you concede, giggling as he presses kisses to your cheeks.

The towel is soon thrown in the bin, and he settles next to you in bed, curling an arm around your waist. You murmur a hello, eyes finding his under the Atlanta city lights.

“Sleep time, now,” he chides. “We have a flight at one tomorrow.”

Humming to show you heard him, you tilt your head forehead to boop his nose with yours. The stars are shining brightly, you’re positively sure of this, and Jihoon smiles against your lips as you whisper a goodnight.

Houston tomorrow, and Dallas next. Your eyes close easily, sleep coaxing you into the dreamworld rather quickly. Then, the future. Whatever the hell that entails.

The thought leaves you off with a grin.

—

“Rough night, eh?”

You jump in your seat, flinching at the sound of Jeonghan’s voice. He’s draped over the airplane seat in front of you, blonde hair perfectly framing the shit-eating grin on his face. It only grows when you fail to answer his question.

“Shut the fuck up, Jeonghan,” you snarl.

The manager of CH33RS barks out a laugh, causing Seungcheol next to him to throw a look over his shoulder. When he spots you, bottom lip pushed out in a glower, he gives his own chuckle.

“Happy for you,” Seungcheol calls; you wave him off, trying not to let his words affect you too much.

Pouting, you curl up in your chair, only picking your head up when Joshua peers over from the seat behind you, nudging the back of your head with a chirp of your name.

“Hey, take a look at this.” Your manager heaves his laptop over the chairs, and you grunt as you take it into your lap. “Let me know if I should schedule him for an interview when we get back to San Francisco.”

Lee Chan. His name comes out quick and fast, and you study his profile from the website Joshua’s got pulled up. Personal stylist, based in Berkeley, California. Looking for a full-time job under someone in the music industry. Flexible schedule.

“How do you keep finding Korean men to associate me with?” You laugh, passing the device back to him. “He looks promising. Did you run a background check on him?”

Joshua nods, typing away on his laptop atop the chairs. People who pass by him on the way to their seats give him a funny look, but he pays them no mind. “I’ll have to get the higher up’s approval, but that shouldn’t be hard. Lee Chan’s got about five years of experience in various other companies. Never stayed in one place for too long, though. Guess he’s as frustrated as we are with the industry.”

“I’d like to meet him, when you invite him for an interview.” The smile that spreads across your face is genuine, and Joshua mirrors your expression when he glances up from his screen.

“Look at you,” he coos, beginning to wipe fake tears away from his eyes. “Wanting to personally mingle with potential future staff members. You’ve come a long way… I’m so proud of you…”

Tsk-ing, you swat at him, letting out another laugh when he only stumbles back into his chair with a mock-offended gasp. Turning back around in your seat, you hum a tune to yourself, hope alight in your heart for what seems like a step towards proper management. A personal stylist would mean no more dealing with the berating cosmetic stylists at photoshoots or music video shoots, and the thought warms you down to your core.

Jihoon joins you a moment later; you both finally made the pinky promise to catch up on Frieren, the two hour flight to Houston being a perfect solution to your dilemma. Sliding into the cushioned seat, he’s already pulling out his wired buds, silently untangling them with a carefully stoic face.

You know better now, though—there’s a blush creeping up the column of his neck, and his fingers are clumsier than usual, slipping in and over themselves more times than not when trying to straighten out the wires.

So, you wait, watching out the window as air crew members line luggages to be packed onto the bottom of the plane. He’ll come to you when he’s ready.

And he does, poking the side of your arm with one of the buds.

“Here,” he murmurs. “You want the left one, right?”

Humming, you intentionally have your thumb run along the side of his index finger when taking the earbud, enjoying how he stiffens at your touch. Giving him a half-smile, you bump his shoulder playfully.

“Yeah. Thanks, Ji.”

Jihoon huffs but doesn’t move away; instead, he presses his shoulder to yours in a promise. Always.

Last but not least, Soonyoung comes bumbling down the aisle of first class, his new silver nose ring catching the overhead lights and complimenting the chain he’s sporting around his neck. He shoots the two of you a thumbs up, clapping Jihoon’s shoulder as he walks by to take his place next to Joshua, and you have to stifle another laugh.

The captain wastes no time once all the passengers are on the plane, flight attendants going through their usual routine of health and safety protocols. You’re barely listening, too caught up in the searing touch of Jihoon’s hand on your thigh.

Sometimes he’ll reach over to threateningly poke at the skin right next to the Blue-Moon Weed flowers, giving you a smirk when you shoot him a glare. After the third time, however, he tilts down to whisper something into your ear.

“Next time you get a tattoo, invite me to the studio, ‘kay rockstar?”

The pilot begins to back the airplane out of the terminal, the roar of the engine slowly coming to life as it approaches the runway. Breath hitching in your throat, you smile up at Jihoon: black bangs parted messily, eyes crinkling at the corners, and nose scrunched up to give his star stud the spotlight it deserves.

You’ve never found him more attractive, nor more yours, until this moment.

“Right back at ya, rockstar,” you challenge. “We may as well get matching tattoos. Whaddaya think?”

He considers it as the aircraft’s engine grows louder, trees whorling past you to indicate its about to make its ascent.

“I think you’re too impulsive for your own good,” he chuckles, brushing a strand of dyed hair out of your face.

“So, you’ll do it?” You eagerly lean into his touch, eyes wide with hope.

The airplane successfully makes its debut into the clouds, and Jihoon’s smiling at you like you’ve got all the time in the world to make this rushed decision together. Impulsivity was your forte, after all, and there were too many memories to be made in such a small amount of remaining tour locations.

Jihoon hums, bringing you out of your thoughts, prolonging his response even though you already know the answer.

“What design did you have in mind?”

📍 DALLAS, TEXAS 

“Hi, guys,” you whisper into the mic, smiling when the live chat floods with reactions. “Yeah, yeah, I know it's late. Shouldn’t some of y’all be sleeping too? Why are you berating me for this?”

Your hotel room is dimly lit by the lamp beside your bed. You have your guitar out, strumming lightly, and when the viewers take notice they eagerly eat up the melodies you’re humming.

“Where’s Jihoon?” you query, reading off the comments from your phone screen. “How should I know? He’s probably asleep or something. Lord knows he needs his rest.”

You scoff and knock your knuckles against the polished wood of the instrument. There’s requests for songs in chat accompanied by demands to go to the singer’s room and bring him on live. Shaking your head, you tsk. “I’ve spoiled you guys too much. You’re getting greedy.”

“Now, what should I sing?”

The chat is going so fast you can barely read it, but you smile anyway, feeling at peace in a city you’ve barely been in. The hotel you’re at is a fairly high-end one, and high up at that—from your place on the bed you can see the twinkling lights of the city below. Cars are shooting down the highways, their lights zooming by, and you revel in the peace that is Dallas at night.

Your voice lifts, delicate against the string plucking you’ve chosen for tonight, a low intone as you settle on a song choice. If one were to close their eyes, they could probably picture being in a stadium full of shimmering flashlights as they sang into the mic.

I'm running over sentences at times I'd better quit dreaming just so I could write Yet the words to describe you aren't so hard to find Like a good quote from a book that I've memorized But I keep forgetting just what to do

A viewer asks what song this is, and you only respond with a smile. “Oh, this? It’s a new one I’ve been working on during tour.”

“Do you like it?” you ask softly, before continuing.

I missed the train again I called your name, as if you'd drive it back I swear you're in my head Throughout the day I can say that for a fact

Truth be told, your legs are shaking under your guitar. These lyrics are raw and unfiltered—they’re straight from your notes app, unedited and messily scribbled into your notebook with a melody you came up with just fifteen minutes ago.

You’re not sure what exactly prompted you to start the live, but something told you it would be worthwhile. Perhaps it was that you had too many feelings now that you were just incapable of bottling them up; or, perhaps, it was the Texas night sky that had you craving for some sort of semblance of familiar recognition, the stars reminding you too much of the stage.

Whatever it was, you welcome it with open arms—all emotions are valid emotions, after all. You close your eyes and let a wave of serenity wash over you.

Know we had better days, but to keep me sane I guess that this is just another love song, About you

A ping! from your phone has you cracking your eye open in just a sliver, pinpointing the message that’s now resting at the top of your screen. The sender’s name stands boldly out against the notification and almost makes you choke on your own spit.

frieren freak!! Pretty voice. You should sing acoustic more often.

Just another love song, About you

Your voice falters at the last note, but you continue to strum, humming an encore for the viewers. There’s another buzz from your phone.

frieren freak!! Let me in?

Slowly, you let the strings of the guitar fade. Your smile is enough to compete with celestial beings as you pick up the device and blow a kiss goodnight.

“That’s it for tonight, guys,” you giggle. “Dallas, I’ll see you tomorrow. There’s someone I’ve been meaning to introduce to y’all.”

—END.

thank you so, so, so much for reading! if you liked this, please be sure to check out the other fics out for yuki's 100 milestone collab! have an amazing day and as always, may good music find you <3!

[bradleysass]

ally - @rosekillermicrofic - wc: 864

The first thing Evan notices is the smell.

Acrylic paint and something fruity—possibly watermelon—mix in the air like chaos and pride had a baby. The second thing is that the flat is way too quiet for what it smells like. No music, no TV, just the hum of summer heat coming through the cracked kitchen window.

Evan toes off his shoes and squints down the hallway.

“Barty?”

“In here!” comes the shout, echoing from their bedroom. There's a weird, wet-slapping noise like someone wrestling with a paintbrush and absolutely no effort to hide whatever disaster is going on.

Evan pushes the door open with the same energy one uses to check behind a horror movie shower curtain. And then he freezes.

Barty is standing in the middle of their room shirtless, arms lifted slightly away from his sides like he’s trying not to smudge anything. His entire chest has been transformed into a bisexual pride flag—pink, purple, and blue stripes smeared across his pale skin with suspiciously good blending. On one leg is the trans flag. His face has a rainbow like war paint under each eye, and one hand is currently halfway through painting the lesbian flag across his thigh.

They make eye contact.

Barty, wide-eyed and unapologetic, mid-paint-stroke.

Evan just blinks.

“…What the fuck is happening here?”

Barty doesn’t miss a beat. “What does it look like? I’m showing my support. I am an ally.”

Evan raises one hand to his mouth and rubs his bottom lip with his thumb, pouting ever so slightly like he’s trying to decide whether to laugh or walk right back out and pretend this didn’t happen. “Yeah, yeah, sure. But you’re also gay.”

Barty narrows his eyes. “Not just gay. I'm layered. Like a—like a queer onion.”

“A bisexual onion?”

“If you will,” Barty says, as he dips his brush into another blob of paint on a plate that Evan really hopes is not one of their good ones. “I contain multitudes.”

“You contain glitter on my sheets.”

“I’m doing this for the community,” Barty replies, solemnly, like he’s about to launch into a TED Talk. “Pride is about visibility. I am being very visible right now. You're welcome.”

Evan crosses the room slowly, avoiding paint tubes like landmines. He stops just in front of Barty and folds his arms. “You painted the lesbian flag on your leg.”

“I support lesbians.”

“You hit on a lesbian last week.”

“She was hot,” Barty shrugs. “I told her I respected her. I also told her 'Evan at home had better hands than she could ever dream of', so it’s fine. Balanced.”

Evan chokes on a laugh. “Is that what you said?”

“I did,” Barty says proudly. “She gave me her eyeliner brand as a peace offering. Look.”

He turns and reveals a black tube of something wedged between a rainbow pride boa and a half-full bottle of rosé on the dresser.

Evan lets out a long, drawn-out sigh. “You know, I came home thinking we might have dinner. Watch something. Be normal.”

“This is normal,” Barty says, placing a dramatic hand over his paint-slicked heart. “You date a man who has a very expressive artistic side and an unstable relationship with impulse control. You knew what this was.”

Evan tilts his head. “You have the trans flag on your leg.”

“I do.”

“Do you want to talk about that?”

Barty goes quiet for a second, the paintbrush hovering in mid-air.

“…Maybe later.”

Evan nods, the mood shifting a little in the way it always does when Barty lets him past the sarcasm and glitter.

Then Barty smirks. “Right now I want you to admit that I look fabulous.”

Evan steps forward again, lifting his hand to trace the edge of the pink stripe on Barty’s chest. The paint is still a bit tacky, and Evan tries not to think too hard about how good the colors look on him. How Barty’s always had a knack for making chaos look like art.

“You look like someone let a gay raccoon loose in a craft store.”

Barty grins, proud. “Thank you.”

“Wasn’t a compliment.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Alright, fine,” Evan says, stepping even closer, hands now resting on Barty’s waist, smearing a bit of purple onto his thumbs. “You look like a queer fever dream, and somehow I still want to kiss you.”

Barty raises an eyebrow. “Do it.”

“You’re covered in paint.”

“So?”

Evan leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of Barty’s mouth. When he pulls back, there’s a smear of blue on his lips.

“Fuck,” he mutters, rubbing at it. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I am lucky. I’m dating a beautiful, mildly judgmental man who lets me paint myself like a pride parade float.”

Evan sighs again, but there’s a softness to it now. “So. Do we wash this off or…?”

Barty shrugs. “We could go out like this.”

“I am not letting you into a restaurant with the lesbian flag on your thigh and nothing else.”

“Coward.”

“Degenerate.”

“Gay.”

Evan rolls his eyes, leans in, and kisses him again.

This time, he doesn't even try to wipe the paint away.

[finalgirl-rerun]

I wouldn't really want jm to go on tour right now because he doesn't have enough song imo. And it would be to rushed. I want him to take his time and to have a full era. Seeing how jin tour have been rushed and planned last minute i don't really see the appeal.

Coming up with another album is going to be long especially if he wants to be really involved in all aspects like he was for FACE and MUSE.

Comparing him to jk doesn't really make sense when we know songs have probably been waiting for him as soon as he came back since he doesn't seem to be really involved in his music. And since he seems to be the chosen one everything is probably already planned for him. I guess we'll see. He might want to be more involved now we don't know.

Things were rushed before enlisment so he maybe didn't have time to plan and prepare performances or maybe its something deeper happening with the company. Now that he is out he have time he doesn't have to rush. We'll see what he wants to do.

I want him to wait too and I think a delayed tour for him actually won’t be the company’s fault despite how much I hate them.

Jimins first tour should be epic and shouldn’t be rushed. He strikes me as an artist who’s very serious about his craft and isn’t here for a quick buck. All his letters to fans always emphasize that he’s working and preparing hard particularly because he wants to provide us with high quality results. He knows he’s loved enough where he could sell us just about anything but he’d never do that cuz he has too much love for the craft and his fans.

Also if there are any Jimin fans who expect JKs type of career out of Jimin then they’re stanning the wrong artists. Jimin is very very involved in his work so like you said, things will always take much longer for him. Personally all my favorite artists are very involved and don’t release very frequently so I’m ok with waiting but if you’re expecting an artists who’s always releasing and touring because they don’t have to plan or create than Jimin isn’t the right artist for you.

[lxnleybatbxy]

Salem kept his eyes on Angel, not daring to look away as this man slowly moved his hand across his body. Oh the sensation was heavenly, even with just small simple touches. Each movement felt like a trail of static, not that he minded , it was like small kisses being planted all over in the most innocent way. And he wouldn’t admit it aloud, but witnessing this in person was so incredibly sexy.

Maybe it was the alcohol talking..but truthfully it amplified what he felt.

Salem smirked to himself but kept quiet, not wanting to break Angels focus. The way the other stared at his features, studying each little detail. It made the smaller feel like he really was literal art work. Salem wouldn’t mind if he could look at the other all day, being so infatuated by how genuine he seemed, this was rare to come by but he didn’t want to miss this possible chance of making a real connection with someone.

The sweet talking definitely got him by a chokehold too.

—It wasn’t til Angel kneeled down and moved in-between his legs, amber eyes widened but he kept still—this is where Salems heart wanted to burst through his chest. His skin felt hot to the touch, tingling even as the artist placed a hand onto his waist. Strong hands, yet they fit so perfectly against the small curve. He giggled and couldn’t help but bite down on his lip before relaxing himself again. This was incredibly hard to not melt into this man’s touch, Salem swore he was going to crack soon.

‘I could spend a lifetime trying to get you right, but I don’t think there’s a brush or pencil in the world that can capture all this.’

‘You’re art Salem.’

The smaller felt a thud in his chest as those words slipped from the other perfectly curved mouth. It was like he didn’t have put effort into what he was saying, it all came naturally. As Angel finished his little inspection, Salem nearly whined from missing the closeness already—such a clingy baby.

‘Salem, when I’m done I would like to kiss you.’

Now Salem felt a wave crash in the back of his head, it was like the other had read his mind and spoke those words allowed himself. Dark red hues completely covered Salems face almost immediately, pupils blown from the excitement but no sentences came out just yet…no, he never expects anything out of others that show him kindness. He was never the type nor has he ever found someone he felt safe around to just be himself, but then again.. here was Angel—

“Good…I’d be upset if you didn’t..” Bless this liquid courage.

Salem grinned and tried to real himself back in, he stayed in the same posture Angel had placed him,m. Eyes back on the artist, just as a cat would watch its prey, nothing but the sounds of sketching filled the air.

Salem couldn’t help but smirk at the others comment, it was so interesting to see someone react in such a way that he wasn’t used to. But, he liked it. He liked Angel, maybe it was the alcohol taking over his thoughts, maybe it wasn’t though all he did know was that this man was truly a blessing in disguise.

“Oh no no, you can’t go anywhere~ We’ve only just met annnnd you let me come home with you~.” He said innocently, playfully. A bubble of laughter came out as Angel began to pose him. Salem couldn’t help but stare at him, watching all his features focus but as their eyes met he tried his best to keep still. “Like this?..” His voice was a tad softer now.

Truthfully, Salem had never had someone look at him the way Angel was looking at him. He definitely felt seen.

Part of him felt like a shy boy standing around his crush, blushing and smiling like an idiot but the other part was just absolutely in awe n’ at the same time so infatuated with the other. His presence made Salem feel protected, safe even…which was strange because they only had just met at the bar. This natural feeling was only growing more and more—

‘People don’t see you, huh? But you’ve been wanting to be seen..’

‘I see you Salem..’

If he didn’t have to be still right now, he probably would have jumped up to kiss the man right there n’ then. His heart fluttered at those words, those gentle words that meant everything to him. Salem couldn’t hide his big smile, the blush spread more across his face and grew two shades darker.

“I..I don’t mind.” Salem speaks a tad shyly, batting his eyelashes as he watched Angel sketch while holding his pose as well as he could.

[teddy-bear-d]

With the Guess the Build crew jokingly asking Skizz if he’s colour blind or if he’s ever taken a colour blind test, I really hope they do make him take one on camera.

Not because I think he’s colour blind (I legitimately think it’s just an object permanence kind of thing) but because I had a phase in 2018 of watching people take colour blind tests and I think it would be interesting.

[sabertoothwalrus]

I am being so serious when I say: if you have the financial and time privilege to get a group of friends together and make an indie project, PLEASE do. Indie games, indie animations, indie comics etc etc

the art industries are kind of in the shitter. It’s not so much because of AI (though that doesn’t help) but because studios just aren’t hiring people and funding projects anymore. People who’ve been in the industry for decades are finding themselves struggling, and once you have a mortgage or kids it’s harder to do something as risky as making something on your own.

completing projects is hard. it takes a lot of time and effort, and most people can’t afford it. so if you CAN afford to make art, even at the risk of no financial gain, I strongly encourage you to be as resilient as you can. We’re at a point where these industries are not going to turn around by themselves, and waiting for jobs to open up again in order to get experience and portfolio work might not be realistic.

people have been making art and telling stories longgggg before we were getting paid for it, and people aren’t going to stop just because no one has hired them to do so.

for everyone else: support indie artists when you can!!!! That person who made that cool indie game or youtube animation or webcomic might be doing this full time! your support might be the only reason they’re able to keep doing it.

and if you have already started an indie project: you’re so brave and I’m very proud of you!!! in fact, drop a link to it in the reblogs if you want! 👇

[sixeyesonathiel]

free throws and figure drawings

pairing – star player! gojo x broke artist! reader

summary : satoru gojo is many things—basketball star player, campus menace, objectively the best-looking guy in any room—but he is not a model. so when you, some quiet, intense art student, shove a flyer in his face and ask him to pose for a painting, his first instinct is to laugh. his second instinct is to say no.

it’s supposed to be easy money. sit still, look pretty, collect cash. but between your infuriating perfectionism, your absolute refusal to be flustered by him, and the way you stare like you’re trying to figure him out, satoru starts to suspect he’s in way over his head

tags –> one shot, 22k wc, university au, oblivious mutual pining, slow burn, idiots to friends(?) to lovers, banter, fluff, light angst, first kisses, reader has questionable financial priorities

playlist. | collection m.list.

satoru hates being late.

he’s not a model student, not by a long shot, but failing a long quiz because a horde of fan girls blocked his way to class? unforgivable. he was so close to making it in time, too—if only he hadn’t stopped to sign that last autograph. normally, he’d brush it off, but this wasn’t just any quiz—this was for a professor who already had it out for him. if he fails even one subject, the coach might force him to take a break from the team to focus on his studies, even if he was their star player.

he thrives on attention, okay? what’s the point of being their university's star player if he can’t bask in the privelege and the fame? that last game was legendary—he clutched the final shot, the crowd went insane, and now half the campus is screaming his name. still, if he gets benched over grades, that win won’t mean a damn thing.

now, he’s sulking on a campus bench, spinning his phone between his fingers, wondering how hard his professor is going to roast him next lecture. probably a lot. maybe enough to make him consider actually studying. his teammates will be insufferable about it, especially suguru.

and then, like a gift from the universe, you show up.

“excuse me.”

he barely glances up. he’s still bitter. still annoyed. but when he finally does look—oh, he knows your type. wide-eyed, a little nervous, clutching a sketchbook like it’s a lifeline, like it holds something more important than just paper and ink. he bets you’re about to ask for a selfie, or his number, or—

“i need you to model for me.”

his head tilts slightly, brow arching in lazy amusement. huh?

he waits for the punchline, but you only stare, unwavering. there’s something unnerving about your gaze—not shy, not desperate, just… intent. like you’ve already decided something, and his answer doesn’t matter. then, as if confirming it to yourself, you give a small, determined nod. “yeah. you’re perfect.”

his lips twitch, the ego in him flaring up instantly. “obviously.”

“so you’ll do it?” you lean in, hopeful, hands gripping the edges of your sketchbook like it’s anchoring you.

“obviously not.” he leans back instead, stretching an arm along the back of the bench, his smirk turning sharp. “listen, i know i’m pretty, but i’m not that easy.”

your expression shifts, a flicker of something unreadable—then, with a breath, you square your shoulders. “i’ll pay you.”

he barks out a short laugh, blue eyes gleaming with amusement. “oh? and what’s my going rate, then?”

without hesitation, you pull out a flyer from your bag, movements quick and businesslike. “i have an hourly rate. cash upfront.”

he plucks the paper from your hands, more entertained than anything, scanning it with a smirk. this is, without a doubt, the most absurd thing to happen to him all day (and that’s saying something). you’re actually serious. actually offering him money to sit still and look pretty.

you must be so down bad.

“sorry, sweetheart,” he drawls, handing it back lazily. “but i’m a busy man. can’t waste my precious time sitting around just so you can stare at me.”

he expects you to stammer, to get flustered and retreat. most people would.

there’s a pause, thick with hesitation, before you finally speak—like you’re pulling the words from somewhere deep, somewhere you don’t usually let people see.

“hold still,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. your gaze moves over his face with the kind of scrutiny that makes people uncomfortable, but satoru doesn’t squirm—he preens under it, smirks like he’s used to being admired. but that’s not what this is.

your eyes narrow slightly, head tilting. “your features are sharp, but not harsh. the lines of your face—” you trail off, thoughtful. “they flow too well. it’s almost unnatural.”

he blinks. “uh. thanks?”

you ignore him, scanning lower. “your collarbones frame the composition perfectly. and your hands…” your gaze flickers to them, fingers twitching against your sketchbook. “deliberate. expressive.”

his brows lift. “you’re checking me out.” he accuses, tone dripping with amusement.

“i’m analyzing your composition.” your voice is absentminded, matter-of-fact. you’re still staring, still studying, like he’s some kind of divine anomaly.

and maybe he is.

satoru should be smug about this. should be teasing you. but there’s something about the way you’re looking at him—serious, unwavering, like you’ve seen something no one else has. something not even he knows how to name.

his smirk falters, just slightly. “…so?”

“so,” you say, straightening, gripping your sketchbook tighter. “i need to paint you.”

not want. need.

and for the first time in a long time, satoru gojo is left without a clever comeback. because—okay. wow. that was a lot.

for the first time, he actually looks at you, really looks at you. and there’s no hint of deception in your expression, no underlying flirtation. your eyes—burning with something too raw, too genuine—throw him off completely.

“sounds like you’re obsessed with me.” he tries, aiming for his usual brand of cocky. but it’s weaker this time. a little off.

“i’m obsessed with getting my pieces right,” you counter, and it lands like a challenge. your voice doesn’t waver, steady in a way that makes his smirk twitch. “i’ll even raise your pay.”

his smirk falters for half a second. “yeah?”

“i—” you hesitate, fingers tightening around your sketchbook, knuckles pale from the pressure. “i can go up to… ten bucks per session. upfront.”

he snorts. “sweetheart, do i look like a discount model to you? you want me to sit still for hours, me—an in-demand athlete, a social necessity at every party, the backbone of this school’s sports program—for a measly ten?” he leans back, draping an arm over the bench like he’s getting comfortable for a long negotiation. “at least pretend to respect my market value.”

you exhale sharply, visibly weighing your options, then straighten with new resolve. “fine. twenty-five bucks per session. i can push to fourty, but you have to commit to at least three sittings.”

he opens his mouth to refuse—just for the drama of it, just to watch you scramble for a better offer—but then he hesitates.

and he sees it.

the way your fingers tighten around your sketchbook, the way your shoulders hold a quiet, unyielding tension. the way your eyes stay locked onto him, not with admiration, not with infatuation, but with something deeper, something urgent. there’s a pull in them, a quiet desperation—not for him, not for his attention, but for the shape of him, the angles of him, the way light bends and softens around the sharp edges of his face. he realizes, with a strange flicker of something he can’t name, that you aren’t begging him—you’re needing him.

…ugh.

satoru groans, throwing his head back dramatically, hands flopping uselessly onto the bench like the universe has personally inconvenienced him. “you’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“nope.” your jaw sets, firm, unwavering.

a sigh. a pause. a moment of self-reflection where he briefly considers if the extra cash is worth sacrificing his free time—his parties, his practices, the worship of a school that already thinks he’s untouchable.

then—he grins, sharp and easy, like he’s the one who’s won something here. “alright, mystery artist. i’ll be your muse.”

he leans in, cocky and insufferable, but there’s something new behind it now—a flicker of intrigue, the curiosity of a man who knows he’s irresistible but has never quite been needed like this before. “but only because i’m feeling generous.”

the next day later, satoru reminds himself—firmly—not to let this happen again. he should have held out longer, should have played hard to get, should have, at the very least, haggled for more cash. but no, he let himself get swept up in whatever this was, in your weird little artist intensity, and now he’s sitting on a questionably stable stool in the middle of your cozy, cluttered studio space. regretting. just a little.

your “studio” is barely more than a corner of your dorm room, wedged by the window where the light slants in at an annoyingly aesthetic angle. the floor is a battlefield of abandoned sketchbooks and paint tubes, half-squeezed and discarded like fallen soldiers. unfinished canvases lean against the walls in various stages of completion—some just rough sketches, others hauntingly close to done but left untouched, as if you lost interest mid-stroke. it’s clean and chaotic all at once, the strange contrast between the precisely arranged brushes—lined up by size, bristles all facing the same way—and the paint-stained rags draped carelessly over the back of your chair. the room smells like turpentine and old paper, sharp and familiar, like stepping into the mind of someone who never really stops thinking.

he should be bored—but he’s not.

“shoes off.” you say the moment he steps inside, not even looking up as you sort through your supplies.

satoru stops mid-step, blinking. his latest purchase—some limited-edition basketball sneakers, bought with the last of his cash prize from securing mvp last season, the sheer reason why he is broke right now to be here in the first place—suddenly feel heavier on his feet. his gaze flicks from you to the floor, then back again, a slow, deliberate movement as if testing whether you’re serious.

“seriously?” he drawls, shifting his weight.

“yes.”

“what, afraid I’ll track in dirt?” he tilts his head, smirk lazy, but his fingers hook around the back of his shoes, already anticipating your answer.

“no, i just don’t want you stepping in paint and crying about your expensive sneakers.” you finally glance up, eyes flickering to the telltale logo on the side of his shoes. there’s no mockery in your tone, just detached amusement, but he still bristles slightly—maybe because you’ve already figured him out so easily.

satoru exhales, exaggerated and put-upon, before kicking them off with a bit more force than necessary. the shoes land haphazardly by the door, slightly askew, pristine against the chaos of your floor. “...fine. but I better not step on a thumbtack and die.”

“noted.” you murmur, already moving on.

he takes in the room as he tugs at the hem of his hoodie, adjusting it. the space is a contradiction—small, but alive, every inch used with an artist’s careless precision. tubes of paint lie scattered like relics of past battles, pages of half-formed sketches peek from beneath stacks of books, and the air smells sharp—turpentine, charcoal dust, something faintly citrusy, probably from the cup of tea cooling by your desk. he should be unimpressed, but his gaze keeps getting caught on the little details—the careful arrangement of brushes, the single paint-smeared rag draped over your chair, the faint blue smudge on the back of your wrist.

"sit here." you drag a wooden stool into the light, the scrape of its legs against the floor cutting through the quiet.

his eyes narrow. “this thing gonna hold up?”

“unless you plan on moving around like a child, yes.”

satoru hums, unimpressed but intrigued, tapping two fingers against his thigh before finally dropping onto the stool. his posture is lazy, all careless sprawl and long limbs, arms hanging over the backrest like he’s got all the time in the world.

you click your tongue, stepping closer. “sit up straight.”

he sinks even lower, stretching his legs out in front of him. “but I like this angle. mysterious. brooding. like I have a dark past.”

you don’t even hesitate. “it looks like you have scoliosis.”

he barks out a laugh, sharp and genuine, teeth flashing under the dim light. “maybe that is my dark past.”

“fix your posture.”

satoru sighs, rolling his shoulders back—but not enough. you click your tongue, unimpressed, and before he can react, your hands are on him, firm but careful, adjusting his posture with practiced ease. your fingers press lightly against his upper back, trailing down to nudge at his shoulder blades, guiding him straighter. clinical, detached, nothing more than necessity. but he still goes still, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

your hands are cool against his skin, grounding in a way he doesn’t expect. for the first time, he realizes you’re really looking at him—not like most people do, with admiration, envy, or that desperate need to impress. no, you look at him like he’s a problem to solve, a subject to study, something to be rendered on paper in strokes and shadows. he should say something—flirt, tease, break the moment before it turns into something else—but the words sit strangely in his mouth. and then you’re already pulling away, back to your desk, already moving on.

"good," you murmur, reaching for a pencil amid the mess of supplies. you don’t sound satisfied, exactly—just focused, as if his presence in your studio is nothing more than another detail to get right. then, after a beat, you look up again, really look at him, and say, “don’t move.”

satoru smirks, tilting his head just enough for his bangs to shift, casting a fleeting shadow over his eyes. “no promises.”

you exhale sharply, shaking your head as you adjust the angle of your easel. the wooden frame creaks as you tighten a knob, movements brisk, precise—like you don’t have the patience for his nonsense today. “relax your shoulders.”

he spreads his hands, a lazy, exaggerated gesture, his varsity jacket slipping slightly off one shoulder. “my shoulders are relaxed.”

you glance up, unimpressed. “you look like you’re trying to fight god.”

“that’s just my natural aura.”

your hand pauses over your palette, fingers hovering just above the tubes of paint. then—a twitch. fleeting. almost imperceptible. but he sees it, the tiny, reluctant quirk of your lips, and his eyes glint with amusement.

“was that a smile?” satoru's grin is all teeth, sharp and victorious, as he leans forward, resting his forearm on his knee. “are you falling for me already?”

you don’t even bother looking up as you squeeze out a streak of cadmium red onto your palette. “i was smiling at the thought of shoving you off that stool.”

he lets out a low chuckle, leaning back again, hands bracing the edge of the seat as if testing its limits. “that’s fair.”

acrylic meets oil in a slow swirl, the colors blending as you mix with deliberate strokes. outside, the sun shifts, casting golden streaks through the dusty windowpanes, dappling his profile in warm light. he watches you in the silence that follows, something unspoken settling between the brushstrokes and banter.

and that’s how the first session goes—him trying to be difficult, you trying to make him less difficult.

but somewhere between the banter, the occasional begrudging moments of stillness, and the quiet scratch of pencil against paper, something shifts.

at first, he’s just counting down the minutes until he gets paid, watching the clock, tapping his fingers idly against his knee. but then, he starts watching you instead.

satoru notices the way your brow furrows in concentration, the way your fingers hesitate before committing to a line, the way your teeth graze your bottom lip when something isn’t turning out right. there’s a softness to you when you work, an intensity that feels different from how people usually look at him. no awe, no expectation—just a quiet, unwavering focus, like he’s something worth capturing.

he should be bored. this kind of thing isn’t for him—sitting still, staying quiet, being studied like some museum exhibit. but he’s not. instead he is interested.

not by the painting itself—he still doesn’t get the whole ‘art’ thing, still doesn’t see why people obsess over lines and colors and whatever meaning they think is hidden beneath. but he gets this. gets the way you treat it like it matters, like it’s something real, something worth your time.

so he keeps coming back.

SPRING bleeds into familiarity as summer approaches. the air carries the scent of sun-warmed pavement and freshly cut grass, the kind of early heat that settles into your skin before you even realize it. days stretch longer, the sunsets grow richer, but in this quiet, in the hush between afternoon and evening, it’s routine now—as natural as practice drills, as effortless as muscle memory.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper, the faint drag of graphite as you sketch his form for the hundredth time. the way you chew on the inside of your cheek when you concentrate, brows furrowing in that particular way that means you’re unhappy with a line. the way satoru makes a grand show of complaining, of stretching obnoxiously, of sighing like he’s been sentenced to something far worse than sitting still for an hour—but he always shows up anyway.

“this is cruel and unusual punishment.” satoru groans, slumping back in the chair like the very act of modeling is siphoning the life out of him. his long legs sprawl out, one foot tapping idly against the floor, an unconscious rhythm that betrays his restlessness. strands of white hair fall messily over his forehead, catching in the afternoon light, but he makes no move to fix them. instead, he tilts his head back dramatically, like a man resigned to his fate, letting out a sigh so deep it should echo through the room.

“you’re literally getting paid.” you remind him, tilting your head, adjusting the angle of your sketch with a practiced flick of your wrist. your voice is steady, patient, but there’s a weight to it—a quiet exasperation that makes the corners of his mouth twitch.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper fills the space between you, a contrast to his theatrics. your fingers move with precision, thumb smudging a shadow, expression unreadable as your gaze flickers over him like you’re dissecting every line and curve.

“at what cost?” satoru presses, shifting slightly in his seat, the chair creaking beneath his weight. his arms drape lazily over the armrests, fingers tapping against the wood—anything to keep himself occupied. his restlessness isn’t feigned; he’s never been the type to sit still, and the urge to move tugs at his muscles like an itch he can’t scratch. but he waits, because the way you sketch—brows furrowed, lower lip caught just slightly between your teeth—has him more intrigued than he wants to admit.

“at the cost of you shutting up for five minutes.”

“bold of you to assume i’m capable of that.”

his eyes flick toward you, sharp and searching, waiting for the reaction he knows is coming. for a moment, you’re still, the only movement the subtle shift of your fingers against the page. then—your lips twitch, the barest ghost of amusement, before you catch yourself and shake your head, returning to your work. satoru leans forward just slightly, just enough for the smallest smirk to pull at his lips, because he saw it—saw the way you almost gave in—and he counts that as a win.

you start talking more.

not just the usual corrections or critiques, but more—about your process, your ideas, the frustration of trying to capture his proportions because “seriously, satoru, why are your legs so stupidly long?”

“can’t help that i’m perfect, sweetheart.” he says, flashing a grin, stretching in his seat like he’s on display. his limbs sprawl out with practiced ease, one arm draped over the back of the chair, the other lazily resting against his knee.

“you’re built like a faulty character model,” you mutter, erasing a line with more force than necessary. your brows pinch together, irritation bleeding into your strokes, and satoru watches the way your lips press into a thin line, your focus so sharp it almost cuts.

“so you admit i look unreal.” satoru says smugly, tipping his head to the side, silver strands slipping over the curve of his cheekbone.

you exhale through your nose, controlled and measured, but he catches the slight twitch in your jaw. “yes, satoru. that’s exactly what i meant.”

his grin spreads wider, pleased and easy, tapping his fingers idly against his knee in a steady rhythm. you’re getting used to him now—the sarcasm, the running commentary, the way he moves like he owns the space around him. you roll your eyes less, sigh less, even smirk sometimes—tiny, almost imperceptible, but he catches it every time, cataloging each one like a victory.

he starts talking more, too.

about his classes, about basketball, about how he wasn’t late to his quiz this time because he jumped out a window to avoid his fan girls. he says it so casually, like it’s just another tuesday, like it’s not the most absurd thing you’ve ever heard.

“you jumped out a window?” you ask, blinking, your pencil hovering mid-stroke. your brows pinch slightly, lips parting like you’re trying to process the sheer idiocy of it.

“listen, it was a short fall.”

there’s a beat of silence—just enough for him to catch the way your eyes flick over his face, searching for any sign of exaggeration. his smirk is lazy, easy, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll scold him for it.

and then you laugh.

it’s sudden, unfiltered, slipping past your lips before you can catch it. breathless, a little incredulous, like even you can’t believe he’s that ridiculous.

he wasn’t expecting that.

it’s not like you never laugh—you do, just not at him. not like this, not in a way that feels so real, so genuine, so—unfair. it hits him square in the chest, something sharp and electric threading through his ribs, like a perfectly aimed free throw sinking straight through the net.

“oh my god,” you say, shaking your head, still grinning. “you’re actually ridiculous.”

“thank you,” he says, flashing a smug grin, because he made you laugh.

and that’s the first time he realizes he likes your laugh.

so he starts playing it like a game—how many times can he make you laugh in one session? how many times can he distract you before you start scolding him? it’s almost too easy, the way you fall into the rhythm of his teasing, the way your lips press together like you’re fighting back a smile even when you’re glaring at him. he takes it as a challenge, a personal mission to pull a reaction out of you, to chip away at your stubborn focus just enough to make you crack.

“hey, what if you sketched me mid-dunk? you know, capture my essence—” satoru leans forward, gesturing dramatically, his white hair falling into his eyes.

“sit still.” you mutter, not even looking up, but he catches the way your brow furrows just slightly, the way you grip your pencil a little tighter.

“but imagine the drama! the movement! the raw athleticism—” he babbles, spreading his arms wide as if to showcase the sheer grandeur of his idea.

“sit still or i’m deducting your pay.” your voice is flat, but the way your eyes flicker toward him—just for a second—tells him you’re at least half-listening.

“cold.” he pouts, slumping back into the chair, but his grin never wavers.

sometimes, when you’re too absorbed in your work, he shifts in his seat just to see if you’ll notice. a tiny movement, barely anything—but your head always snaps up, your gaze sharp, the slightest exasperation flickering in your expression. “stop that,” you’ll say, and he’ll throw his hands up in mock innocence, feigning surprise. it’s stupid, really, but he likes it.

(he starts winning. he always wins.)

but somewhere along the way, he starts losing, too.

because he catches himself watching you between poses.

satoru catches himself noticing things he shouldn’t—the way you tuck your brush behind your ear when your hands are full, leaving a faint streak of graphite on your temple. the way your sleeves are always smudged with paint, like you’ve been too caught up in your work to care. the way your fingers twitch when you talk, tracing invisible shapes in the air, like you want to sketch your thoughts into existence. it’s the little things, the ones that slip through the cracks when he isn’t paying attention—except he is, now, and he doesn’t know when that started.

catches himself waiting for your sessions.

it sneaks up on him—slow, creeping, like a game he didn't realize he was playing until he was already losing.

one moment, it’s just a side gig, a funny little arrangement, an easy paycheck. another, it’s something else entirely, something that lingers in his mind longer than it should.

because sometimes—which is already a lot—when he steps onto the court, ball tucked under his arm, the first thing he wonders isn’t about the game, but whether you’ll be sketching from the bleachers. sometimes, when he sees something stupidly pretty—the golden slant of light cutting across the gym floor, a perfect shot arcing through the net, the weightless seconds before it sinks—he thinks, you’d know how to capture this.

sometimes, when you’re concentrating, when your brows pull together, when your lips part just slightly in thought, when your whole world narrows to the page in front of you, he thinks—he doesn’t finish that thought. because it’s just routine, right? just the same way he looks forward to practice, to games, to winning.

it’s nothing more than that.

right?

but then, it starts happening—subtle at first, easy to dismiss. a text invitation left on read, a half-hearted ‘maybe’ in response to a party he’d normally say ‘hell yeah!’ to.

it’s a gradual shift, barely noticeable at first—until it is. until suguru eyes him from across the court, spinning a basketball on his fingertips, gaze sharp and knowing.

“you skipping out?” suguru asks one afternoon, his tone casual, but the way he watches satoru says he already knows the answer. “big party tonight. everyone’s going.”

“got plans.” satoru says easily, crouching to tie his laces, fingers tugging the knots tight like he’s sealing the conversation shut.

suguru bounces the ball once, catching it smoothly. “since when do you have plans that don’t involve getting wasted?”

satoru straightens, rolling his shoulders until they pop, shaking out his arms like he’s gearing up for something. his hair is a mess of white strands falling over his forehead, a little damp from practice, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. instead, he flashes a smirk, weight shifting easily onto one foot. “i’m broadening my horizons.”

suguru snorts, spinning the ball in his hands. “yeah? what’s her name?”

satoru flicks his wrist, and before suguru can react, his hand snaps out to intercept the ball satoru just stole from him, catching it last second. suguru narrows his eyes, unimpressed. satoru just grins, rocking back on his heels, the picture of insufferable ease. “shut up.”

he tells himself it’s not a big deal. he’s just picking his battles, choosing his nights, being selective.

but then, one evening, his phone buzzes with an invite—exclusive rooftop party, vip only, the kind of thing that would’ve had him saying ‘hell yeah’ months ago. the kind of thing he used to crave, to thrive in, all flashing lights and endless noise, a crowd that could never quite keep up.

instead, he glances at the time, sees that your session starts in half an hour, and swipes the notification away without a second thought.

he doesn’t even hesitate.

SUMMER arrives with a vengeance. spring’s fleeting softness is long gone, replaced by air thick with humidity, pavement hot enough to sizzle, and days that stretch into slow, languid eternity. campus, once alive with restless energy, now feels like an echo of itself—half-abandoned dorms, quiet hallways, the distant hum of cicadas filling the silence. no fan club lurking outside his lectures, no teammates calling his name across the quad. just heat, stillness, and a lot of free time.

satoru gojo is losing his mind.

your dorm is somehow even worse than outside, the air stifling, unmoving, dense with trapped summer heat. the pathetic excuse for a fan in the corner barely stirs the air, its dull hum doing nothing to ease the sweat clinging to his skin. he’s slouched in a chair, legs stretched out, head tilted back dramatically as he groans to no one in particular.

“this is inhumane,” satoru whines, shifting again, the fabric of his jersey clinging uncomfortably to his skin. his arm drapes lazily over his forehead, white bangs damp with sweat, eyes half-lidded in a show of exaggerated suffering. “you can’t expect a man to look this good while melting, y’know.”

“satoru, i swear to god, if you move one more time—” you mutter, not looking up from your easel, brush moving in slow, deliberate strokes. there’s a tension in your shoulders, one he recognizes by now—focused, immersed, determined to ignore him.

he cracks an eye open, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “you’ll what?” he drawls, voice syrupy with amusement. “paint me uglier?”

you don’t dignify that with a response, just exhale through your nose and keep working.

it’s been months since you first hired him, and somewhere between his insufferable attitude and your exasperated sighs, something shifted. something settled. something... comfortable.

satoru is still impossible—never quiet, never fully still, always testing limits. but you’re used to him now, the same way you’re used to the hum of your fan or the scratch of your brush against canvas.

and he’s used to you, too.

he knows you never play music while you work (insane). he knows you paint in layers, slow and methodical, as if each stroke is a commitment too big to rush. he knows you hate when people hover over your shoulder—but for some reason, you let him stay.

so he stays.

“remind me why we’re even in the dorms right now?” satoru complains, flopping back onto your bed without permission, limbs splaying like he owns the place.

“because it’s a hassle to go home.” you murmur, brush dragging against the canvas, expression unreadable.

“you say that like normal people wouldn’t want a break from all this,” he gestures vaguely, letting his hand fall limply onto his stomach.

“i don’t like breaks,” you say simply, not bothering to look at him. “breaks mean i stop making things.”

he squints at you, the weight of your words settling in his chest. it sounds like a joke, but it’s not. and just like that, something clicks. maybe you’re here for the same reason he is. not because you have nowhere to go. but because being here is easier than being somewhere else.

he doesn’t say anything. just shifts further onto your bed, limbs sprawling even wider, purely out of pettiness.

the sheets beneath him smell like you—something faint, something warm, something familiar. he exhales, eyes slipping shut for a moment.

yeah. he could stay a little longer.

“seriously,” he groans again, tugging at the neckline of his jersey, the fabric clinging to his skin like a second layer. with a restless sigh, he rolls onto his stomach, sprawling out across your bed like a cat too lazy to move from a sunspot. his cheek presses against the sheets, indigo eyes flicking lazily toward you, half-lidded from the heat. “why is it so hot? isn’t there some artist trick where you suffer for your work without making me suffer too?”

you don’t bother looking up, your focus unwavering, the soft scratch of your brush against canvas filling the silence between you. there’s a faint crease between your brows, a telltale sign of concentration, though your expression remains unreadable.

“maybe if you stopped talking, you’d cool down.”  you murmur, dipping your brush into a shade of blue.

he scoffs, shifting onto his elbows, pushing damp strands of hair from his forehead with a lazy flick of his fingers. “bold of you to assume that’s an option.”

and it irritates him—how unfazed you are. does nothing shake you? does nothing break through that focus?

so it turns into a game.

at first, he starts small—subtle shifts in posture, exaggerated sighs, ridiculous flirtation, all carefully designed to draw your attention. a slow roll of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head, the stretch of long limbs sprawled across your bed as if he owns the space. each movement is deliberate, each word carefully chosen to poke at you, to pry beneath that layer of calm focus you always seem to wear.

“what if i posed like one of those renaissance statues?” satoru muses, arching his back slightly, stretching his arms over his head, the muscles in his shoulders shifting beneath sun-warmed skin. his voice is thick with faux contemplation, his white lashes lowering as if he’s actually considering it. “y’know, real dramatic, real divine. make me look like a legend in the making.”

“you already think you’re a legend.” you mutter, the barest flicker of amusement crossing your face, so quick he almost misses it.

his grin sharpens, flashing teeth, and he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to watch you work. his hair falls slightly over his forehead, messy and weightless, catching the light in wisps of silver and white. “i mean, aren’t i?”

you don’t even look at him. just reach for your paintbrush, flick your wrist—and suddenly, a few drops of cold paint water splatter against his bare arm.

he yelps, jerking away like you’ve actually wounded him. “the hell—” he glares at the tiny droplets seeping into his skin, like they’re an offense to his very existence. “are you serious? that’s abuse.”

you hum, not bothering to hide the faint smirk on your lips as you dip your brush back into the paint.

his narrowed eyes linger on your expression, on the relaxed set of your shoulders, on the tiny, satisfied twitch of your mouth.

(point goes to you.)

when that doesn’t work, he switches tactics.

his gaze flickers to the stack of empty ramen cups in the corner, precariously balanced like a monument to bad decisions. his lips twitch, smug and knowing, before his eyes drift toward the mini fridge tucked against the wall. last time he checked—which was purely out of curiosity, mind you—it was nearly empty, save for a half-full bottle of water and a single, sad yogurt cup. it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

“do you always paint this obsessively?”

“yes.”

“do you ever eat?”

“obviously.”

he hums, stretching his arms behind his head, the movement making his damp jersey stick even more uncomfortably to his skin.

“…you sure?”

your brush hesitates—a fraction of a second, barely noticeable, but he notices. then, just as quickly, you resume painting, voice perfectly even, expression carefully blank.

“what’s with the interrogation?”

“just curious,” he says, shifting until his long legs are stretched across the bed. his head tilts back against the sheets, white strands of hair falling messily over his forehead. “plus, if you pass out mid-session, who’s gonna pay me?”

you roll your eyes, exhaling through your nose, the corners of your mouth twitching. “i’ll put that in my will. ‘to satoru gojo, my life drawing model and worst financial decision.’”

satoru's laughter bursts out of him, loud and unfiltered, cutting through the thick, oppressive heat of the room. it’s the kind of laugh that makes walls feel smaller, that shifts the air, that lingers longer than it should.

and you don’t hide your small smile fast enough.

his laughter stutters for half a second, his sharp eyes catching the curve of your lips before you press them together again. fleeting, but unmistakable. something smug and delighted unfurls in his chest, a warmth that has nothing to do with the summer air.

his grin stretches slow and wicked. “oh, you like me,” he sings, rolling onto his back, looking at you upside down with that insufferable glint in his eyes.

“i tolerate you.” you correct, but your hand twitches, and before he can blink, another flick of your brush sends a tiny splash of paint in his direction.

he yelps, twisting away, but it’s too late.

(he’s still winning.)

but then—he moves too much.

a shift of his shoulders, an exaggerated sigh, the creak of your mattress beneath him. his knee bumps against your sketchbook, disrupting the careful balance of supplies stacked at the foot of the bed. then, as if testing the limits of your patience, he stretches, arms extending above his head, his basketball jersey riding up just slightly—just enough to reveal the sharp dip of his waist, the faint sheen of sweat at his collarbone. his head tilts back against your pillow, and he groans, long and drawn out.

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a click before pushing yourself up from your stool.

satoru's eyes track your movement, bright and sharp even in the dim light of your dorm. he’s expecting a scolding, maybe even an irritated glare. but there’s something different this time—your expression unreadable, your gaze fixed on him with that same unwavering focus that always throws him off. you move with purpose, deliberate steps closing the space between you, and the room suddenly feels smaller, the heat pressing heavier against his skin, against the air between you.

he watches, waiting for the usual sigh, the exasperated reminder to stop fidgeting. he waits for you to roll your eyes and mutter something about how he’s impossible to work with.

instead—your fingers catch his chin, tilting it just so.

satoru's breath hitches, barely perceptible, but you don’t notice—or if you do, you don’t acknowledge it. your touch is firm, not hesitant, your thumb grazing just beneath his jaw as you adjust the angle of his face. then, without a second thought, your hand shifts, fingers ghosting along the curve of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw, brushing against the sensitive skin below his ear. there’s dried paint smudged on your fingertips, faint streaks of color that leave invisible traces against his skin, and his throat bobs as he swallows.

you don’t stop there.

your other hand lifts, smoothing his slouched shoulders back against the pillows, fingertips pressing briefly into the fabric of his jersey. then you reach for his wrist, shifting his arm so it drapes more naturally across his stomach. and all the while, you’re silent, your movements efficient, unthinking—like touching him is no different than adjusting the angle of a still life, like he’s just another part of the composition you’re perfecting.

before the silence stretches too long, before his brain can fully process the casual way you just handled him, he grins, slow and wicked.

“damn,” he drawls, voice lazy, smug, but there’s something tight beneath the ease of it. his head tilts back slightly against your pillow, eyes half-lidded, watching you with a mixture of mischief and something deeper—something that makes his smirk seem almost too deliberate, like he’s waiting for you to react. “you’re really making this a whole thing, huh?”

“what?” you say absently, fingers still deftly adjusting the angle of his jaw, your touch steady as you tilt his chin just another fraction higher. the concentration in your expression is unreadable, but your gaze never wavers, sharp and focused. he notices how your brows furrow just the slightest, the way your lips press together in a line that says you’re not going to let him distract you this time.

“nothing,” he smirks, his grin widening, amused by the way your hands move over him with such intention. his fingers twitch where they rest against the blanket, itching for something to do, but he forces himself to remain still, curious to see how far he can push you. “just—y’know, if you wanted me like one of your french girls, you could’ve just said so.”

your fingers tighten slightly in response, the faintest press of your nails against his skin—not quite a warning, but close. you can feel the pulse of his heartbeat under your fingertips, steady but accelerating just slightly, as if your touch has an effect on him he’s unwilling to admit. there’s an almost imperceptible shift in his posture, as if he's bracing himself, but his eyes are still locked on you, playful but careful.

“if you don’t shut up,” you say, voice perfectly even, calm in the face of his teasing, “i will paint you uglier.” the words roll off your tongue without hesitation, but there’s an edge to them, something you both know you mean more than you let on. your hand doesn’t move from his jaw, but your fingers tighten for a moment—enough to make him flinch, just barely—and it’s enough to make his grin falter.

“mm. bold of you to assume i have a bad angle.” his voice is dripping with sarcasm, his smirk returning in full force, and his hand twitches again as if he’s resisting the urge to reach out, to touch you in return. but he holds himself back, all too aware that this is your space—your process—and he’s simply a subject in it. yet, his confidence remains unshaken, a challenge flickering behind his eyes.

you give his jaw a deliberate little nudge, the motion slow and purposeful, and barely suppress a sigh as you watch him react—his body tensing under your touch, as if the slight pressure is just the right amount to make him ache for more. but you’re not finished, not yet.

“stay still, satoru.” you murmur, your voice the slightest bit sharper this time, but with a subtle undercurrent of something softer. he could almost mistake it for a command, if not for the way you adjust his position with gentle precision, ensuring every detail of his form is just as you want it. your eyes flicker over him, tracing the angles of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his neck—something about the way you hold him, make him stay, makes him feel like you’re in complete control, and that’s when it hits him.

he doesn’t dare move.

not because he suddenly respects the process.

but because your fingers are cool against his overheated skin, an unexpected relief against the oppressive heat of the room. because for a moment, when you adjusted his posture, you were close enough for him to see the flecks of paint on your cheek, the way your lashes framed your eyes, the soft crease in your forehead when you concentrate.

because you touched him without hesitation. without thought. without treating him like something fragile, something distant, something untouchable.

and he doesn’t move for the next three hours.

...oh.

he’s in grave danger.

AUTUMN arrives with brisk winds and golden light, the air carrying the scent of fallen leaves and distant bonfires. the campus shifts with the season, summer’s lazy sprawl giving way to hurried footsteps and layered clothing, students caught between clinging to warmth and embracing the inevitable cold. the world feels sharper now, edges clearer, the sun hanging lower in the sky, stretching shadows across the pavement. satoru gojo hasn’t changed much, still striding through campus like he owns it, but there’s something different in the way he keeps showing up.

it starts with a realization: you’re an idiot with money.

satoru has been modeling for you for months now, first as a casual arrangement, then as an unspoken habit, and now—now he’s not even sure what to call it. at first, it was just a side hustle, a way to fund his snack addiction and make up for his tendency to forget that classes required effort. he still shows up late sometimes, still complains about holding the same pose for too long, still finds ways to annoy you just to see how you’ll react. but somewhere between summer and autumn, it stopped being about the money.

because you’re routine now.

just like basketball practice. just like late-night convenience store runs. just like winning. he doesn’t think about it too much, doesn’t poke at the feeling, just lets it settle into the spaces between his days. but then, one evening, it clicks—this thing between you isn’t exactly balanced. because for all the money you pay him, you’re the one stretching yourself thin.

it happens when he catches you eating a sad cup of instant noodles for what must be the fourth day in a row.

at first, he doesn’t say anything, just watches as you peel back the lid, steam curling weakly into the cool autumn air. he thinks maybe it’s a preference thing, some weird artist habit, until his gaze drifts—to the extra commissions stacked on your desk, the supply receipts stuffed into your sketchbook, the way you barely check your phone unless it’s him texting about a session. your fingers tighten around your chopsticks, movements slower than usual, exhaustion threading through the way you stir the noodles.

you are, quite literally, funding him instead of yourself.

“again?” he finally asks, gesturing at your dinner. his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else behind it, something sharper, like he’s waiting for you to slip up. he watches the way you barely react, how your grip on the chopsticks stays loose, how you keep your focus on the pitiful cup of noodles steaming in your hands instead of looking at him. his knee bounces once, a restless motion, before he stills it with a pointed exhale.

you shrug, not meeting his eyes, stirring half-heartedly, and the broth sloshes over the rim, spilling onto your sleeve in a dark stain. but you don’t react, don’t even seem to notice, just keep stirring, keep avoiding his gaze like you can will this conversation into disappearing. “i have a budget.” you say, voice even, detached, like you’re stating a fact and not making an excuse. your fingers tighten around the flimsy cup for half a second before you force yourself to loosen them, nudging a stray noodle back under the broth like you can’t feel his eyes on you.

satoru narrows his eyes, shifting where he sits, the mattress creaking under his weight. his arms stretch over his head for a beat, but there’s tension in the motion, his jaw tight even as he forces himself to lean back, feigning nonchalance. “you literally raised my pay just to get me to pose.” he says, voice incredulous, edged with something between concern and irritation. he isn’t laughing anymore, isn’t teasing, just watching, waiting, expecting you to have some kind of answer.

“those two are completely different things.” you mumble, slurping up some noodles like the conversation isn’t happening, like you can hide behind the motion. your posture shifts, shoulders curling inward, the steam from the cup rising in thin wisps against your face, half-obscuring your expression.

different how?

but you don’t elaborate.

you don’t meet his eyes, either, just keep pushing your noodles around the cup, the movements small, aimless, stalling. his gaze flickers down, catches the little details—the fading paint stains on your fingers, the slight tremor in the way you stir, the tension coiled in your shoulders like you’re bracing for something. he exhales, head tilting, watching you with the same sharpness he saves for an opponent about to make a move, for a moment of weakness he can take advantage of—but this time, it doesn’t feel like a game.

and then, all at once, it clicks. how much you’re actually paying him. how much of your already-limited allowance is going to him just so you can paint. how much you’re giving up without a word, without a complaint, without even a hint of hesitation.

and suddenly, his next paycheck doesn’t sit right with him.

so from that moment on, satoru starts caring for you in ways you don’t even notice.

it’s subtle at first, woven into the fabric of your routine, slipping in so seamlessly that you almost don’t register the shift. he still shows up late sometimes, still drags his feet through the doorway like he’s doing you a favor, but now—now he’s always carrying something. a plastic bag crinkles against his fingers as he drops it onto your desk, careless and offhand, like he isn’t watching for your reaction.

“leftovers,” he says way too casually when you glance up at him, suspicion flickering in your eyes. his voice is loose, unconcerned, but there’s something too deliberate in the way he nudges the bag closer, the way his hand lingers just a second too long before he pulls away. “figured you’d want ‘em before i threw them out.”

you eye the freshly wrapped onigiri and convenience store sandwiches, brows knitting together as your fingers hesitate over the bag. the packaging is neat, unopened, no signs of the mindless picking and half-eaten portions he usually leaves behind when he’s actually careless. “…since when do you not finish your food?” your voice is skeptical, flat, but there’s something guarded in the way you ask it, something careful.

“since now,” he says, flopping onto your bed with the kind of dramatic ease only he can manage. his hoodie rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of pale skin, but he doesn’t bother adjusting it, too busy stretching his arms over his head. “just eat it before i change my mind.”

you do. you don’t question it, don’t pick apart the way he shifts his weight against your mattress like he’s making himself at home, don’t dwell on the way his voice sounded just a little softer than usual. he pretends not to notice when you eat in silence, barely glancing at him. but later that night, when you’re alone, you find yourself smiling down at the empty wrapper before tossing it in the trash.

then he starts paying for your drinks when you go out, slipping the cash over the counter before you can argue, calling it his ‘treat’ like he’s some kind of benevolent patron.

“you only say that because i’m the only artist you know.” you deadpan, reaching for your coffee, fingers brushing the warmth of the cup.

“yeah,” he grins, unapologetic, smug, like he’s already won something. his fingers drum lightly against the side of his own cup, restless energy bleeding through the way he leans just slightly into your space. “and you’re killin’ it at first place.”

your fingers twitch slightly against the cup, grip adjusting like you’re trying to steady something that isn’t your coffee. you pretend not to feel the warmth in your chest, pretend his words don’t settle somewhere deep, somewhere dangerous. but when you take a sip, you don’t fight the way the heat lingers.

but it still doesn’t feel like enough.

satoru watches the way you flip through your sketchbook, fingers skimming the edges of each page like you’re weighing how much space you have left. he sees the way your gaze lingers on your paint tubes, the way your thumb presses absently against the label, as if debating whether the color is worth using. he notices the way your sleeves push up slightly when you mix paints, the faintest crease forming between your brows when you check how much is left. you won’t take money from him outright—he knows that much—but maybe, just maybe, he can get you to make money some other way.

so he tries introducing you to sports betting, grinning like he’s telling you the best-kept secret in the world. his energy is relentless, all sharp confidence and easy arrogance, like he truly believes he’s about to change your life. you don’t even need to look up to know he’s leaning in too close, elbows braced against your desk, practically radiating self-satisfaction. it’s unbearable.

“satoru, that’s literally gambling,” you say flatly, dragging your pencil across the page, deliberately uninterested.

“it’s strategic investing,” satoru corrects, voice smooth, pleased with himself, like he’s just introduced you to some kind of financial loophole. he shifts slightly, and his jersey slips off one shoulder, exposing the curve of his collarbone, but he doesn’t seem to notice—too caught up in his own nonsense. his fingers tap against your desk, impatient, restless, waiting for you to take the bait.

you don’t. instead, you finally glance up, brows raised. “you lost thirty bucks last week.”

his lips part like he’s about to argue, but then he pauses, reconsiders, and pivots. “okay, but that was a fluke,” he says, already curling his mouth into a perfectly crafted pout.

“was it?”

satoru exhales dramatically, like this conversation is somehow exhausting him, and drops his head onto your sketchbook, completely unbothered by the fact that you’re still holding a pencil. “have a little faith in me, damn.”

you shake your head, amused despite yourself. you shouldn’t be. you should shut this down, make it clear that you have no intention of entertaining whatever scheme he’s trying to rope you into.

but then—

“fine,” you say one day, flipping through your sketchbook, voice too casual, too offhanded. like this is barely worth mentioning, like you’re not actively indulging him. “i’ll bet on your team.”

the change is immediate.

satoru's body goes still, and for once, there’s no teasing, no smirk, no cocky remark. just a blink—slow, calculating—like he’s processing the words more carefully than anything else you’ve ever said to him. the tension lasts only a second before his mouth curves into something dangerous, something sharp, something entirely too pleased.

oh. oh, no.

“oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice all silk and trouble, reaching up to ruffle his already-messy hair. his fingers linger for a second, pushing back the damp strands before he tilts his head at you, grin widening. “you’re not gonna regret that.”

he doesn’t wait for your response. he’s already out the door. and frankly, you didn't expect the game to be brutal.

clearly, your estimate was wrong. the gym is packed, filled with students from both universities, the air thick with tension, sweat, and school pride. banners hang from the walls, school colors clashing, chants echoing through the space like war cries. the visiting team—tall, muscular, built like they were engineered for this—carries themselves with the weight of confidence, a roster of starters who have dominated the league all season. they tower over the court, standing like an immovable wall of defense, but it only takes one play for them to realize they’re in trouble.

because satoru gojo is simply faster. better.

the moment the ball is in his hands, he moves like he owns the court. the opposing point guard—a solid 6’5 with broad shoulders and a killer defensive record—lunges to block him, but it’s over before it even starts. satoru feints left, shifts right, and leaves him grasping at air, breaking into a sprint toward the basket before the others can react. their power forward—tall, heavy, built for blocking shots—steps in, arms raised high, but satoru barely acknowledges him.

because satoru is 6’3, fast as hell, and has a vertical leap that makes people question physics. he jumps, body twisting mid-air, and the slam dunk is so violent it rattles the rim.

the crowd erupts.

the visiting team’s coach is already shouting, hands flying in frustration as his players scramble to reorganize. they try to lock satoru down, try to double-team him, but it’s pointless—his crossovers are disrespectful, his footwork impossible to track, his speed completely unfair. one defender—6’7, easily one of the best in the league—steps up, stance wide, arms ready, but satoru doesn’t even give him time to think.

because satoru is playing with purpose.

his second shot? half-court. no hesitation.

the ball soars through the air, clean, perfect, and the second it lands through the net, satoru is already turning away, smirking as if he knew it would go in before he even let go.

“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” nanami mutters, watching as the other university’s shooting guard—who up until now had been known for his defense—grabs his knees like he’s questioning his life choices.

“they’re frustrated,” suguru notes, amused, stepping up beside satoru during a dead ball.

“they should be.” satoru says, rolling his shoulders, letting his sweat-slicked jersey shift against his skin. he looks completely relaxed—untouched, unbothered, infuriatingly smug—as if he isn’t systematically destroying one of the best teams in the league.

but this isn’t just about winning.

because every time he scores, he looks at you.

he doesn’t even try to be subtle. his icy blue eyes flick up to the bleachers, head tilting slightly, lips curving into a knowing grin. his fan girls scream, convinced he’s looking at them, but you know better. because satoru isn’t just playing—he’s showing off.

he breaks past another defender with ridiculous ease, dribbling once before stepping back for a three-pointer that barely even touches the rim. the opposing team’s captain calls for a switch, barking out orders, but it doesn’t matter—they can’t stop him.

the timeout huddle is a mess.

players are breathing hard, jerseys clinging to sweat-damp skin, shoulders rising and falling as they try to recover. the gym is loud—too loud—the crowd still buzzing from the absolute disaster that was the first half. their coach is talking, something about holding the lead, tightening defense, not getting cocky, but no one is listening. because across the circle, satoru is still grinning like he’s having the time of his life.

“yo, what the hell is wrong with you today?” suguru mutters, tossing him a towel, brow furrowed like he’s genuinely concerned.

satoru catches it with one hand, absently wiping the sweat from his forehead, movements lazy, easy, completely unbothered. his white hair is a mess, strands curling slightly from the heat, the glow of the overhead lights catching on the sharp angles of his face. his jersey is clinging to his frame, fabric damp where it stretches over his shoulders, his chest, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or care. instead, he tugs the collar away from his skin, letting the cool air hit, eyes flicking up toward the stands like he’s looking for something.

or rather, someone.

“nothing.” he says, voice easy, light, like he didn’t just dismantle an entire university’s defense and humiliate half their starters in front of a packed gym. his breath is steady, not a hint of exhaustion, only the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath his damp jersey, fabric clinging to his frame, sweat glistening along the sharp lines of his collarbone. his hair is an absolute mess, strands sticking to his forehead, white against flushed skin, but he makes no move to fix it. he just breathes in deep, exhales slow, and grins wider, a lazy, knowing curl of his lips, all sharp edges and unchecked arrogance.

then, too casually—“just gotta make sure my girl gets paid.”

suguru blinks. once. twice. then exhales, a slow, measured breath, like he’s trying to process what he just heard.

his expression shifts—not shocked, not confused, but amused. a slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, dark eyes glinting with something knowing, something entertained. because this is the same girl, isn’t it? the same girl satoru was ditching party invitations for, choosing study sessions over late-night drinks for, showing up to campus early for when he barely woke up on time for class.

“...oh?” suguru says, just to hear him say it again.

but satoru doesn’t elaborate. doesn’t even look away from the stands. just flips the towel over his shoulder, rolls his wrists like this is just another game, like he hasn’t just set the entire gym on fire with a single sentence.

the buzzer blasts. second half starts. and satoru gojo is playing for blood.

the other university comes back from halftime determined, desperate, their coach gesturing wildly from the sidelines, barking orders as if sheer strategy will make up for the fact that they are losing to one man. they throw everything at satoru—double teams, switches, aggressive press defense—but none of it matters. he slips through them like water, like air, like something untouchable, moving with the kind of ease that makes even the referees hesitate before blowing the whistle.

he isn’t just scoring—he’s playing with them.

he spins the ball between his fingers, a lazy smirk curling at his lips, then passes it off last second, only to sprint across the court faster than anyone expects and sink a corner three. when their shooting guard tries to lock him down, satoru just laughs—actual laughter, low and effortless, before stepping back and draining another deep shot, his wrist flicking with a perfect follow-through. it barely touches the net.

you shouldn’t be this invested.

but your eyes track him anyway, caught up in the rhythm of his movements, in the way his jersey clings to the shape of his shoulders, the sweat glistening at the hollow of his throat. he’s moving like this is personal, like the entire game is some elaborate performance meant for you alone, and it’s starting to get to you. every time he scores, he glances up, searching for you in the stands, and you hate that your stomach flips when his gaze finds yours.

you hate it even more when you catch yourself smiling.

he’s impossible to ignore, too bright, too loud, too much. the crowd responds to him like he’s some kind of basketball god, voices rising every time he moves, a mix of screams, chants, and what you’re pretty sure is an entire row of students calling out his name. his fan girls are in absolute chaos, some clutching each other’s arms, others dramatically swooning, like they’re seconds away from fainting just from watching him exist.

the other team is beyond frustrated.

they’ve thrown everything at him—double teams, switches, aggressive defense—but it doesn’t matter. because satoru isn’t just playing to win. he’s playing to humiliate.

his next victim is their shooting guard, 6’4, all muscle, built like he should be a defensive wall. he steps up, arms wide, eyes sharp, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. but satoru? satoru doesn’t even look like he’s trying. he bounces the ball once, twice, just enough to let the anticipation build, before shifting forward like he’s about to drive in.

the defender lunges and satoru, the absolute menace that he is, just stands there.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t even attempt to go around him. just watches—completely unbothered, completely still—as the guy flies past him, momentum carrying him forward, stumbling face-first onto the court.

the crowd gasps.

the defender scrambles to recover, but it’s already over. satoru spins the ball in his hands, takes a single step back, and—without even looking at the rim—launches a half-court shot.

the ball soars, clean, effortless, perfect. it barely even touches the net. the gym absolutely erupts. and then—he winks up at the bleachers.

or rather, at you.

it’s infuriatingly slow, deliberate, the corner of his mouth curling up in a way that is both cocky and playful. his white hair is a mess, damp with sweat, strands sticking to his forehead, but it only makes the sharpness of his features more pronounced. his lips part slightly, the ghost of a smirk still lingering, the blue of his eyes catching under the lights—bright, focused, sharp enough to be dangerous.

the reaction is immediate.

“he saw me!” someone shrieks, grabbing their friend’s arm in a death grip.

“no, he was looking at me!” another one yells, voice already breaking.

“oh my god, he’s literally flirting with our section!”

meanwhile, you’re still just watching him play, like he didn’t just incite a full-scale riot in the stands. you don’t even think—you just lift your hand, give him a thumbs up, then go right back to pretending this is normal.

satoru freezes.

for a split second, he stares, blinking like he wasn’t expecting you to actually respond. the gym is too loud, too chaotic, but all of it fades into static as he holds your gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his expression.

then—his grin stretches slow and sharp, something almost dangerous flashing in his expression.

the opposing team barely has time to react. the second satoru turns back to the game, he’s already moving.

their point guard makes the mistake of hesitating, fingers gripping the ball a second too long as he scans the court for an opening. satoru doesn’t wait. he lunges forward, impossibly fast, cutting through the space between them like a blade. his hand shoots out, fingers slapping against the ball with a sharp, decisive smack, and suddenly—it’s his.

the steal is clean, effortless, unfair.

the defender barely has time to curse before satoru is already gone, already breaking into a full sprint down the court. his movements are fluid, sharp, ruthless, his jersey clinging to the sweat on his skin as he takes off, the crowd roaring in anticipation.

a single defender manages to keep up, breathing hard, desperate, sprinting beside him in a last-ditch effort to block him. but satoru doesn’t even look at him. doesn’t even acknowledge him.

he takes one step inside the paint—then jumps. and he just keeps going. the crowd screams as he soars, legs tucking, arm pulling back, body arching so high it feels unreal. the defender leaps, arms stretching, trying—failing.

because satoru gojo is 6’3, fast as hell, and plays above the rim like the air belongs to him.

his fingers clamp around the ball, grip firm, the muscles in his arms flexing as he swings forward—then slams it through the net with enough force to make the entire backboard rattle.

the gym explodes. the other university’s bench is silent. their coach buries his face in his hands.

satoru drops back down to the court, landing lightly on his feet, rolling his shoulders as if he didn’t just commit a crime in front of a full audience. he turns, gaze flicking up toward the bleachers—toward you. his fan girls lose their minds.

but you? you don’t stand a chance.

you exhale slowly, pressing your knuckles against your lips, trying to ignore the warmth creeping into your face. you’re not swooning—you refuse to be one of them, one of the girls throwing themselves at him like he’s some kind of untouchable idol. but your fingers curl against your sketchbook, grip tightening, and you know you’re falling for him anyway.

the game is already over.

the scoreboard doesn’t say it yet, but everyone knows. satoru knows. the other university knows. even their coach, red-faced and exhausted from yelling, has stopped trying to call plays that might turn things around. but satoru? he’s still playing like he has something to prove.

his next move is straight-up cruel.

their point guard is waiting for him at the three-point line, arms wide, stance low, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. he isn’t. satoru bounces the ball between his legs once, twice, then shifts forward just enough to make it look like he’s driving in. the defender lunges, panicked, reaching out to block him—but satoru is already gone.

a single, fluid crossover sends the guy sprawling onto the court, hands catching empty air as satoru steps back and sinks another three-pointer like he’s just shooting around at practice. the bench erupts, players falling over each other in disbelief, a mix of laughter and shouts filling the gym. even the referee—usually stone-faced and neutral—lets out a quiet, impressed whistle.

you cover your mouth with your sleeve, shoulders shaking as you try to stifle your laughter. it’s unfair, really, how easily he does this—how easily he turns the game into his own personal stage, his own playground.

he doesn’t even look at the scoreboard. he looks at you.

your breath catches, because this time, there’s something different in the way he holds your gaze. he isn’t just searching for a reaction—he’s watching. like he’s waiting for something. like he’s confirming something.

your fingers tighten against your sleeve. you know.

and from the way his smirk softens just slightly, the way his head tilts, eyes bright beneath the glare of the gym lights—he knows, too.

the final seconds tick down.

the other team stops trying to chase the score—they know it’s hopeless. some of them don’t even bother running back on defense anymore, hands on their hips, breathing hard, completely defeated. when the final buzzer blares, it’s almost mercy at this point, the end of a game that should’ve stopped being competitive long ago.

final score: 112-39.

satoru lifts his arms in a lazy stretch, grinning, completely unbothered, as if he didn’t just personally crush one of the highest-ranked teams in the league. sweat clings to his skin, his jersey damp, hair an absolute mess, but he still looks ridiculously good, annoyingly confident.

his teammates crowd him immediately, patting his back, ruffling his hair, laughing at his absolute disrespect on the court. he takes it all in stride, leaning against suguru’s shoulder like he didn’t just outrun everyone on that court, fingers lifting in a lazy peace sign as cameras flash.

but the moment he’s free—he looks for you.

he doesn’t find you right away.

by the time the final buzzer blares and the court erupts into cheers, you’re already making your way down the bleachers, tucking your sketchbook under your arm like you can pretend you weren’t watching him the entire time. the gym is still loud, electric, the energy of the crowd vibrating against your skin as students swarm the court, players getting swallowed up in a mess of high-fives and celebratory shouts. you keep your head down, moving quickly, telling yourself that you’re just avoiding the chaos, that you’re not actually running from him.

but then—footsteps. fast. deliberate. coming straight for you.

“oi, oi—why are you leaving so fast?”

too late.

you barely have time to react before satoru catches up, falling into step beside you, grinning like he’s won something more than just a game. he’s still breathless from the court, his jersey damp, sweat clinging to the edges of his hair, but he moves easily, like the entire game was just a warm-up. the fluorescent lights overhead catch on the sharp line of his jaw, on the bright blue of his eyes, on the smug tilt of his lips as he leans in slightly, invading your space like it’s his right.

“so,” satoru drawls, voice still rough from exertion, breath still a little uneven. his skin glows under the fluorescent lights, sweat clinging to the sharp lines of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the stray strands of white hair sticking to his forehead. but he doesn’t seem to care—too busy grinning, too busy basking in his victory. he leans in slightly, crowding into your space the way he always does, eyes alight with something smug, something expectant. “how’s it feel to profit off your favorite athlete?”

you blink, gripping your sketchbook a little tighter, pressing it against your chest like a shield. this is not a conversation you want to have right now—not when he looks like that, not when he’s still riding the high of the game, not when he’s standing too close, towering over you, sweat-drenched and insufferably pleased with himself.

“…i think i probably only made like twenty bucks.”

he freezes. for the first time all night, satoru gojo short-circuits. “...huh?”

you shift your weight slightly, trying not to smile, but he sees the way your fingers twitch, the way your gaze flickers away for half a second, like you’re barely keeping it together. “i only bet the minimum,” you admit, voice calm, unaffected, like you didn’t just shatter his entire perception of the game. “didn’t wanna risk too much.”

there’s a pause. a long one.

satoru's grin falters. his gaze sharpens, like he’s replaying the last two hours in his head, like he’s remembering every dunk, every deep three-pointer, every ridiculous play he pulled off—all under the assumption that you had gone all in.

you see the exact moment he realizes. he ruined a college team’s entire morale for twenty bucks. he also accidentally started several dating rumors.

“no way.” his voice is flat, almost horrified. “no actual way.”

you bite the inside of your cheek, struggling to keep your expression neutral. it’s too easy.

he runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the damp strands, still looking like he’s processing an entire life-altering event. “you—you barely even bet?”

“yup.”

“so you weren’t—” he gestures vaguely, looking genuinely lost, like he’s been personally betrayed by the universe itself. “you weren’t, like, invested?”

you shrug, avoiding his gaze, because you suddenly feel kind of bad. “not really.”

his expression crumbles.

“oh my god.” he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his temples like this is causing him actual physical pain. “i wasted all my best moves for twenty bucks?”

you nod, lips pressing together, but this time, the guilt outweighs the amusement. you peek up at him, watching the way he slouches slightly, shoulders dropping, his usual confidence momentarily replaced with the weight of sheer disbelief.

“…i mean,” you murmur, hesitant, before reaching into your pocket. “you looked pretty cool.”

he doesn’t react immediately, still looking far too devastated to register your words, but when you pull out a neatly folded handkerchief and raise it toward him, he finally glances down.

his brows lift.

“what’s this?” he asks, voice suspicious, but there’s something softer in it now, something curious.

you swallow, suddenly self-conscious, but you don’t pull your hand back. “you’re, um… sweating.”

his lips twitch.

“oh?” he says, and now he’s watching you instead of the handkerchief, instead of anything else.

you avert your gaze, cheeks warming slightly, but you still reach up carefully, dabbing the cloth against his forehead with quiet, deliberate movements. he goes still, just for a second, just long enough for you to register the shift in the air, the way his breath hitches almost imperceptibly.

then—slowly, teasingly—

“damn,” he murmurs. “if i knew you’d be this sweet about it, i would’ve played even harder.”

your fingers pause, pressing against his skin just a fraction longer than necessary, before you pull back abruptly, heart stumbling over itself.

“forget it.” you mutter, stuffing the handkerchief back into your pocket, turning on your heel.

satoru laughs, bright and unbothered, falling into step beside you like he wasn’t just existentially wrecked a minute ago. and somehow, you know this isn’t the last time he’s going to make you feel like this.

but as it turns out, offering satoru a handkerchief isn’t enough to alleviate his mood—he sulks for an entire week.

he still shows up, still lounges around your dorm like he owns the place, but everything he does is unnecessarily dramatic. he sighs—loudly and often—collapsing onto your furniture like his limbs don’t work properly. he sprawls across your bed without asking, flopping onto his stomach like some overgrown cat, muttering about betrayal every time you glance at him. he pokes at your art supplies absentmindedly, dragging a finger along the rim of your paint jars, staring mournfully at your sketchbook like it personally wronged him.

satoru refuses to play pickup games at the campus court, claiming he’s ‘retired’ after his efforts were wasted on someone who only bet the bare minimum. he stretches out on your floor instead, staring at the ceiling with the air of a fallen war hero, occasionally tossing a basketball in the air and catching it one-handed—just to remind you of what was lost.

“you could’ve told me.” he grumbles one evening, sprawled out in the middle of your dorm, arms crossed like a petulant child. his hair is still damp from practice, the ends curling slightly where sweat has dried, but he hasn’t even changed out of his jersey yet—too busy sulking.

you hum in response, dipping your brush into a fresh shade of blue, too used to his dramatics to entertain them. “what, that i wasn’t planning to go broke over a basketball game?”

“yes!” he says miserably, rolling onto his side so he can stare at you like you personally ruined his life.

his arms are still crossed, but one hand is half-buried in his hair, fingers tugging lightly at the strands, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and heartbreak. “i would’ve toned it down.”

you snort, finally glancing at him. his blue eyes are fixed on you, sharp but lazy, like he’s waiting for you to admit you were wrong. “no, you wouldn’t have.”

satoru opens his mouth—probably to argue, probably to deny that he's the most dramatic person alive—but then he catches the look on your face. something shifts in his expression, something slower, something warmer, like he’s seeing you in a way he hadn’t before. for the first time since he walked into your dorm today, he goes quiet.

you don’t look away.

outside, the wind rattles against your window, golden leaves scraping against the glass. the air smells crisp, cold, like the start of something new. autumn is settling in.

“…did you at least have fun?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. your voice is lighter than usual, quieter, like you already know the answer but want to hear him say it anyway.

he doesn’t answer right away.

he just grins, lazy, easy, completely insufferable, like he knows something you’re not ready to admit yet.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “guess i did.”

the last days of AUTUMN slip in quietly, fading into the edges of routine like the final strokes of a painting.

the air is sharper now, biting, enough that satoru finally stops showing up in just his jersey—though he still refuses to wear anything heavier than a hoodie, claiming he’s "built different." the wind rattles your dorm window more often, slipping through the cracks to nip at your fingers as you paint, and the trees outside stand bare and skeletal, their golden leaves now forgotten heaps on the pavement, damp and crumbling underfoot.

and then, there’s finals.

campus shifts with the season, brimming with stress, the energy heavier, more desperate. the library is always full, lights flickering through the windows at all hours of the night. students hunch over laptops in cafés, their cups stacked high with unfinished coffee, their fingers smudged with ink and exhaustion.

and you—you are pushing yourself too hard.

satoru sees it before you do.

he sees it in the way your hands don’t move as fluidly when you paint, how your brushes sit in murky water for too long before you remember to rinse them out. he sees it in the way you rub your eyes more often, fingertips pressing against your temples when you think no one’s looking. the way you sip your coffee like it’s medicine, like you need it just to stay upright.

but more than anything, he sees it in the way you’ve stopped sketching between sessions.

at first, he doesn’t say anything.

because he knows you. knows that you hate being told to slow down, that you treat breaks like enemies, that unfinished work sits on your conscience like an open wound.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, not even bothering to pretend they’re leftovers anymore. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, side-eyes your instant noodles with blatant, unfiltered disapproval.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, no longer bothering with the flimsy excuse of calling them leftovers. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, always with an offhanded comment—"don’t die on me, yeah?"—before flopping onto your bed like he didn’t just shove sustenance into your hands. he drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, the plastic cool against your wrist as you sketch, and side-eyes your instant noodles like they personally offend him. when you ignore him, he clicks his tongue in disapproval, muttering something about "atrocious dietary habits" like he’s one to talk.

“you’re not my mom, satoru.” you say one evening, peeling the wrapper off the snack he just unceremoniously threw at you.

“nah,” he scoffs, propping himself up on one elbow, watching you unwrap it with clear satisfaction. “if i was your mom, i’d actually let you starve so you’d learn a lesson.”

you pause, narrowing your eyes. “...what lesson?”

he shrugs, grinning like he didn’t just say something completely unhinged, dimples showing slightly. “i dunno. that eating real food is important or some shit.”

you roll your eyes, but you still eat whatever he brings.

and when you think he’s not looking, you chew a little slower, savoring the warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the food.

he starts texting you more, too.

[10:47 PM] still awake?

[10:48 PM] wait dumb question. ofc you are.

[10:48 PM] go to sleep before ur brain melts. if you can’t sleep we can call, im a wonderful singer.

[10:49 PM] also if ur ignoring me rn i’m gonna be soooo hurt u don’t even know.

[10:50 PM] i’m okay, satoru.

[10:51 PM] just a little tired. i’ll sleep soon.

[10:51 PM] thank you for checking, though.

he doesn’t reply right away.

you stare at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard, wondering if he fell asleep or got distracted, if he’s still there. as if sensing this, his replies arrive.

[10:54 PM] yeah, i know.

[10:54 PM] but take it easy, okay?

[10:55 PM] i’ll see you tomorrow.

you exhale, something warm settling in your chest, something you don’t have the energy to unpack right now.

[10:56 PM] okay.

you flip your phone over, tucking it beneath your pillow, but you fall asleep easier that night. because it’s nice. having someone to notice. having someone to care.

then, one evening, it happens.

you’re halfway through a painting, something that’s been frustrating you for days, something that isn’t coming out right no matter how many times you fix it. the colors aren’t blending the way you want, the strokes feel too heavy, too forced—like your hands aren’t listening to you anymore.

satoru is there, sprawled across your bed like he has nowhere else to be, phone in one hand, the other tucked lazily behind his head. he glances at you between scrolling, sighing loudly whenever you don’t react, making just enough noise to remind you of his presence. when that doesn’t work, he shifts onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, eyes flicking toward your hunched form at the desk. “you’re supposed to entertain me, y’know.”

“i’m busy,” you mutter, barely sparing him a glance, your focus locked on the canvas in front of you. your brush hovers midair, colors blending under the dim light of your desk lamp, but there’s a tightness in your grip, a frustration in the way your shoulders remain stiff.

“so?” he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, his head tilting slightly as he watches you. “i am literally your muse.”

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a little more force than necessary. “you are literally annoying.”

he gasps, clutching his chest like you just struck him. “harsh.” his voice is light, teasing, but his eyes stay on you, watching as you tilt your head, exhale through your nose, then lean forward again, brush hovering over the canvas.

you’ve been fixated for too long now, barely moving except to mix colors, sigh, and frown at your work. your posture is too stiff, too tense, your shoulders drawn up, the curve of your spine locked in place like you’ve forgotten how to relax. your fingers tighten around the brush, knuckles whitening, the bristles pausing mid-stroke as your breath shudders slightly—too shallow, too uneven.

something itches in his chest. for the first time all night, he frowns.

“hey,” he says, sitting up, his phone forgotten beside him. “id you even eat today?”

"“huh?”

your reaction is delayed, your head turning toward him like it takes effort to shift your focus. you blink at him, slow, eyes unfocused, as if you’re still caught between here and the painting, like you don’t quite register what he’s saying.

then—the brush slips from your fingers. before he even registers what’s happening—you sway.

his heart stops. then he’s off the bed in an instant, faster than thought, hands reaching, catching you before you can hit the ground.

“woah, woah—hey.” his voice is too sharp, too urgent, nothing like his usual lazy drawl. one arm curls around your waist, steadying you, while the other grips your wrist, fingers pressing against the faint pulse beneath your skin. you’re too light in his hold, your weight sinking into him like you can’t hold yourself up.

your head lolls against his chest, and he barely registers the faint smudge of paint you leave on his hoodie because—you’re not responding.

panic flares white-hot in his gut.

“okay, no. you don’t get to just faint on me,” he mutters, adjusting his grip, his breath coming quicker than he’d like. he taps your cheek lightly, the warmth of your skin too cool against his fingertips. “wake up, idiot.”

you groan softly, brows pinching together, your expression twisting like even the act of regaining consciousness is too much effort.

“...m’fine,” you mumble, barely coherent, words slow and heavy like your tongue can’t quite keep up.

satoru lets out a sharp breath, his grip on you tight but careful, like he’s still processing the fact that he had to catch you in the first place. “oh, yeah? yeah? that why you just dropped like a damn sack of flour?” his voice is sharp, edged with something that’s not quite annoyance, not quite panic, something he doesn’t know what to do with.

you don’t answer.

his jaw tightens, muscles flexing as he exhales through his nose, his chest rising and falling too fast, too unevenly. without another word, he shifts, carefully maneuvering you onto your bed, his movements stiff, deliberate, too controlled.

“unbelievable,” he grumbles under his breath, pulling the blanket over you with a little more force than necessary. “who even does this? who just forgets to function?”

you mumble something unintelligible, your voice so soft that it barely even reaches him, your eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his. they’re glassy, unfocused, struggling to stay on him, and for some reason, that frustrates him even more.

satoru exhales sharply, running a hand over his face before pushing his hair back, his fingers tangling into the damp strands at the nape of his neck. after a beat, he crouches beside the bed, forearms resting on his knees, his gaze steady as he studies you.

“you okay?” his voice is quieter now, but there’s an edge beneath it, something pressing.

“…m’fine,” you repeat, voice barely above a whisper, but you don’t even sound like you believe it.

his eyes narrow.

“you literally just passed out.” his tone is flat, unimpressed, laced with something dangerously close to concern. “try again.”

you blink slowly, like it takes effort, like you have to search for the words. “…just… tired..” you admit, the syllables slipping together as your lashes flutter, fighting to stay awake.

he doesn’t like the way that sounds.

“yeah, no shit.”

you shift slightly, eyes slipping shut again, breath evening out, and he presses his lips together, watching you too closely, his expression unreadable. his fingers twitch against his knee, like there’s something else he wants to say, something else he wants to do.

then, quieter—like he’s speaking more to himself than to you—“you gotta stop this.”

you hum softly in response, already half-asleep, your breathing slow, steady, but he’s still watching you, still too aware of how small you look like this, how fragile you felt in his arms.

but he means it. you can’t keep doing this. can’t keep running yourself into the ground, pushing past your limits like they don’t exist.

he won’t let you.

his arms remain loosely folded over his knees, but his fingers tap restlessly against his leg, his jaw tight. his hoodie is still stained with the smudge of paint from where your head rested against him, but he doesn’t move to wipe it off. instead, he watches the slow rise and fall of your chest, the faint crease between your brows even in sleep, like you’re still carrying the weight of exhaustion. he exhales, rubs a hand over his face, then reaches for the blanket crumpled at the edge of the bed and drapes it over you, movements slow, careful.

he stays until he’s sure you’re really resting.

when  you wake up, the first thing you notice is the blanket draped over you. the second thing you notice is the smell of something warm, something fresh.

your fingers twitch against the fabric, gripping the edge of the blanket like you’re grounding yourself, like you’re trying to make sense of where you are. your head feels heavy, dull with leftover exhaustion, but there’s something comforting in the warmth pressed against your legs, the scent curling into the cold air. you blink blearily, sitting up, and there—

satoru, on your floor, typing away on his phone. beside him, a steaming cup of instant miso soup sits on your desk.

his back is against the bed frame, legs stretched out, hair a mess of uneven strands where his fingers must’ve run through it too many times. his hoodie hangs loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose the sharp cut of his forearms, and when he hears you shift, he glances up—expression unreadable, gaze sharp but softer than usual.

“you’re awake,” he says, this time without looking away, without the usual smug edge to his voice.

satoru's eyes flicker over your face, assessing, sharp but softer than usual, like he’s searching for something—proof that you’re really okay, that you’re here, conscious, breathing. his posture is relaxed, but there’s something unnaturally still about him, like he hasn’t quite settled since you collapsed. the glow from your desk lamp casts uneven shadows across his face, catching on the messy strands of his hair, the faint crease between his brows.

“...what happened?” your voice is hoarse, rough around the edges, like you’ve been asleep for much longer than you should have. you shift under the blanket, fingers tightening around the fabric, the weight of exhaustion still pressing against your limbs.

he gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“you died.”

you blink at him, lips parting slightly—stunned, too tired to argue.

he holds your gaze for half a second longer before exhaling, reaching for the cup on your desk. “...briefly,” he amends, his fingers barely touching the ceramic as he pushes it toward you, the soft scrape of porcelain against wood filling the quiet space between you. “drink. before you die again.”

your fingers curl around the warmth, hesitating for just a second before lifting it. the heat seeps into your palms, steadying, grounding, and for some reason, your chest tightens in a way you don’t want to name.

you take a slow sip, the warmth spreading through your bones, reaching into the cold, exhausted parts of you that you hadn’t even realized were there.

“thanks,” you mumble, voice quieter now, the steam from the soup curling into the cold air between you.

satoru shrugs, but his gaze lingers, watching you a little too closely, a little too long, like he’s waiting for something. there’s no teasing grin, no smart remark—just a quiet, unreadable weight in the way he looks at you. his fingers tap absently against his knee, the rhythm uneven, restless, like there’s something on the tip of his tongue that he’s still deciding whether or not to say.

then—"you know," he starts, voice too casual, too calculated, like he’s testing the waters before fully stepping in. "you never let me see your sketchbook."

your grip tightens slightly around the cup, the warmth pressing against your palms, suddenly too much, too distracting.

he notices.

satoru's gaze flickers down—just for a second, brief but deliberate—before meeting yours again, sharper now, curiosity replacing the usual lazy amusement in his expression. the teasing edge is gone, replaced by something steadier, something unreadable. “why is that?

“…no reason,” you lie, shifting under his stare, trying to appear unaffected. but the soup in your hands is suddenly too warm, too grounding, your fingers curling tighter around the ceramic like it might steady you. you can feel the weight of his attention, the way he’s watching you too closely, too intently, like he’s waiting for the cracks to show.

his brows lift, his expression flat, unimpressed. “bullshit.”

you scowl, gripping your soup tighter, like it’ll shield you from this conversation, like it might somehow block him from seeing through you.

“it’s private.”

“so? i’m literally the subject,” he argues, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his presence suddenly heavier, more insistent. “i should get at least a sneak peek.”

“no.”

his eyes narrow slightly, the corner of his lip twitching like he’s already planning a new approach. “why?”

“because,” you say, and that’s all you give him. because you don’t know how to explain it. because you don’t want to.

his lips press into a thin line, his gaze lingering just a little too long, just sharp enough to make you shift under the weight of it.

a challenge.

but you’re still half-buried in exhaustion, your limbs too heavy, your mind still foggy, and he knows it.

so after a beat, satoru exhales through his nose, then leans back against the bed again, arms folding behind his head, stretching out like he’s already decided this conversation isn’t over.

“fine. for now,” he says, voice light, easy. but there’s something about the way he says it—something low, something certain, like a promise rather than a concession.

you glare at him, because you know him—know the way his mind works, know that he never lets things go, never drops anything without a reason. you see the way his grin lingers, the way it tugs at the corner of his mouth just slightly off-kilter, like he’s already planning his next move. it’s not a matter of if he’ll bring this up again—it’s when.

he grins wider, because he knows you know. because you’re predictable in a way that amuses him, in a way that keeps him entertained. you’re trying too hard to brush this off, to pretend like the question doesn’t rattle something inside you, but he’s always been good at noticing the little things. your avoidance, your tight grip on the cup, the way your shoulders stiffen just slightly whenever he pushes too close.

and just like that, the weight of the moment lifts, the air turning lighter again, slipping back into something familiar. you take another sip of the miso soup, the heat seeping through your fingers, spreading through your chest, anchoring you in the quiet. satoru shifts, arms still behind his head, gaze flickering away from you for once—out the window, toward the sky, toward the city beyond.

outside, the wind rattles the glass, slipping through the cracks, curling into the room like the first whisper of something colder.

autumn is ending. and winter is near.

WINTER has settled in, quiet but undeniable.

the air is colder, sharper, slipping through the cracks of your dorm window no matter how tightly you close it. the ground outside is dusted in frost, the once-vibrant autumn leaves now forgotten beneath slushy sidewalks and the occasional crunch of ice. campus is emptier now, students retreating home for winter break, leaving the dorms quieter, the hallways less crowded, less alive.

but he’s in your dorm all the time now.

it started with quick drop-ins after games—an excuse to complain about how sore he was, to stretch out on your floor like a lazy cat, to toss you a snack without explanation. then it turned into late-night visits when he had nowhere better to be—until, eventually, he stopped pretending he needed a reason at all.

your dorm isn’t much, just a tiny room barely big enough for the both of you, but somehow, it’s become his space, too.

he kicks his shoes off without thinking, leaves his jacket slung over your chair like it belongs there, flops onto your bed without asking. he always brings something with him—sometimes food, sometimes a new brand of tea he insists you try, sometimes just the lingering warmth of conversation when the room feels too quiet.

(you complain about it. “this is not a hangout spot.” “stop making a mess on my desk.” “for the last time, satoru, my bed is not your personal couch.” but you never actually tell him to leave.)

and lately, you seem less exhausted when he’s here.

finals are over. winter break has started. the campus is quieter, the stress that had settled into your shoulders finally lifting, loosening its grip.

you still overwork yourself, still get lost in your paintings for hours, but you’re taking care of yourself now, too.

he sees it in the way you actually eat full meals instead of just instant noodles. in the way you don’t fight him when he shoves a bottle of water into your hands. in the way you’ve stopped waking up with smudged paint on your cheek from falling asleep at your desk.

he’s proud of you. not that he’d ever say it out loud. maybe one day. but for now, he’ll just keep showing up.

tonight, though, you’re running late.

some meeting for an art exhibition, something you were weirdly cagey about when he asked. you had waved him off, barely sparing him a glance as you gathered your things in a rush, stuffing papers into your bag, adjusting your coat with hurried movements. he had teased you—“look at you, so professional. should I start calling you sensei?”—but you had just rolled your eyes, muttered something about being late, and disappeared out the door.

he almost doesn’t notice at first, too busy digging through a plastic bag of snacks he brought for you, tossing a pack onto your desk, then tearing open another for himself. he stretches out against your bed frame, one knee propped up, his phone in one hand, snacks in the other, making himself comfortable in the way he always does. your absence doesn’t bother him—you’ll be back soon, and besides, he’s already claimed this space as his own.

but then—his eyes flicker to your desk. to your sketchbook.

it’s right there.

he’s been curious for months.

he’s seen the way you snap it shut the second he moves too close, how you always turn it facedown, tuck it under your arm, keep it pressed against your chest when you leave a room. it’s deliberate, protective, like it holds something you don’t want him to see—something more than just rough sketches from your sessions.

and he’s been good. he’s been patient. but now? now, he’s alone. and, well—what’s the harm in taking a little peek?

his fingers brush the cover, hesitating for just a second—a quiet moment of restraint before curiosity wins out. then, with one last glance at the door to make sure you’re not back yet—he flips it open.

he expects sketches of his poses from your sessions. the usual. the planned. the predictable.

what he doesn’t expect is—pages and pages of him.

not the carefully composed ones, not the ones you’d shown him before. no, these are different. the lines are loose, unpolished, real—like you weren’t drawing to impress anyone, like you were just trying to capture something before it slipped away.

his fingers still against the page, breath catching slightly, pulse stuttering in a way he doesn’t understand. his own face stares back at him, over and over again, not the carefully arranged expressions from your sessions, but the ones he didn’t know you were paying attention to.

him, tying his shoes before a game, the curve of his shoulders loose and relaxed. him, tossing his head back, laughing, mouth open, eyes crinkled—drawn in a way that makes him look softer than he’s used to. next to it, in small, slanted handwriting: ‘loudest laugh in the world.’

satoru exhales slowly, flipping the page, movements quieter now, more deliberate.

him, spinning a basketball on his fingertip, drawn from multiple angles like you were trying to get it just right. him, leaning against your dorm room wall, arms crossed, head tilted, gaze sharp but amused—like he’s in the middle of teasing you. his eyes flick to the corner, where you’ve written, ‘always watching. annoyingly perceptive.’

he huffs out a quiet breath—not quite a laugh, not quite anything. his throat feels tight.

he turns another page, his fingers careful now, almost hesitant. a corner of a napkin peeks out—he pulls it loose, unfolding it carefully. a quick, half-finished sketch of him mid-sprint, lines rushed, motion barely captured, next to a coffee-stained note that just says: ‘too fast to draw. unfair.’

his lips part slightly, breath catching at the words, at the fact that you even tried.

another, taped messily into the spine of the book—a full-body drawing of him from behind, hoodie pulled up, hands in his pockets, walking away. ‘somehow takes up more space than anyone else.’ you wrote in the margins, the ink slightly smudged, like you had run your fingers over it absentmindedly.

he swallows, jaw tightening. his thumb brushes the edge of the page, lingering there, like if he just holds still, he’ll figure out what to do with the way his chest feels too full, too tight.e because this—this isn’t simply a collection of sketches. this is him, through your eyes.

and then—he flips another page. this one is different.

not a quick sketch, not a half-finished doodle on the edge of a napkin, not something you scribbled in passing. a full portrait. detailed, deliberate, like you took your time with it. like you wanted to get it exactly right.

he recognizes the jersey immediately—it’s from last week, when he had come over grumbling about practice, throwing himself onto your bed like it was his own, arms sprawled out, eyes shut, muttering about how being the best was exhausting. he remembers laughing, remembers the weight of your gaze on him, remembers teasing you about how you were always staring anyway.

but this—this means you had watched him even longer. the expression you captured—it’s him, but it’s softer. relaxed. comfortable. unaware.

oh.

his fingers pause against the edge of the paper, grip tightening just slightly.

but you couldn’t have done all this in front of him without him noticing. you’re always preoccupied, always doing something else whenever he’s around—never reaching for your sketchbook. had you drawn this only after he left? had you memorized these moments, watched him for far longer than he realized, until you could capture him this accurately?

his stomach does something weird again.

like a sharp twist of something unfamiliar, something heavy, something he doesn’t quite know what to do with. his throat feels tight, his pulse uneven, a strange warmth creeping into his chest and settling there, stubborn and unmoving.

his gaze lingers on the portrait, taking in the details—the careful shading of his jawline, the way his hair looks slightly messier than usual, the way his arms are draped carelessly over the sheets. he looks like he belongs there.

he swallows, jaw tightening. because he does.

he hears your footsteps before the door even opens—the soft, familiar rhythm of them padding down the hall, the faint rustle of your coat as you shift, the quiet exhale you always let out before stepping inside.

the door creaks open gently, slow and careful, like you’re trying not to startle the silence of the room. “i’m home,” you say softly, the words barely past your lips before you step inside.

but satoru isn’t paying attention. because his heart is still racing, his hands are still gripping the sketchbook, and he’s way too fucking giddy to think of a way to get rid of his crime in time.

you take two steps in before your gaze lands on him—seated on your bed, sketchbook open in his hands, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. your expression shifts in an instant—relaxed to confused to absolutely horrified.

“satoru, what are you—” your voice cuts off mid-sentence, sharp and sudden, like you physically can’t finish.

he looks up at you, eyes bright with mischief, lips already curling into a grin, the kind that spells nothing but trouble. fingers still pressed against the pages, holding them open like evidence, like proof. then—casually, effortlessly, like he didn’t just get caught red-handed—“you like me.”

you freeze, body going rigid, fingers twitching at your sides like you don’t know whether to snatch the book back or bolt.

he tilts his head, grin widening, flipping through the pages with exaggerated slowness, dragging out your suffering. “and here i thought you only liked me for my bone structure—”

“give it back.” your voice comes out too fast, too sharp, laced with something close to panic.

he laughs, flipping another page, gaze flicking between the sketches and your rapidly reddening face. “so you have been staring.”

"satoru—" you take a step forward, but he just leans back against the bed, completely unbothered, holding the sketchbook out of reach.

“oh, this one’s nice,” he teases, holding up the sketch of him mid-game, spinning the book slightly between his fingers like he’s inspecting it. “was this from last week? so you were watching me train and not just pretending to be absorbed in your sketchbook—”

“i was drawing!—”

“—drawing me.” his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else under it—something quieter, something warmer, something dangerously close to fondness.

you snatch the sketchbook out of his hands so fast it nearly smacks him in the face.

he expects you to yell at him. maybe shove him. maybe even hit him with the sketchbook. but instead your expression twists, your cheeks burning, lips parting like you want to say something but can’t, and before he can react, before he can stop you—you groan and slam the sketchbook back to your bed, turn on your heel and leave.

“hey—!” he scrambles after you, nearly tripping over a stack of books, nearly sending an entire pile of papers flying, nearly proving why you never let him near your workspace unsupervised. his breath comes out in sharp puffs of white against the cold air, but he barely notices, too focused on closing the distance between you, on the way your shoulders are stiff, the way you move like you’re fighting the urge to break into a full sprint.

outside, the first real snowfall of the season is drifting down, dusting the campus in white, clinging to the bare branches, softening the edges of the world. but you’re too preoccupied with storming away to notice, too caught up in your own mortification to care.

“oh, come on,” satoru groans, catching up with long, easy strides, like this isn’t a crisis, like this isn’t your worst nightmare unfolding in real time. “don’t just run away—”

“i am not running away.”

“you totally are.”

“i—!” you whirl around so fast he nearly crashes into you, nearly walks straight into your personal space like an idiot. he stops just short, breath catching slightly, eyes flicking down to the tiny sliver of space left between you.

the air is cold between you, breath visible in the space that suddenly feels too charged, too warm despite the winter creeping in.

your arms are crossed so tightly it looks like you’re holding yourself together, like if you let go, you might actually combust from sheer embarrassment.

“you’re so—” you huff, flustered, frustrated, desperate to change the subject, desperate to claw back even a fraction of your dignity.

“handsome? charming? incredibly kissable—”

“—infuriating!”

he just grins, all teeth and shameless amusement, because you’re easy to read now. because no matter how much you glare at him, your ears are pink, your fingers are twitching, your weight is shifting like you want to run again but can’t bring yourself to.

“you like me,” he says again, softer this time. more certain.

you don’t answer.

snowflakes land on your lashes, catching in your hair, melting against your skin. your lips are parted like you want to argue, but nothing comes out. your eyes are too bright, too wide, too caught between wanting to flee and wanting to stay.

satoru gojo is not known for his restraint.

so, naturally, he kisses you.

he moves before he can think, before he can overcomplicate it, before you can run again. his head tilts, his breath warm against your skin, and then—he leans down, slow, deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away.

but you don’t.

and oh—oh.

his lips are warm despite the cold, despite the way the winter air bites at your skin, despite the snowflakes melting between you. his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks when he closes his eyes, those impossibly bright baby blues disappearing beneath pale lashes. he doesn’t rush, doesn’t tease, doesn’t turn it into something playful. for once, he takes his time.

his free hand lifts just slightly, like he wants to cup your cheek, like he wants to hold you there, but at the last second, he hesitates. instead, his fingers curl lightly around your wrist, grounding, steady, just enough pressure to keep you from slipping away.

you freeze for half a second.

then, you melt.

your breath stutters, your fingers gripping at the fabric of his uniform, hesitant at first, then firmer, anchoring yourself to him. your body tilts forward, just the slightest bit, just enough to tell him—yes.

and he’s already grinning into the kiss, absolutely insufferable, because he knew it. because he knew you wouldn’t pull away. because he knew you liked him.

when you finally pull back, breathless, he doesn’t let you go.

doesn’t want to.

his grip on your wrist stays firm, not tight, not demanding, just enough to keep you here, to keep you in this moment a little longer. his breath is warm against your skin, fanning softly over your lips, his fingers twitching like he’s debating pulling you back in.

“so,” he murmurs, forehead pressing against yours, nose barely grazing your own, “are you gonna admit it now, or do i have to go through another sketchbook’s worth of proof?”

your fingers tighten slightly around his sleeve, your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape, like it’s trying to make up for every second you spent pretending this wasn’t real. your cheeks are burning, the cold doing nothing to help, but still—you force yourself to meet his gaze, to stare straight into those impossibly bright baby blues.

“…i do.”

his breath hitches.

“you… do?”

“i like you,” you clarify, somehow both firmer and shyer at the same time, words tumbling out too fast and too soft. then, before he can say anything stupid—“now you say it.”

his grin falters—not in amusement, not in teasing, but in something softer, something fonder, something that makes your stomach flip.

“i like you,” he repeats, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like he never doubted it for a second. his ears are pink, his fingers twitch against your wrist, but his voice stays steady, stays sure. “a lot.”

your stomach twists, your face burns, and before he can get even more unbearably smug about it, you shove him, pushing at his chest with more force than necessary, just to wipe the grin off his face.

he laughs, stumbling back a step but still holding onto your wrist, still looking at you like you’ve just handed him the greatest win of his life.

but this time, you don’t walk away.

instead, you sigh, shaking your head as you grab his sleeve properly and start pulling him back toward your dorm, fingers curling around the fabric like you’re holding on without realizing it.

“what, no dramatic speech about how i misread everything?” he teases, falling into step beside you, his free hand slipping lazily into his pocket.

“shut up,” you mumble, voice muffled by the scarf you’ve pulled higher over your face, like it’ll somehow hide the warmth still lingering in your cheeks.

“soooo,” he drawls, bumping his shoulder against yours, “does this mean i’m officially your muse and your boyfriend now? multi-purpose?”

“no.”

“cold.”

he laughs, and it’s light, easy, painfully warm despite the winter air, like it’s found a home between you, settling there without permission. his breath fogs in the cold, but the space between you feels warmer somehow, lighter, like the weight of something unspoken has finally lifted. his steps are relaxed now, shoulders looser, head tilting toward you every so often—a quiet, effortless gravity pulling him closer, even when he doesn’t realize it.

when you get back to your dorm, he kicks off his shoes like always, sending them haphazardly toward the corner. shrugs off his jacket like always, barely looking where it lands. flops onto your bed like always, stretching out like he owns the place, arms behind his head, hair messy from the wind.

but this time, you roll your eyes and curl up beside him, too.

he doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t tease, doesn’t even try to fight the smug grin tugging at his lips. he just shifts, adjusting without thinking, making room like he’s been waiting for this—like you’ve belonged there all along.

when he tucks his arm around you without thinking, you don’t complain.

when you mumble, half-asleep, voice softer than usual, “thanks for taking care of me.” he just hums, low and content, the sound barely more than a vibration against your skin. his fingers move without thought, absentmindedly tracing slow, lazy circles against your back, the rhythm steady, grounding.

when he presses a lazy kiss to the top of your head, breath catching just slightly against your hair, you don’t push him away.

outside, the snow keeps falling, soft and slow, blanketing the world in quiet. winter settles in around you. and for once, you let yourself rest.

the last of WINTER lingers in the early mornings, cold air curling against skin, clinging to rooftops, biting at fingertips. but the afternoons are warming up, the sun stretching a little higher in the sky, melting the ice that once lined the sidewalks. students swap heavy coats for lighter jackets, trading chattering teeth for the kind of energy that only comes with knowing winter is finally loosening its grip. cherry blossoms are just beginning to bud, hesitant, as if uncertain the cold is truly gone.

campus is filling up again. winter break is over. the once-quiet halls are alive with movement, voices overlapping, footsteps echoing against tile, the hum of life creeping back in. the scent of freshly brewed coffee drifts from the cafés, mingling with the crisp air, a sure sign that students are shaking off their winter sluggishness.

and satoru gojo is a public menace.

he was already bad enough as their university’s basketball star before. always loud, always impossible to ignore, always moving through campus like he owned it, like he was more event than person, someone you watched because you couldn’t help it. with that ridiculous, effortless kind of charm, all long limbs and easy smiles, like he’d never once known the weight of the world.

but now? now, he has a girlfriend. and now, he has you. and he makes sure everyone knows.

“my beloved!”

his voice slices through the courtyard like a warning bell, sharp and unmistakable, sending heads turning with an almost comical synchronicity. he’s leaning against a vending machine when you spot him, his navy varsity jacket loose over his shoulders, white t-shirt just barely clinging to the lean muscle beneath. his hair is a mess of soft white strands, tousled from the wind—or maybe practice—but his grin is bright, his blue eyes locked onto you with alarming precision.

you freeze for half a second—just half—but that’s all it takes for him to zero in on you, and you can feel the shift in the air, the heat of his gaze on your back as if he’s been waiting for this moment all along. the sound of his footsteps quicken, and before you know it, the familiar, teasing voice slices through the space between you.

“lovey! sweetheart! honeybunch sugarplum—”

you don’t even hesitate. the instinct to escape rises up, and you walk faster, head forward, eyes fixed on some imaginary point in the distance. it’s an old trick, pretending like if you just focus hard enough on something far away, you can ignore the fact that satoru gojo is loudly, dramatically, chasing after you like some over-the-top rom-com hero.

“stop it.” your teeth grind together, a faint blush creeping up your neck as you force your shoulders to stay stiff, trying to hold onto whatever dignity you have left.

he laughs, delighted by your discomfort, the sound almost echoing in the quiet space. with a lazy, unbothered air, he shoves his hands into his pockets and easily falls into step beside you. his white hair is still a mess from practice, some strands falling into his eyes, but he looks effortless, like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. “you wound me, darling.”

“i am not doing this with you.” you mutter under your breath, barely glancing at him, hoping that if you ignore him long enough, he’ll just go away. but it’s futile.

he’s faster. it’s always the same. his long legs carry him with a grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone so tall, and with barely any effort, he’s at your side, matching your pace, his grin stretching impossibly wide. his head tilts slightly, his white hair falling over his eyes in that way you’ve come to recognize so well—shifting and effortlessly falling into place. his blue eyes catch the light, looking so damn intense, you can’t help but notice the way they gleam through the long lashes, unguarded and almost playful.

“starlight, love of my life, future mother of my children—”

you stop mid-step, throwing him a sharp look, and his smile only widens at your frustration. “satoru.”

he gasps, clutching his chest in mock horror, eyes widening as if you’ve physically hurt him. he stumbles back a step, just for effect, and lets out an exaggerated sigh. “are you—” his voice drops to a dramatic whisper, his expression feigning scandal as he leans in closer. “are you ashamed of me?”

your jaw tightens, the irritation mixing with something else you’d rather not address. “i would like for people to know quietly.”

satoru halts mid-step, his hand flying to his chest as if you’ve just ripped out his heart. his face contorts into exaggerated pain as if you’ve just shattered him with a single sentence. “you—you don’t want to scream our love from the rooftops? you don’t want the whole world to know how much you adore me?” he flutters his fingers dramatically in the air as if visualizing the grand spectacle of it all.

you groan, shoving your hands into your pockets, doing your best to ignore the amused glances and curious whispers around you. it’s not bad, really. the attention.

you had expected—well. you don’t know what you expected. for people to react badly? for them to wonder why he’s with you, of all people?

but mostly, people are just… surprised. conversations halt mid-sentence, heads whip around for second and third takes, and whispered speculations weave through the air like static electricity.

a lot of:

“wait. gojo has a girlfriend? for real?”

“damn, i thought he was just messing around.”

“no way. no actual way.”

a handful of utterly devastated fangirls, clutching their textbooks like lifelines, staring as if their world has just come crashing down. but no one says anything cruel. no one scoffs or sneers. no one looks at you like you don’t belong next to him.

it’s a little overwhelming. but not awful. just… loud. and satoru? he thrives in it.

he’s absolutely ridiculous about it, keeps throwing his arm around your shoulders, keeps making a show of lacing his fingers through yours, keeps finding ways to bring it up in conversations that have nothing to do with him. when you’re walking together, he tugs you just a little closer, just a little tighter, like he wants everyone on campus to see. his hand is always finding its way to your waist, resting there like it belongs, fingers tapping idly against the fabric of your sweater. sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly dramatic, he’ll spin you around in the middle of the hallway, dipping you like you’re in the final scene of a romance movie, just because he can.

and you—earnest, quiet, and in love despite yourself—you let him.

you don’t indulge him the same way he does you. your affections are smaller, tucked between the spaces he leaves, a quiet echo to his relentless declarations. but you don’t pull away when he leans into you. you don’t protest when he sneaks his fingers through yours. and when you think no one’s looking, when his head is turned just so, when he’s grinning at something dumb and impossibly satoru, you let yourself look at him the way he looks at you.

one time, in the middle of lunch, he just sighs dramatically, leaning back in his chair, stretching his arms like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. his white hair is a mess from practice, sweat-damp at the nape of his neck, but he still looks effortless, still looks like he belongs under the sun, basking in the warmth of his own theatrics. he exhales, long and suffering, tilting his head back so far his chair almost tips. and then, with all the weight of the universe pressing down on his chest, he declares;

“man, having a girlfriend is crazy.”

you don’t even look up from your sketchbook. you’re used to this. you barely even blink anymore when he starts talking like the main character in a tragic love story. “you literally asked for this.”

“yeah, but still.”

he hums, thoughtful, like he’s truly pondering the gravity of his situation—then abruptly flops onto your lap, draping himself across you like he’s meant to be there. his head lands against your stomach, arms sprawled, legs stretched out across the bench, the weight of him pressing down on you like an overgrown cat. his hair tickles your wrist, and when you peer down, his eyes are already on you, bright and full of trouble. he’s grinning, of course he’s grinning, his lips twitching like he’s barely holding back a laugh.

you grunt under the sudden weight, the pressure of his body settling onto you like a heavy, careless blanket. you barely stop yourself from elbowing him off, your muscles tensing from the surprise, but he’s already too comfortable, sprawled across your lap with a dramatic sigh. “get off me.”

“no.”

he sounds so certain, so annoyingly nonchalant as he rests his head on your stomach, his hair messy from practice, damp strands sticking to his forehead like a defiant halo. you sigh through your nose, fingers tightening around your pencil, the sharp tip pressing against the paper as if it could ground you. “what do you want.”

“you know,” he says, his voice light, almost sing-song, as his head tilts just enough to meet your gaze, those ridiculously bright, ridiculously smug baby blues peering up at you with a look that’s both teasing and entirely too pleased with himself. “you kinda have a responsibility now.”

your sigh is louder this time, escaping through your nose as you flip to a new page in your sketchbook, trying to ignore the weight of him and the pull of his presence. you shift a little beneath him, adjusting to make space as your gaze flickers down at him. “what responsibility.”

he doesn’t move, doesn’t break the casual pose, his arms still spread wide like he’s claiming the space between you, his legs stretched comfortably across the bench, his fingers tapping lightly against your stomach. “you have to come to all my games. non-negotiable.”

you finally glance down at him, unimpressed, but your eyes soften just a little when you see the way he’s looking up at you, his grin wide, eyes twinkling like he’s saying something that’s a matter of life and death. you roll your eyes but can’t help the quiet smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth. “all of them?”

“yes. all.”

you blink at him, your hand drifting to your lap, pressing down the fluttering feeling in your chest, the soft affection you try so hard to keep from spilling over. “but i already go to most of them—”

“all. of. them.” his tone is firm now, a little playful but undeniably serious, his finger poking at your side like a reminder of his claim over your attention. he lifts his head just slightly, his lips pulling into a smirk that’s far too smug for anyone's good, and you know, without a doubt, that he’s completely and utterly certain of his win.

you sigh, louder this time, rolling your eyes as he grins up at you like he’s already won. his hair is soft when your fingers brush against it, a stray lock falling over his forehead as he waits, expectant. you hesitate for just a second, then let your fingers linger a beat longer than necessary, smoothing it back into place. “and why, exactly?”

his smirk falters, just for a fraction of a second. almost imperceptible. but you catch it, the flicker of something softer beneath the bravado, the way his throat bobs slightly before he answers.

“because you have to witness your incredibly talented, best-athlete-on-campus boyfriend in action, obviously.”

“obviously.”

“plus,” he adds, reaching up to poke your cheek with the most obnoxious little tap, “i play better when you’re there.”

your fingers tighten around your pencil, just slightly. you don’t answer immediately, because if you do, it might come out too soft, too earnest, too much. but your lips press together, and your gaze lingers, and when you finally murmur, “…is that true, or are you just saying that?” it sounds quieter than you mean it to.

his grin widens, eyes gleaming, mischief and sincerity tangled together like a promise. “guess you’ll have to keep coming to find out, huh?”

you shove his face away.

but later, when his attention is stolen by something else—when he’s laughing with his friends or zoning out as he stretches— you find your gaze lingering, the subtle shift of your focus as you tilt your head. your eyes trace the smooth curve of his cheek, the way the sunlight catches in his hair, making the white strands look like a halo around his face. there’s the easy slope of his shoulders, the way he leans back with that effortless confidence, his legs stretched out over the bench like he owns every inch of space around him. you notice all these things in the quiet moments when he’s not looking, and it’s almost like a secret you keep tucked away.

and then you think, helplessly, hopelessly— he plays better because he’s looking for you. it's not just the game he’s focused on. it’s the stands, it’s you. and for all his teasing, all his dramatic declarations, there’s this undercurrent you can’t deny—that he needs you there, in that spot, where his eyes always find yours.

you go to all his games anyway. it’s not a question, not a choice. you sit in the stands, your eyes fixed on the court, but your mind elsewhere, always waiting, always watching. every time, without fail, he looks for you before tip-off, and the moment he spots you, his expression shifts—just the faintest change in the curve of his lips, the way his eyes brighten as if he’s found something precious. every time, he finds you, like there’s no other place he would rather be. every time, he grins that obnoxious, confident grin, the one that says he will win, that he knows you’re there, and that’s enough.

spring creeps in. the last of the cold melts away, and you notice how the days stretch longer, how the warmth settles in your bones as everything begins to bloom around you.

and satoru gojo never stops being loud about loving you, his voice always rising above the noise, always unafraid of being seen. and you, quiet as you are, never stop loving him right back, holding it all in the space between the moments, where words aren’t necessary.

a/n : i would like to formally announce that i was this close to killing her off in winter via tragic anemia-induced collapse, but in a rare act of mercy, i decided against it. as such, i will be accepting 100-word minimum essays filled with gratitude in the comments. failure to comply may result in me rethinking my generosity. choose wisely.

kidding aside, im glad i finally got this fic out of my drafts—this has been rotting and slowly cooking since the episode with satoru playing basketball released😋 idk much about western school year so i apologize if the schedule is all wrong! i only relied to google writing this. not like they will read this but i still wanna thanks my homeboys for helping me write the basketball scene, i definitely needed that <3 im not an artist so i apologize if there are any misconceptions in my fic ^^

[swanlikely]

Current Brainrot: Brat Enabler Caleb!

Author's Note: The poll ended 50/50, so I made the executive (and very self-indulgent) decision to go with Brat Enabler Caleb! because sometimes I just wanna be spoiled, okay? Please check out the artist! (Artist & Her Ko-fi!)

not proof-read! (sorry if there are any errors - let me know and I'll fix it!)

CW: AFAB! reader, pet names, penetration, overstimulation, praise, light D/S dynamics, slight dacryphilia, and 'usage' of his bionic arm.

Caleb loves you like it’s coded into him. Like it’s in his blood, his bones, his circuitry.

He does it without effort, like breathing. Like the pulse of a machine: constant, precise, unyielding.

And he’d give you anything. Anything. Just one pout, one whimper, one soft little “Caleb, please”—and he’s dropping whatever he’s doing to hand it over. A brat’s dream. He doesn’t care if it’s indulgent or excessive or unnecessary. If you want it? You get it.

He’s always there. Cooking your favorite meals with one hand while the other; his right, sleek and gleaming with matte black plating—rests on the curve of your hip as you sit on the counter and sneak bites. That arm, the one people used to flinch at, has never once made you nervous. It’s part of him. Him, who tucks you in like you’re something breakable, who lifts you like you weigh nothing, who touches you with inhuman control and completely human care.

And right now, he’s using both hands: one warm, flesh and blood; the other cool, mechanical precision; to ruin you in the most delicious ways.

You’re spread out under him, legs trembling, body already gone boneless from orgasm after orgasm. You’ve stopped counting. It doesn’t matter. Caleb never stops at one. Or two. Or three.

His thick cock is buried in you, slow and steady, dragging against the places that make your vision flicker. One hand cradles your jaw; his real one, calloused and gentle. The other, his metal arm; is between your legs, thumb pressed to your clit, writing his name into you in soft, pretty patterns.

C. A. L. E. B.

Over and over again. Cold metal, careful pressure, devastating control.

Your skin is flushed, sticky with sweat. Your hands tremble where they grip at his broad shoulders, desperately trying to ground yourself. One of your legs is hooked over his waist, the other shaking helplessly against the mattress, every muscle twitching with the tension he’s building back up in you.

You're crying now, sobbing openly, your voice gone hoarse from how much you’ve moaned and gasped and begged. But he’s not stopping. He’s adoring. Reverent.

“Fuck Pips,” he groans, voice wrecked with how hard he’s holding back. “You’re everything.”

His thumb strokes another letter and you keen, your hips jerking. “Can’t—Caleb—too much, it’s too—”

“Yes, you can,” he coos, leaning in to kiss your parted lips. His tongue traces yours, measured and possessive, like he has all the time in the world. “You can take it. You are taking it. You always do.”

The flex of his hips deepens; calculated, but heavier now. Like he’s letting himself feel just a little more, just enough to tip you further. You feel him everywhere: inside you, against your clit, in the weight of his chest brushing yours, the tremble in his breath. He smells like sweat and heat and you. “You wanted this, remember? You asked for it. And you know I’d never say no to you.”

You grip at his back, your nails catching on the seam where flesh meets metal. He shudders; groans low in his throat, more sound than word.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, burying his face in your neck. “So pretty when you cry for me. So sweet, you were made for this. Made for me.”

You weep at the reminder—how easy it is with him. How good he is to you. The worship, the rapture, the indulgence of it all. The fact that you don’t even have to earn it. You just have to be.

His robotic hand doesn’t falter. Ever. Each movement is exactly what you need, no more, no less. Meticulous. Devoted.

You can feel it building again; your body tightening, coiling, heat spilling down your spine like liquid fire. Your walls flutter around him, desperate and close and so overstimulated. He feels it. He always does.

His voice drops into a growl, desperate and reverent all at once.

“Give it to me. C’mon, Pips—give it to me. Let me feel you fall apart.”

And you do.

You come again; shaking, sobbing, gripping him like a lifeline. Your cries fill the room, gasping and broken, and he keeps moving, keeps whispering, like your pleasure is something holy.

He was bullying your poor sloppy cunt, but in the sweetest way a man could: just enough to make it mean something, dragging it out so every pulse of pleasure felt personal. A gift he was determined to give you again and again, until you had no words left but his name.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “That’s my girl. Mine. Always.”

Only when you’ve gone limp beneath him, body completely undone, does he finally let himself go. His hips stutter, cock twitching deep inside you as he moans your name like a prayer. He stays buried, locked to you, his metal hand stroking your thigh now, pleasant and patient.

He kisses your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your swollen mouth.

“Breathe, baby,” he says softly, like he didn’t just wreck you with love and machinery and absolute, overwhelming need. “You did so good. My pretty girl.”

And even though you’re trembling, tears drying on your cheeks, the only thing you can do is nod: because it’s true.

Caleb would do anything for you. Break himself in half. Hold you together. Build you a new world with his bare hands.

And you would let him.

Because no one loves like he does.

No one ever will.

[allsteddie]

Actor!Steve and Singer!Eddie AU where they have some sort of rivalry going on. But, here’s the thing, the whole thing is made up by the press.

It starts when a reporter, during an interview, asks Steve what kind of music he listens to in his free time. Steve names a few artists, mostly pop with a few classic rock bands in between, which leads the reporter to ask if he’s a Corroded Coffin fan. They’re not classic rock, but they sure as hell are popular, but Steve just looks at the reporter and says, “never heard of them in my life.”

And he honestly hasn’t! But the press gets this out of context and of course Corroded Coffin fans are pretty pissed off, offended that someone as famous as actor Steve Harrington, king of period drama shows and romcom movies, is belittling their beloved band like that.

Another reporter, then, after a concert, asks Eddie what he thinks about Steve Harrington’s last interview, where he basically says Corroded Coffin’s music is shit, and Eddie just says, “I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

And he also hasn’t! Because they have been on tour for months, then they were working on new songs, and it’s been at least five fucking years since Eddie had enough spare time to watch a show. He’s also no fan of romcoms or period dramas, so even if he had had the time, there was no way he’d have watched anything Steve was in.

That’s enough for the press to go wild with stories about disagreements that never really happened and thousands, maybe millions, of people on the internet discussing Steve and Eddie’s rivalry and distaste for each other.

Neither Steve nor Eddie tries to explain the whole misunderstanding because, really, they both think it’s so funny how so many people are buying all this crap. Tabloids talk so often about their ‘rivalry’ that Steve does end up listening to Corroded Coffin and enjoys them a lot; he adds lots of their songs to his playlists. And Eddie finally caves and starts watching one of Steve’s period drama shows; he gets pretty addicted to them, and Steve is hot as hell, so that’s kind of a bonus.

One day, a couple of months after this started, Steve is scrolling his feed and sees a post on a gossip page about someone who said they heard someone telling some other person that they heard Eddie Munson threatening to beat Steve Harrington up if the actor didn’t stop saying shit about his music. The post is so obviously lying that Steve spends a good five minutes laughing. Then, on a whim, he DMs it to Eddie’s official page, with a message attached saying “Just please don’t beat up my face, I need it for work”.

Ten minutes later Eddie replies by sending a second post, this one also from a gossip page that claims their sources might have overheard Steve Harrington saying to his friends that Eddie Munson’s hair is the worst thing he’s ever laid eyes on, followed by a message saying “Sorry, but nobody says shit about my hair. It's hard work making these curls look so good.”

That’s how Eddie and Steve start talking, first just sending each other posts and articles they find funny about their made up rivalry. Somehow, this evolves into an actual conversation about other stuff, like their works, their lives, themselves.

They never really stop messaging each other, their weird work hours and busy schedules preventing them from actually meeting, even though they are dying to.

Then, four months into their unexpected friendship, Steve is in New York shooting a new romcom and Corroded Coffin is expected to play on a charity event there as well. And that’s how Steve and Eddie finally meet; at 1 a.m., on a Thursday, just after Steve wraps up shooting his new movie and Eddie finishes rehearsing for the concert he’s playing the next day. They go out for pizza, even though is freezing outside and they’re both tired as fuck.

The press and their fans are in shock when, a couple of months later, their official accounts announce, on a joint post, that Steve Harrington and Eddie Munson are happily dating and planning on going on an extended vacation together as soon as Corroded Coffin wraps up their tour. The couple also asks for people to respect their privacy and states that they don’t intend to give any interviews to discuss their relationship.

They spend the whole vacation laughing over the hundreds of posts and reaction videos their friends send them daily.

[dakusan]

N O   S A I N T   I N K

Tattoo Artist!Han Jisung x Reader | He tattoos like an artist and eats like a god. You're ruined. Congratulations.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You just wanted a tattoo. What you got was a cocky artist with a praise kink, a filthy mouth, and the ability to make you cum so hard you forget your name. What starts as innocent skin-on-skin becomes texts at 3AM, breathless calls, panties on the floor, and getting ruined over a tattoo chair by a man who calls his dick “emotionally supportive.”

💌a/n: HELLO DEMONS. welcome back to my sin bin. and YES. i spun the wheel of filth™ again because i have too many prompts, too many requests, too many ideas and i am ONE feral braincell away from combusting. this week’s winner of the roulette: jisung x reader, tattoo shop edition. hence why this was posted late — i had no idea what to write and then accidentally birthed a full plotline, two orgasms, a man with separation anxiety, and the best dick of your fictional life. oops 😇 p.s. reblog this or i will haunt your mirrors at 3AM whispering “dumb little slut” in han’s voice. p.p.s. if you message me your fave skz member, i might drop you a mini filthy tattoo artist!AU ficlet just for them. no promises. only threats. p.p.p.s. light a candle. hydrate. send this to a friend

⚠️ warnings: 18+ | MINORS DNI | EXTREMELY NSFW | Oral (f. receiving) — graphic, intense, life-altering | Pussy eating obsession (Han is a munch) | Filthy, unrelenting dirty talk — degradation + praise mix (chaos edition) | “Good girl,” “slut,” “mine,” “cum for me” energy | Clit stimulation + g-spot pressure = brain cell deletion | Multiple orgasms (yes. multiple.) | Fingering, choking, possessive hand-gripping

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » MOVE — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:32 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Late afternoon, Seoul.

The sky is bruising purple with evening haze. You’re standing outside a tattoo parlour in a tucked-away alley—NO SAINT INK—recommended by a friend who said, “Go there. Ask for Han.”

You’re nervous. Not just because it’s your first tattoo—but because your stomach won’t stop twisting with that type of anticipation. The kind you feel when you know something irreversible is about to happen.

The parlour looks nothing like the industrial, hyper-masculine shops you've passed before. It’s dark, yes—but with soft underlighting. Neon signs buzz low in the windows, one glowing "SINNER'S HANDS" in deep red. Another in cursive:

“we only leave beautiful scars.”

You push the door open, bell jingling. It smells like antiseptic and incense. Lo-fi hip hop pulses from hidden speakers. The walls are matte black, scattered with flash art—some delicate, some obscene. A few erotic, one absolutely feral. You step toward the desk—

And then you see him.

Han Jisung.

Slouched in a leather chair behind the counter, legs spread wide, one hand holding a sketchpad, the other spinning a tattoo gun idly between his fingers like a toy.

Dark, slightly wavy hair. A few strands falling into his eyes. Rings on nearly every finger. One silver bar in his eyebrow. Another glinting on his lip.

He's wearing a sleeveless hoodie, arms covered in ink—some intricate, some scrawled like afterthoughts. His forearms flex as he shifts, glancing up at you lazily, and then—

Freeze.

He smirks. Not the kind of smirk you’re used to. This one slides slow across his face like silk on skin—cocky, amused, interested. He sets the sketchbook down and stands, sauntering over.

“You lost, angel?”

His voice is warm gravel. A little teasing. He’s already clocked you as a first-timer.

You swallow. “No. Um… I think I have an appointment? For 5PM?”

He leans against the counter, gloved hand flipping through the schedule.

“Name?”

You give it. He taps the page. “First ink?” he asks, gaze flicking over you.

You nod.

His eyes drag down your form and back up again—like he’s marking you before the needle ever touches you. “Cute.”

A pause.

“Alright. You’re with me.”

The moment he leads you past the curtain, everything quiets. Not literally—there’s still the low thrum of lo-fi beats playing through overhead speakers, and you can hear the soft buzz of a machine in the next booth—but something in the air shifts. You’ve stepped into his space now.

The room is dim, intentionally so. Not cold or sterile, but intimate. The walls are painted a charcoal grey, with scattered framed sketches and flash art displayed like gallery pieces. A small desk against the back wall is cluttered with ink bottles, gloves, stencils, and scribbled notes on napkins. There’s a chair in the center—sleek black leather, mechanical levers gleaming faintly under the spotlight aimed above it. It's positioned deliberately beneath a halo of warm light, like a stage for sin.

Han gestures for you to sit.

You do, heart already hammering harder than you'd like to admit. Your hands grip the armrests automatically, more out of nerves than necessity.

He sanitizes his hands in silence, then slips on a pair of black nitrile gloves with practiced ease. The snap of the first one makes you flinch. He notices.

A flick of his mouth—half amusement, half something darker.

“So. You still sure about it?” he asks, voice calm but low, like smoke over velvet.

You nod, holding out the reference image you brought—a small, simple design. Meaningful. Something you’ve thought about for months. A delicate poppy, petals slightly unfurled…But at the base of the flower, instead of a regular stem, it grows from the open mouth of a tiny anatomical heart.

Han doesn’t look at the paper right away. His eyes stay on you for just a moment longer than they should. Then he takes it gently, fingers brushing yours through the gloves.

“Pretty,” he murmurs, gaze flicking from the paper to your face. “Subtle. Clean lines… this’ll look good on you.”

You try to smile, but your throat feels tight. “Thanks.”

“Where do you want it?”

You hesitate. Then, softly: “Ribcage.”

That earns you an arched brow and the barest flicker of a smirk.

“Shy spot. I like that,” he says, turning to prep his materials. You watch the muscles shift as he reaches for a stencil pad. “Okay, shirt off. Just what you need, nothing more. I won’t bite.”

You freeze.

He pauses for a beat. Then tilts his head, eyes crinkling slightly. “Unless you beg,” he adds with a wink.

Your cheeks go hot. You laugh—nervously. It feels like your skin is already burning.

You carefully lift your shirt just high enough to expose the side of your torso, tugging the fabric over your bra, folding it under your arm to keep it out of the way. You're acutely aware of how much skin you're showing—even more so under that bright, direct light.

He kneels beside you with the stencil, gaze focused. You expect him to avoid eye contact, to be clinical—but Han is anything but.

His fingers brush your waist, and they stay there, warm through the gloves. His hand spreads slightly, holding your skin steady as he gently presses the cool stencil to your ribs.

“Breathe for me, yeah?” he murmurs, glancing up at you with a crooked smile. “I’m gonna press it right here…”

You suck in a breath, chest rising.

He places the stencil deliberately. Slowly. His face is close—close enough that you can see the curve of his lashes, the faint sheen of gloss on his lip ring. You smell cedar and musk on his hoodie. His fingers flex slightly against your side.

He looks up.

“You’re already twitchy,” he says softly, voice dropping just enough to make you forget how to breathe. “Gonna be a fun ride.”

You don’t know if he means the tattoo. And neither does he.

He stands and moves to the table beside him, switching out tools like it’s second nature. The machine buzzes to life with a sharp mechanical hum.

You tense.

He catches it immediately.

“First pinch might sting,” he says, voice suddenly gentle, almost coaxing. “I’ll talk you through it. You’re good.”

You nod again, trying not to clench your fists.

Then his hand is back on your body.

He anchors you with one palm spread wide over your side, right above your hip. It’s not forceful, but there’s weight to it. A possessive steadiness. The leather chair creaks faintly under the shift of your body.

And then the needle touches. A sharp, sudden sting. You wince.

“Breathe. Just like that. You’re doing so well, pretty,” he says, voice a constant hum in your ear. “Your skin takes ink like a dream. Fuck, this is gonna look good.”

You exhale through your nose, trying to focus on the sound of his voice instead of the burn.

It helps. But not in the way it should. Because Han doesn’t shut up. Not once.

“Don’t squirm too much… unless you want me to slip.” “You’re soft here. So fucking soft.” “Bet you’re the type who likes being teased, huh?”

You let out a choked laugh, more from panic than humor. He grins, eyes glinting.

The buzz of the machine, the heat of his palm on your skin, the constant commentary—it all blends into a haze. You’re dripping adrenaline and something else entirely. You feel like you’ve been stripped down far deeper than your shirt allows.

After what feels like both a lifetime and a blink, the needle slows. He lifts it. “Almost done. You’ve been such a good girl for me.”

The words land like a slap and a stroke at once.

He sets the machine aside, reaching for a fresh cloth. He wipes your skin slowly. Not rough. Not rushed. Every pass of his hand is careful, gentle.

You’re trembling now. Just a little.

He leans back finally and exhales. The air feels different. Like it’s shifted again—thicker.

“There,” he says. “Wanna see?”

You nod, throat dry.

He helps you up—guides you to a mirror near the corner. His hand stays on your back.

You look. And for a second, you forget how to breathe again. The tattoo is perfect. Clean, delicate, exactly how you pictured it. But it’s not just the ink that makes your chest ache—it’s the fact that it’s his. His hands made this. His touch. His art. On your skin.

“My work’s on you now,” he murmurs behind you, voice low and close. “You’re not gonna forget me, are you?”

You shake your head. You couldn’t if you tried.

The moment you slide your shirt back down, your skin feels… different. Not just because it's slightly tender from the ink, but because his touch still lingers. Like heat soaked into your bones. Like a fingerprint on your soul. You shouldn’t be this affected—he’s just your tattoo artist. Right?

You sit there for a moment longer than necessary, blinking as he finishes cleaning his station. His gloves come off with a snap, and he tosses them into the bin. You glance up, and—yep—he’s watching you.

Leaning casually against the counter, arms crossed, hair a little mussed, rings catching the light. Smug as hell.

“You survived,” he says, voice bright with that chaos-riddled lilt again. “Didn’t cry. Didn’t puke. I’m impressed.”

You roll your eyes. “High praise.”

“I’ve had grown men pass out from rib pieces,” he shrugs. “One guy farted. Loud. Mid-linework. I almost dropped the machine.”

You snort despite yourself. “Well, thanks for not comparing me to the Fart Guy until the end.”

He grins, wide and gleaming. “No, no, you’re top-tier,” he says, stepping closer to grab your care sheet. “Didn’t even whimper. Except for that one part where your breath hitched and I thought—y’know, for a second—you might come on the chair.”

You nearly choke. “Excuse me?!”

“Kidding,” he sing-songs. “Unless…?”

Your glare is ruined by the flush racing up your neck. You stand and grab your bag in a hurry, trying to save face. “You’re awful.”

“I’m delightful.”

He leads you back toward the front desk, swaying just slightly with each step, like he’s got too much energy stored in those shoulders. You swear he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet. It’s giving feral golden retriever with a tattoo gun and a praise kink.

You hand over your card while avoiding eye contact.

He hums dramatically as he takes it, flipping it over like he’s studying an ancient rune.

“You sure you don’t wanna tip in other ways?” he says, deadpan.

Your jaw drops.

He grins, swipes your card, and taps it dramatically against the reader before handing it back. “Joking, obviously. Unless that wasn't a ‘no,’ in which case, I’m free next week—Tuesday, after 7?”

You grab the receipt from the printer and scowl at him. “You flirt with all your clients like this?”

“Only the pretty ones who shake when I touch their ribs.”

You stare.

He smiles wider.

“Okay, okay—last line, I swear,” he chuckles. Then, softer: “Hey. Can I get your number?”

The way he asks it—it’s not sleazy. It’s bold, sure. But there’s this undercurrent of actual interest, like he’s asking for something more than just your digits.

You blink. “Why?”

“‘Cause I want it?” he says, grinning. “Also, in case your tattoo needs a touch-up. Or emotional support. Or if you just feel like sending me hot selfies. It’s a multi-purpose thing.”

You hesitate. Your pulse says yes before your mouth does. He notices. He always notices. You hand him your phone, and he immediately types his own number in, labelling it:

HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” JISUNG 🖤

He sends himself a text from your phone, winks, then gives it back. “Now we’re connected,” he says “Digitally. Spiritually. Carnally—well, not yet.”

You open your mouth to sass him. “You were so close to being cool,” you say.

“Close is my middle name.”

You snort and shake your head as you step toward the door. “Bye, Han.”

“See you soon, angel.”

You’re out the door.

The texting started immediately. Like, within minutes of you leaving the shop.

What began as tattoo care check-ins (“don’t scratch it or I’ll spank you—unless?”) turned into daily chaos. Then nightly chaos. Then a full-blown flirtationship spiralling out of control.

Han texts like he lives inside your brain—firing off filthy one-liners between jokes that make you wheeze-laugh at 1AM, switching between “you’re my filthy little secret” and “pls tell me I’m cute or I’ll cry.”

You finally cave after he begs you to get ramen at 9PM “as friends who have sexual tension.”

You show up. He’s already sitting cross-legged in the booth, hoodie sleeves rolled up, lip ring glinting, chopsticks twirling in one hand like he’s about to duel someone.

He greets you with: “You look edible. I meant that in a respectful way. Mostly.”

You try to play it cool. He doesn’t let you.

The whole night is full of dumb jokes, spicy noodles, and under-the-table foot nudging that turns into ankle grazing that turns into—

“You keep that up, baby,” he murmurs across the table, “and I’m gonna drag you to the bathroom and remind you what these fingers can do.”

You nearly choke on your drink. He laughs, head tilted back, so proud of himself.

You leave flustered. He kisses your cheek in the parking lot. Just your cheek. But his hand lingers at your waist. His mouth is right next to your ear.

“Call me when you can’t sleep,” he says, low. “I’ll make sure you get tired again.”

You almost trip on the curb.

The calls eventually started and slowly became routine. Especially those 1AM phone calls, they were like clockwork. You, in bed, breath heavy as his voice would melt through the speaker.

“You touching yourself yet?” “You want me to talk you through it?” “Want me to tell you what I’d do if I had you on my lap right now?”

He moans in your ear when you do what he says.

Filthy. Unfiltered. And when it’s over—when you’re breathless and ruined—he says the softest things:

“Wish I was there to hold you.” “You’re so fucking hot, but you’re also cute and funny and it’s unfair.” “You still like me, right?”

It’s not just lust anymore. It's want. Sticky, addictive, confusing want.

It started with a text.

Just one. Sent on a whim while lying in bed late at night, staring at the first tattoo he gave you—delicate black lines peeking from beneath your shirt, still soft to the touch even weeks later.

[You, 11:23PM] thinking about getting another one

You didn’t expect a fast reply. But Jisung’s name lit up your phone in under two minutes.

[HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” 🖤, 11:24PM] oh?? 👀 where when how much skin we talking is it just an excuse to see me again (pls say yes)

You rolled your eyes. Typed back:

[You] hipbone small script and maybe what if it was both

His reply came in a blink:

[HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” 🖤] come by the shop this friday after hours no distractions just me. you. ink. doors locked. lights low. …for professionalism, obviously 🙃

You stared at the screen for a long time before replying.

And then:

[You] see you friday.

Friday. 9:04PM.

Seoul’s city pulse is just starting to dim when you push open the door to NO SAINT INK for the second time.

The bell doesn’t ring. He told you it wouldn’t.

The neon signs are still lit—SINNER’S HANDS flickering a slow blood-red glow in the window—but the rest of the shop feels different. Empty. Still. Like something waiting to be touched.

The lights are dimmed. Only one small lamp buzzes near the back, casting long shadows across the matte-black walls.

Your steps echo a little as you walk inside. Then—

“Back here, pretty.”

His voice, low and smooth, floats from behind a curtain in the far booth.

You follow it. Pull the curtain aside. And there he is.

He’s already set up.

Tattoo machine prepped, gloves laid out neatly beside his sketch pad. He’s wearing an oversized black tee tucked loosely into ripped jeans, sleeves rolled just enough to show off the ink that curls around his biceps like living things.

He doesn’t look at you at first.

He’s focused on the script you’d sent him earlier—your design. A small phrase, handwritten in your own messy scrawl: “still hungry.”

When he finally glances up, it hits you like the first time all over again.

The way his lip curls. The way his eyes bite first and ask questions later. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dipped in something dark and fond. “Back for more.”

You lean against the booth’s edge, heartbeat already in your throat. “You said professionalism, remember?”

He stands slowly. Walks toward you. You can feel the heat radiating off him in waves.

“I lied.”

A beat. Then—

“Where’s it going again?”

You lift the hem of your hoodie just a little. Hook your thumb beneath your waistband and tug it down, just far enough to expose the sharp curve of your hipbone.

His gaze drops.

Stays.

He doesn’t speak for a moment too long. Just stares—like he’s trying to memorize you before he ruins you. “That’s dangerous, you know,” he says softly. “Letting me touch you there.”

You try to swallow. Fail. “You’re the one who said no distractions.”

He smiles. “You’re the fucking distraction.”

He gloves up without another word.

You lie back on the chair, heart slamming in your chest, every inch of skin suddenly too hot.

You’re not sure what you expected. Something casual? Familiar? But the moment his gloved hand touches your bare hip—steadying you, fingers spread firm and warm—the entire world narrows to him.

“Breathe for me,” he murmurs, positioning the stencil. “Just like last time. You remember how good you were for me?”

You exhale shakily.

“You gonna behave again tonight, pretty thing?”

You whisper: “Maybe.”

He leans in. His mouth is close to your skin. His voice—barely a breath. “God, I hope not.” He’s still positioning the stencil.

And you? You're laid back on the chair, hoodie bunched beneath your ribs, waistband tugged low, every nerve ending on alert. The soft lamplight paints shadows across his jaw as he kneels between your legs, eyes focused.

And then—

“You know,” he says lightly, pressing the stencil into place, “I’ve seen a lot of hipbones. But this one might be my favourite.”

You snort. “Wow. So original.”

He grins without looking up. “What, you don’t believe me?”

“I’m sure you say that to all your clients.”

“Only the ones who sext me about popsicles and then block me for ten minutes.”

You go still. He finally glances up. Smirks. “Yeah. Thought I forgot about that?”

You mutter, “I hate you.”

“You love me,” he says immediately, like it’s a fact. “You want me to ruin your life. Slowly. Lovingly. With tattoos and aftercare.”

You cover your face. “Shut up.”

He laughs—a low, breathy sound. Then, softly: “I’m starting the line now. Hold still, baby.”

The machine whirs to life.

It’s quieter than you remember. Or maybe you’re just more aware—of everything. The way his gloved hand steadies your hip, thumb dragging along the edge of your waistband. The needle’s sharp kiss. The buzz settling into your bones.

And Han’s voice. God, he never stops talking.

“This spot’s sensitive,” he says, totally casual. “Most people squirm. But I like that.”

You tense. He notices. Of course he does.

“Relax,” he murmurs, dragging the line smooth. “You’re doing perfect.”

Another pause. Then—

“Don’t suppose you’re into pain, are you?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. He chuckles under his breath. “God, you so are.”

But then, just like that—his tone shifts. He quiets. Focuses. And the teasing melts into something heavier. “Almost done,” he says, more softly this time. “You’ve been so good for me again. Always are.”

You blink. Your heart skips.

He wipes your skin again, slow and reverent, then leans back to look. He’s still crouched between your thighs, eyes focused, lips parted slightly as he takes it in.

“Fuck.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks up at you. No grin now. Just quiet, open admiration. “It’s gorgeous,” he says. “Like… stupid good.” He presses a kiss to his gloved fingertips and taps them against your skin.

“Still hungry,” he reads aloud. “God, I could write essays on that.”

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“Too late. MLA format. Double spaced. Thesis: you’re gonna kill me.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re flushed. Breath shallow. Because now that the needle’s done…

He’s not moving. His hand stays on your waist. His eyes flick to your lips. Then back down. Then—

“You want me to touch you?”

The question lands like a live wire in the room. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t smirk. He just waits. Like he’s offering something sacred. Like he’d back off the second you said no. But you don’t. You can’t.

You nod. Barely.

His fingers tighten on your skin. “Nah,” he murmurs. “Say it. I want to hear it.”

You swallow.

“…Yes.”

“Yes what, baby?”

Your brain short-circuits.

“Jisung—”

“Use your words, pretty thing. Or I’ll stop before I start.”

You suck in a breath, eyes locking with his. “I want you to touch me.”

He moves instantly.

The gloves are still on when he presses his palm flat against your hipbone, fingers spreading possessively. His hand feels huge there—like it was made for this exact spot.

“Fuck. Been thinking about this since the first time you came in,” he mutters, voice dropping into something rough, reverent. “You looked so fucking good in that chair. All nervous and squirmy.”

He bends down.

Kisses the edge of your new tattoo, so soft it almost hurts. “My name’s not even on you,” he whispers, “and I’m still acting like you’re mine.”

Your stomach flips. You whimper.

And he grins, but it’s different now—hungry, not cocky. “Take your pants off.”

You blink.

He meets your eyes. “Let me take care of you.”

You obey—slow, breathless, trembling under his gaze. You slide them down and toss them aside. He leans in again, eyes tracing over the new ink and everything below it, slow and starving.

You’re not wearing much underneath, lacy pink panties, with a very obvious wet spot on your center.

He groans softly. “You’re already wet.”

You gasp when his fingers brush over you, lazy, like he has all the time in the world. “All this from a little needle?” he teases. “Or is it the artist?”

“Fuck you,” you breathe.

He laughs. One low, wicked exhale. “Oh, you will. But not yet.”

He leans back, peels his gloves off slowly—dragging each finger loose one by one, like he’s unwrapping a gift. Tosses them into the bin without taking his eyes off you once.

Then he lowers himself between your legs.

Spreads your thighs just a little further apart with both hands. You hear him exhale.

“Fuck. This is gonna kill me.”

He doesn’t touch you yet. Just leans in.

And presses a kiss right above your knee. Then the inside of your thigh. Then a little higher. And a little higher.

Your breath hitches when his lips ghost just beside the fabric.

“Soaked through lace,” he murmurs. “That’s so fucking pretty, baby.”

You’re shaking now.

He mouths over the wet spot—not even pulling them down yet. Just letting the heat of his breath and the drag of his lips torture you. You feel the scrape of his lip ring as he kisses you again, open-mouthed, right there.

“Bet you’d cum just from this,” he whispers. “My mouth through your panties. Barely even trying.”

You whimper. One hand fisting the edge of the chair.

His fingers slide over the wet spot next, slow and teasing. Two fingers rub a lazy circle, barely pressing—just enough to make your hips twitch. “I should leave these on,” he says, almost to himself. “Just push them to the side. Make you beg for it.”

You breathe, “Jisung—please—”

That does it.

He hooks his fingers under the waistband and drags them down—slow, deliberate, watching every inch of you get exposed.

He groans loudly the second you’re bare. “Holy fuck.”

Then he’s leaning in again, this time nothing between you. He kisses your inner thigh first. Then lower.

Then—

His tongue drags one long, obscene stripe up your center. You cry out, hips bucking—he presses a hand to your stomach, holding you still with an effortless command:

“Stay fucking still.”

Then he goes back in. He licks you like he means it—messy, slow, then fast and deep. His tongue circles your clit with practiced chaos. He moans against you, loud, like you taste like something sacred.

“You taste like fucking heaven,” he groans, voice muffled.

His hands spread you wider, his tongue dipping into your heat, nose pressed right up against your skin.

Then he sucks. Hard.

Your head falls back—gone.

“That’s it,” he purrs. “My perfect little slut. Look at you.”

Your hands tangle in his hair. You tug. He groans again and ruts into the fucking air, desperate for friction while he eats you out like he’s starving.

“You gonna cum on my mouth?” he growls, voice wrecked. “You want me to keep going or make you beg for it?”

You try to answer—can’t.

He pulls back for just a moment, lips and chin shining. “Use your words, baby. You know the rules.”

“Please—fuck—don’t stop, please—Jisung—”

“God,” he groans. “Keep saying my name like that and I’m gonna cum in my fucking jeans.”

Then he dives back in, faster now, tongue fucking into you, hand moving to circle your clit with soaked fingers while he sucks and moans like you’re his last goddamn meal. He’s everywhere—his mouth, his hand, the filthy hum of his moans vibrating straight through your core. He doesn’t pause to tease, doesn’t stop to talk this time. He’s all action now. Starved. Feral.

“Fuck,” he growls between licks, the words hot and wet against your folds. “You taste so fucking good. Gonna make me lose my mind.”

His tongue pushes in again. He flicks it fast, then slow, then sucks at your clit with a deep, wet moan that makes you cry out, back arching clean off the chair.

“There you go,” he pants, not even breaking rhythm. “Just like that. Give it to me, baby. Come on.” His voice is breathless, desperate—like he’s the one about to cum.

You’re shaking. Legs trembling. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

Your hands are clutching his hair, holding him right where you need him, and he just groans louder, grinding his face deeper like he wants to live between your legs. His lip ring catches against your clit—again, and again—and your thighs clamp around his head instinctively.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even flinch.

He just moans into you, hands gripping your hips tighter, holding you down as your whole body starts to unravel. You feel it in your spine. In your toes. In the fucking air.

“You close, pretty thing?” he slurs against your clit. “Yeah, you are. You’re fucking dripping—making a mess for me. So fucking perfect. All mine.”

That breaks you.

You cum harder than you ever have in your life—with a sob, a gasp, a full-body spasm that crashes over you like a goddamn tsunami.

You hear yourself. You scream his name.

Jisung. Jisung. Jisung.

And he takes it.

He drinks it down like a man possessed, moaning into you like you’re water in the desert, like he’s been waiting his whole life to taste you fall apart. He doesn’t even stop when you cum—he licks you through it, tongue softening only slightly as your body twitches and bucks and pleads for mercy.

It’s too much. It’s so good it hurts.

“J-Jisung—fuck—wait—too much—”

Only then does he pull back, chest heaving, face absolutely wrecked. His mouth, his chin, even the tip of his nose glistens with you. He looks dazed.

Blessed.

He runs a hand down his face and just stares at you—spread out, soaked, shaking, glowing.

Then: “Holy fuck.”

You blink up at him, still gasping, brain static.

He grins—wide, flushed, proud as hell. “I knew it. I fucking knew it. Best pussy of my life.” You try to sass him. You really do. But all that comes out is a whimper.

“Aw,” he coos, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Dumbed you out already?”

He brushes your hair back, kisses your forehead. “You okay?”

You nod. Barely.

“You want more?”

You nod. Desperately.

He chuckles, voice thick with affection and wrecked restraint. “Yeah, baby. Me too.” Then he stands up, undoing his belt with shaking hands, and murmurs: “Get comfy. ’Cause I’m gonna fuck you so good, you forget your own name.”

You’re still gasping. Still trembling. But your eyes follow the movement of his hands—shaking slightly as he undoes his belt, then the button, then the zipper.

He pushes his jeans down—

And your breath catches. You knew he’d be pretty. But not like this. Not this.

Thick. Flushed. Slight curve to the left.

And not just the look of it—the feel of it, even before he’s inside. You know instinctively it’s going to destroy you. That kind of snug fit that presses into all the right places and leaves no room for secrets.

He strokes himself once, slow and slick, precum already leaking from the tip. “Gonna be good for me, baby?” he asks, voice shaking as he fists his cock. “Let me feel that perfect pussy now?”

You nod. Dumb. Ready. So wet you feel it drip onto the chair beneath you.

He lines up—rubs the head of his cock over your folds, up and down, teasing your clit before circling your entrance. You’re still sensitive. Still twitching. And he feels it. “Still throbbing for me,” he murmurs. “God, you’re unreal.”

He pushes in. Slow. Deep. Too much. Too good.

You cry out—your body arching, your hands gripping the armrest and his forearm and anything you can reach.

Because he fits. Perfectly. Thick enough to make you stretch wide, gasp, feel it in your lungs. But not enough to hurt. No—just enough to ruin you.

“F-fuck,” he groans, head falling forward. “You’re squeezing me so tight—Jesus—don’t move yet, I’ll cum too fast—” He bottoms out, hips flush to yours. He stays there for a second. Still trembling. His cock twitches inside you.

“I’m gonna die,” he whispers. “I’m gonna die in this pussy.”

You laugh—a breathless, broken thing—and he grins like he’s proud.

Then? He pulls out halfway. And slams back in. Hard. And again. And again. Fast. Unhinged. Like he’s been waiting to do this for weeks. “Oh fuck, that’s it. That’s it, baby—keep takin’ it—so fucking perfect—”

He’s rambling now. Whimpering.

Each thrust hits so deep you swear you see stars. It’s a rhythm that shouldn’t exist, shouldn’t be real. Every stroke dragging against your g-spot, every snap of his hips making your thighs quake.

And he’s talking. So much.

“You feel that? Huh? You feel how good you make me?” “You’re all mine. This pussy? Fucking mine. Say it.” “Say it, baby, c’mon—tell me who it belongs to—”

You choke out, “You—it’s yours, Jisung—fuck, you’re so deep—”

He moans—wrecked. “God, I’m not gonna last—fuck—you’re too good—you’re too fucking good—” Then he bends down—mouth at your ear, hips still pounding into you like he’s trying to brand your soul.

“One more,” he whispers. “Just one more, yeah? Be my good girl and cum for me again—come on—cum on my cock—let me feel you—”

You barely get the chance to nod. Because then—he changes rhythm.

Not slower. Not gentler. Worse. He fucks you harder. Deeper. Like his body knows exactly how to hit every nerve inside you. Like he’s memorized your walls. And maybe he has. Maybe from the moment he first touched you in that chair, his entire brain rewired for this—for you.

“So fucking tight,” he pants, voice cracked open, almost panicked. “Shit—look at how you take me—look at that, fuck—”

He’s holding your waist again, but carefully—just above the fresh tattoo. His fingers dig into your ribs, grip locked in, not letting you squirm away as he slams into you, pace frantic, unrelenting.

“Can’t touch your hips,” he growls, “so I’m gonna hold you right here—just like this—until you fall apart again.”

Then his hand slides down. Finds your clit. And rubs. Fast. Tight.

You moan loud.

“Tell me what it feels like,” he pants, eyes locked on your face, wild. “Come on, baby—talk to me. You know the rules.”

You try. You try so hard.

“It’s—fuck—Jisung—it’s too much—I-I can’t—”

His hand doesn’t stop. His cock drives up into you like it’s chasing your orgasm, like he can feel it coming and he wants to drag it out of you with his bare hands. “Yes, you can. You’re my good girl, right? My perfect fucking baby—tell me what you feel.”

You sob. “It’s everywhere—it’s so deep—I feel you in my stomach, Jisung—”

That makes him moan—full, wrecked, helpless. “Yeah? That’s it, baby. You feel me stretching you out? You feel how hard you’re clenching around me?”

He’s unhinged. Fucking you like he needs to feel you cum on his cock. Like it’s his only goddamn mission in life.

“Don’t hold back. Let me have it. Show me how good I make you feel.” His fingers tighten, rub faster. His cock keeps slamming up into that perfect, perfect spot.

And you break.

You fall apart on him with a cry that splits the air—your orgasm ripping through you like a detonation, a white-hot snap that makes your whole body lock up and tremble.

You cum hard. Harder than before. Harder than ever.

And he feels it. Feels you clench around him like a vice, walls pulsing, soaked, squeezing every last bit of him until he’s gasping into your throat. “Fuck—fuck—I’m gonna—baby—I’m—”

He slams in once, twice more—then stills. Buried deep. Groaning so loud it echoes. And cums. Hot. Fast. Deep. He fills you up with a desperate, whimpering exhale—head falling into the crook of your neck, fingers flexing tight on your waist as he rides it out, hips twitching helplessly inside you.

“Jesus—holy fuck—how are you real—”

You don’t know what you say. You don’t know if you’re breathing. All you know is he doesn’t let go. Not even after. His arms wrap around you, one hand sliding up to your ribs, the other cupping your jaw gently as he leans in and kisses your forehead.

Sweet. Messy. Possessive.

“I’m so fucking in love with your pussy.” he mumbles against your skin.

You laugh—wrecked and breathless. “You just came in me.”

“I did. I’ll take responsibility.”

“You didn’t even mean to.”

“That’s what makes it romantic.”

But then he goes quiet. Both of you do. Still joined. Still pulsing. The only sound in the room is your breathing—shaky, shallow, shared.

Han’s body is draped over yours, his skin hot and sticky, his face buried in your neck like he might actually die if he moves. He’s not even thrusting anymore—just lying there, full-on koala mode, arms around your waist, cock still twitching inside you like it doesn’t know it's over.

“I think I saw God,” he whispers.

You blink, still boneless and floating.

“Pretty sure she winked at me and said ‘Good job, Jisung.’”

You snort into the crumpled pillow beneath you. “Was she hot?”

He lifts his head just enough to deadpan: “She looked like you.”

A pause.

“Except taller. And clothed. And not full of cum.”

You let out a noise that’s half wheeze, half scream, face flushing as you try to twist away—but he tightens his grip, groaning as his still half-hard cock shifts inside you.

“Nooo, don’t move,” he whines. “You’ll make me hard again and I’ll die. You’re too powerful.”

You roll your eyes. “You just came in me, and now you’re being dramatic?”

He lifts his face, eyes wide. “I’m always dramatic. But now I’m dramatic and post-nut mushy.”

You smack his arm—lightly. He grins and kisses your shoulder like he’s never been happier in his life.

Then, suddenly gentle: “You okay? Need anything?”

You hum. “Water. A towel. A new pelvis.”

“I can offer you one of those things.”

He pulls out slowly, careful. You both wince a little, and he immediately fumbles for the nearest clean towel, muttering, “Shit, sorry, sorry—damn, we really did that, huh?”

He cleans you up softly, thoroughly. Tongue poking out in concentration, hands warm and reverent. You watch him in the dim light—his flushed cheeks, mussed-up curls, that stupid satisfied look on his face like he just won the lottery and the trophy was you.

He helps you sit up, eyes wide looking you over as if wanting to make sure you are okay and not just saying you're okay.

You smile at him, dazed. “That was insane.”

“You’re welcome.”

Then, quieter: “I really like you, by the way.”

You glance at him. He’s suddenly shy—voice small, fingers playing with the hem of the towel. “I mean—I know this was hot and wild and unholy, but like. You’re not just hot and wild and unholy. You’re…” He scratches the back of his head. “Cool. Funny. Gorgeous. Smart. And you have great pain tolerance and taste in art and—I dunno—your moans live in my soul now.”

You blink at him. He shrugs. “I just think you’re neat.”

You laugh. You can’t help it. You lean in, kiss him soft. He melts instantly.

Twenty minutes later, you’re both curled on the couch in the back lounge. Your legs are over his lap. You’re sipping water. He’s holding your hand and doodling hearts on your thigh with a sharpie.

“So,” he says, yawning. “When do you want your third tattoo?”

You give him a look. “Planning ahead?”

He smirks, smug. “Just making sure I get to fuck you again.”

You flick his forehead.

“Ow—okay, okay. For art. Not for horny.”

But you both know the truth. You’re absolutely getting another tattoo. And this man is going to absolutely ruin you again. With love. And dick. And filthy words. And then cuddle you like a little spoon with separation anxiety.

So the answer? Yeah. Yeah you will be seeing more of him. More dates. More dick. More tattoos. Guess it's fate.

[gh0stsp1d3r]

Tattoo artist!rafe x angel!reader who lets rafe do her secret tats, the ones that her parents have no clue about.

warnings: secret tattoos, suggestive so MDNI, he does end up touching and looking at your boobs LMFAO, nd this is for my girls with spaced out titties (me) ✊🏽

♫ dirty little secret, the all-american rejects

“Shit, is that who I think it is?” His voice causes you to look up, smiling at him with a little wave, standing up from the leather couch you were sat on, pocketing your phone and walking towards him.

“My favorite client.” He complimented, walking over to you and wrapping his arms around you with a grin on his face.

“Aww… you’re too sweet.”

“How are you? It’s been a little. Last I saw you was church.” He said with a chuckle, you shrugging.

“Same old. How about you?”

“It’s been… going. You know, can’t complain. But I was really glad when I saw you dm me.” He spoke, motioning for you to follow him back when he began to walk. He led you into a room, shutting the door behind him. You sat down, nerves shooting as he turned back to you.

“So, I got the reference all drawn out.” He spoke while grabbing the stencil, showing it to you. “What do you think?”

“It’s amazing! As always.”

He smiled, flattered. He began putting his gloves on, your heart thumping against your chest as you sat down. You were nervous for two reasons, one being that tattoos always made you nervous, rightfully so. Reason two, well, that was because Rafe, one of your best friends who you had a fat crush on, was about to see you completely topless. It’s not like he hasn’t before, last appointment being a pair of little angel wings on your back, leaving you in your bra.

But now, he was literally going to see you without a bra. Maybe you should have picked another artist.

But it was too late to turn back now, you realized after he turned back, cleaning supplies for your skin in hand, along with the stencil.

“Uhm- can you take off your shirt and bra f’me?” He nodded at you, your cheeks warming up at the words. “Here, I’ll-“ he murmured, turning around to give you some sort of privacy, his back facing you. You tugged off both garments of clothing, and swallowed the lump that formed in your throat when he turned to look back at you. You sat back down on the chair.

“You all good?” He asked you, trying his best to look at your face rather than your tits as he walked closer to the chair. He grabbed the cleaning supplies, cleaning near and on the area where you wanted it before drying your skin off.

“Mhm.” You nodded, watching as his eyes traveled down your body, a spark in his eyes, he moved his hands slowly, beginning to line the little bow stencil up. His hands grazed the skin of your breasts, causing your breath to hitch. You held them in your hands, shielding them from his eyes.

“Okay… you said right here, correct?” He spoke, glancing into your eyes as he placed the stencil where the valley of where your boobs were, trying his best to remain professional despite everything. God, he hoped you couldn’t see the way his cock started to stir in his pants.

You nodded at him, him poking his tongue out of his mouth as he put it against your skin, smoothing it against your body before peeling it back, the ink now on your skin.

He sighed out in relief, it was perfectly placed and he hadn’t given away that he was rock hard.

“You want a water?” He asked you, you nodding at him. “Alright. I’ll be back.” He spoke, you finally taking a breath when he walked out of the room.

Not only was it an almost seemingly very long appointment, he made it worse every time you felt his hands brush up on your body.

You tried your best to have casual conversation, but god, was he making it hard.

“Hey, did you ever tell your parents about this?” He asked you randomly, you looking at him with a furrowed eyebrow. “Just out of curiosity. I know how they are.”

“Definitely not. They would kill me. They already think that anyone else with tattoos is ‘sent by the devil.’”

He chuckled, “heard that one before.”

You found yourself staring at his pillowy lips when he spoke, or his hands when he traced over the stencil carefully.

And once it was done, he gave you a fucking discount.

“Wait, whys it cheaper?” You asked him, looking at him with confusion on your face.

“I told you, you’re my favorite client. Plus, I can’t say I disliked the view I got during it.” He was getting bolder, a smirk making its way onto his face.

Cheeky motherfucker.

You tilted your head to the side with a little pout on your lips. “Are you sure? I feel bad.”

“I’m sure, princess.” He chuckled. “Just come back, yeah? Needa see you more.”

“Well, actually… if you want, I’m having this party next weekend… you know,” you shrugged, casually leaning over the counter. “My parents are out of town for a while.” You told him, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips as he raised his eyebrows at the invitation.

“Yeah?” He hummed out.

“Mhm.” You nodded, “you should come!”

“Oh, I definitely will.”

You smiled at him, leaning further over the counter to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you so much, Rafey!” You told him when you turned around to leave, waving bye to him.

“Anytime, angel!”

[redcali]

DESCRIPTION: In your upcoming play, you purposely don’t mention that you’re going to kiss another boy in one of the scenes. Caleb is fuming, even if it’s just an act. His possessiveness takes over, and he fucks you hard in the dressing room, eventually making you go back out onstage with his cum dripping between your thighs♡1.1K words

WARNINGS: NSFW 18+ MDNI, semi-public, possessive s3x, jealous Caleb, fingering

── .✦

You know about the kiss scene that is about to happen as your love interest for the play you both starred in walks towards you onstage. You know Caleb is watching, somewhere amongst the audience as the love interest presses his lips up to yours.

His lips feel chapped and nowhere as good as Caleb’s, but you kiss him back anyways, even going as far as wrapping your arms around his neck. You want to get a rise out of Caleb, you want to see how he'd act. The audience applaud and cheer for the new couple.

You’re pulling away as you begin to deliver the next line. That’s when you spot Caleb amongst the crowd, and he looks you squarely in the eyes. His face is hardened, eerily calm and unreadable. Chills shoot down your spine and you freeze up a bit. Have you gone too far? 

Act 1 eventually draws to an end and the curtains swing shut. Your legs hurt from having pranced around onstage for so long. The crew sit around backstage, catching their breaths and rereading their scripts as the make-up artists rush around making sure everyone continues to look flawless. You look around for your own script, but then realize that you’ve left it in the dressing room. 

You walk down the empty hallway and enter the large space. You’ve barely taken two steps into the room when the door shuts behind you with a clinical, final click. You turn and Caleb already has one arm locked around your neck as he drags you over to the nearest dressing table. 

“Caleb –!” you choke out, eyes wide with surprise and shock. “What – I can’t breathe – ” Your fingers pry desperately at his arms, you can feel the muscles underneath his skin rippling as he bends you over the dressing table with ease, sending various wigs and makeup products flying off the surface.

Without warning, he pulls up your costume dress and yanks down your panties. A hand comes down on your bare ass, hard and stinging, and you squeal out in pain. 

“You didn’t tell me that there was going to be a kiss scene.” he says with a chilling calmness. Another slap to your ass. You let out a choked sob, struggling against him but he holds you down against the table. Despite the current situation, arousal stirs in the pit of your stomach. 

“Caleb – this is mad – please, I just forgot – ngghhh!” A finger slides into your wet cunt, stroking that sweet spot inside of you that makes you see stars. Caleb finger fucks you at a ruthless pace as he leans forward, chest pressed up against your back.

“Bullshit,” he hisses against the shell of your ear. “You knew how I would react when I saw you pull that shit just now at the stage. Fucking slut. You just want to see me like this, don't you?”

He pulls his fingers out and you whine like a bitch in heat. He lifts you up again, and props you up on the dressing table. He’s so fucking tall he’s towering over you as he forces your legs open with his arms, exposing your dripping cunt, all for him. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen.” he says calmly, though his dark violet eyes are flashing. “I’m going to fuck you right here and you’re going to walk back out there brimming with my cum. Okay?” he coos, reaching a hand out to gently stroke the side of your face. You nod numbly, your face burning with humiliation.

“And if you dare to even touch that guy again when you go back out…” he whispers, his grip on the side of your face tightening ever so slightly. “I’ll make you wish you never even breathed in his direction.”

He takes his own sweet time pushing his cock into you whilst locking his eyes with yours. You take him inch by inch, feeling every stretch and drag as your walls struggle to accommodate his girthy length that is sending pleasure radiating in waves through your body.

And then he’s pounding into you with a vicious kind of speed. His hands are everywhere at once, gripping, dragging, groping, all whilst forcing you to keep up with his unforgiving pace. 

His mouth is right against your ear, breath hot, voice low and rough with possession. "You're mine," he growls, the words biting, primal. "Mine to touch. Mine to break. Mine to keep. My girl will not be going around kissing other fucking men."

He pulls you closer, so close you can barely breathe without filling your lungs with the heat coming off him. His other hand seizes your chin as he fucks ruthlessly into you, forcing your rolling eyes up to meet his. 

“Take it. Don’t you dare fall apart just yet. I’m not done with you.”

His mouth is parted as soft pants fall from his lips “No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to hear the sounds you make when I’m fucking you this good." His thumb brushed your lower lip, slow and taunting. He says it like a fucking statement. 

Reaching a hand down to thumb over your clit whilst he continues to pound mercilessly into you, rolling your sensitive nub in between his fingers, it doesn’t take long until you feel that familiar yet delicious pressure build up in the pits of your stomach. Caleb notices it too, he notices everything about you, and his eyes narrow, lips curving into a slight smirk.

“Close, baby?”  he doesn’t wait for a reply though, as he gives your clit a hard pinch. Your mouth hangs open as a shattering orgasm rips through you. You’re crying and moaning as you cum, hard, around his cock. Caleb lets out a soft groan at the tightening of your walls, his hips stuttering as he reaches his own high.

“Ahh – fuck, baby!” 

Caleb moans as he cums into you, fingers digging into your waist as spurts of white paint your inner walls. It’s warm, and you can feel it sloshing in you as he slowly fucks the cum into you.

“Hah – don’t let a single drop go to waste, baby.” 

Caleb pulls out and plugs his fingers into you as he leans down for an affectionate, open mouthed kiss. You whimper weakly against him.

Your legs are trembling as he helps you to your feet. You can feel his warm sticky cum dripping down your thighs as he smooths your skirt back into place.  

Just like that, Caleb is back to his usual self again, that fucker, with his confident boyish grin and just the tiniest hint of pride glinting in his eyes. 

“Now go back out and continue your play, love. Why on earth are you making your audience wait for you?” 

Act 2

── .✦

[phoenixrisingastro]

🔥 ASTRO OBSERVATIONS V: THE DARKEST SECRETS NO ONE WANTS TO ADMIT 🔥

This is not your basic astrology post. This is the raw truth, the obsession, the manipulation, the taboo. These are the secrets written in your chart that you don’t want anyone to know. But I see them. And now, so will everyone else.

🔪 1. Scorpio placements don’t “heal,” they just get better at hiding the damage. You’ll never see a Scorpio truly break down. They’ll self-destruct in private and come back looking stronger, colder, untouchable.

💋 2. Venus in Aries needs the thrill of the chase—but once they catch you, they’re already looking for their next target. The fun isn’t in keeping you, it’s in making you obsessed first.

🕷 3. Pluto in the 7th House doesn’t just attract toxic relationships, they ARE the toxic relationship. If you date them, you will never be the same. You might leave, but you won’t escape.

👄 4. People with Mercury square Pluto know exactly what to say to ruin you. One sentence, one whisper, one well-timed truth—and your entire world crumbles. They don’t argue. They just destroy.

🖤 5. Capricorn moons will mourn you while they’re still in the relationship. They don’t leave when they’re done loving you. They leave when they’ve already grieved your absence in their mind.

🔥 6. Lilith in the 8th House is a walking fantasy and a living nightmare. You will crave them, you will want to own them, and in the end? You will be consumed by them.

👁 7. People with Neptune in the 1st House don’t lie on purpose—they just don’t know who the fuck they are. Every personality they take on is real in the moment—but it won’t be real forever.

💔 8. Mars in the 12th House doesn’t show their anger—they absorb yours. The more you push them, the more it builds. And when it finally explodes? It’s over for you.

⛓ 9. Venus square Saturn can’t tell if they’re in love or in debt to someone. They’ll stay in relationships out of guilt, obligation, or karma long after the love is gone.

🩸 10. Pluto in the 1st House was born with a target on their back. People sense their power before they even speak, and they either want to control them, ruin them, or worship them.

💀 11. If you have Sun opposite Pluto, one of your parents wanted to be you, but couldn’t. Instead, they spent your childhood breaking you down so you’d never surpass them.

💋 12. Venus conjunct Mars people are either irresistible or repulsive—there’s no in-between. People either can’t get enough of them, or they feel deeply disturbed by their energy.

🩸 13. If you have Mars in the 8th House, you know what it’s like to almost kill someone in bed. Enough said.

💀 14. A Moon-Pluto person will love you deeper than anyone else—until they realize you’re not worth it. And when they leave? You’ll never find that depth again.

🕷 15. Chiron in the 7th House attracts lovers who stab them in their weakest spot. Every heartbreak feels like a personal betrayal. They love hard, and they get burned even harder.

💔 16. A Scorpio Venus will NEVER truly let go of you. You will live in the back of their mind, rotting there, forever.

🖤 17. People with Mars in Scorpio never fight fair. If you’ve pissed them off? You won’t even know they’re coming for you until it’s too late.

👁 18. Neptune in the 5th House makes people addicted to falling in love. They don’t love people—they love the feeling of love itself. The moment the illusion breaks, so does their desire.

🕯 19. Saturn in the 12th House comes into this life already tired. Their soul is carrying exhaustion from past lives, and they don’t even know why.

🩸 20. Pluto in the 5th House creates artists that make pain beautiful. They take their trauma and turn it into something that haunts others.

🔥 21. People with Mars in Leo will NEVER forget the one person who rejected them. They could be adored by millions, but the ONE who didn’t bow? That’s the one who haunts them.

🩸 22. If you have Venus in the 12th House, your love life will always feel like a tragic love story. The person you love most? You’ll never fully have them.

🕷 23. Moon in the 8th House people know things about you that you don’t even know about yourself. They can read your soul, your wounds, your fears. And you’ll never understand how.

💔 24. A South Node in the 7th House was born to learn how to be alone. Every relationship will break them down until they learn to choose themselves first.

💀 25. Saturn in the 5th House people never felt like children, even when they were kids. They were born into responsibility, and life has never truly felt light.

🔥 26. Lilith in the 1st House women don’t attract attention—they COMMAND it. People will stare, obsess, and fear them, all without knowing why.

💋 27. Pluto conjunct Venus people will either be the best thing that’s ever happened to you, or the worst. They either heal you, or they leave you scarred for life.

🖤 28. Uranus in the 7th House people attract lovers who come out of nowhere and disappear just as fast. Their love life is a never-ending storm.

💀 29. If someone has Pluto square their Moon, they have an unresolved war with their mother. And it will bleed into every relationship they ever have.

🔥 30. The darkest part of your chart is where you hold the most power. Until you own it? It will own you.

👁 So? Did I hit you where it hurts?

🔥 Drop your placements. Let’s see who’s brave enough to admit the truth..

© PhoenixRisingAstro, 2025. All rights reserved

[edge-oftheworld]

one thing I love about following celebrities/artists who are honest and proactive about their mental health struggles etc is I can’t count the number of times someone I know is going through something and I’m like ‘I’ve got a song for u’ and how much of my life involves telling myself ‘if [redacted] can do something/get better/etc then so can i’ (and having actual real evidence of it in front of me) and I can’t understate how much I appreciate these things.

but at the same time it involves a whole lot of watching people I care about suffer and you learn to read the signs and infer between the lines in songs and interviews, and yes we can never fully know what they don’t share with us, but when they do share things it’s not a big stretch to be like ‘this seems like it’s what life is like for you and I have taken encouragement from it but you deserve so much better’. and it’s easy to find ways to get angry at a predatory industry and realise things that could be hurtful if you’re already fragile.

and we can advocate for some things and help ourselves and the people around us feel better but it’s hard to meaningfully reach your faves as an individual. and there are things we can’t say on the internet in too much detail, speculation becomes the harmful kind of gossip, and so sometimes it’s a whole lot of internally saying ‘you’re doing incredibly well to have gotten to where you are but I wish for your sake things would get better faster’

[sincerelyneo]

fifteen minutes | n.jm

“i can do a lot in fifteen minutes, only gonna take two to make you finish”

💿now playing: 15 minutes by sabrina carpenter

❯ summary: Jaemin is supposed to be on stage soon—not in his dressing room with his girlfriend. He’s on a time crunch. Good thing you can do a lot in fifteen minutes.

❯ pairings: idol!jaemin x fem!reader

❯ genre: established relationship, just pure smut

❯ words: 2.3k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni, hand jobs, mirror kink, premature ejaculation, switch!jaemin, oral sex (male receiving), neediness, cum swallowing, unprotected sex (don’t do this!), reader uses she/her pronouns, literally just quickie smut

When Jaemin first asked you to join him on tour this year, it sounded like such a great idea. He pitched it in a way he knew you couldn’t turn down: like a fun bucketlist, a silly scavenger hunt where the two of you would fuck in every city on the tour. You weren’t thinking straight at the time—just liked the sound of not being away from your boyfriend for months at a time. And sex. Lots of it.

But you only made it through two stops on the U.S. leg before things started going south. First was LA, then Oakland—both in California, which Jaemin insisted didn’t need separate hookups because they were the same state. But then one skipped stop turned into two, then five, then the entire Latin America leg went without so much as a quickie. At this point, you swear the two of you were having more phone sex when he was away than actual sex now that you’re here.

But it’s not his fault. It’s not yours, either. Tour is just so…mentally exhausting. There’s so much to do, so little time. Honestly, it hurts you, seeing how disconnected he becomes when he’s constantly on the go. It’s like his body shifts into auto-pilot, just moving through the motions: rehearsal, soundcheck, makeup, performance, sleep, repeat. He never misses cuddles before bed, though, he’s soft like that. 

And now, as you sit in his dressing room, watching his makeup artist roll her kit out, you can feel all that tension, all the frustration—yours and his—simmering in the air. You need him. You want him. You want him to relax, to take himself off auto-pilot and let his mind be here, be present, with you, in Europe, in London, at the last stop of the tour.

You get up from the couch and settle behind him as he looks into the full-length mirror. Your arms snake around his waist, and you rest your chin on his shoulder, pressing soft, feather-light kisses down his neck.

“You look pretty,” you whisper against his creamy skin, your breath so hot, so tantalizing, it forces him suck in his own sharp inhale.

“Baby…” he groans, “I have to be on stage in fifteen minutes.”

Exactly, you think. He’s a force on stage, filled with so much energy. You know that if you don’t have him now, you might not get him until you’re back home.

“Good thing I can do a lot in fifteen minutes.”

Your hand runs down the front of his stage outfit, careful not to crease anything and send his stylist into a frenzy—well, more of a frenzy than she's already going to be in for what you have planned. Jaemin watches the motion through the mirror, his nostrils flaring as his dark brown eyes lock onto your hands gliding down his body. He’s needed this, needed you, the whole tour. And now, he’s going to stand there and let you take whatever you want from him.

Your fingers fumble with his belt buckle, snapping it open just enough to toy with his zipper and palm the growing bulge in his briefs.

“Babyyy…” he groans again, voice strained, almost like it’s a struggle. And maybe it is, Jaemin hates (loves) your teasing. “We can’t—We shouldn’t.”

“You don’t want to?” you ask, glancing at him through the mirror. You flutter your lashes at him so innocently, as if you’re not currently rubbing his hard, needy cock through the thin black material. 

“Fuck…” His head falls back for a moment, but he’s quick to lift it again, his eyes needing to find you again in the mirror. He can’t look away, especially not now when you're teasing him so deliberately. “Baby, you know I want to, but fuck—fifteen minutes isn’t enough time for me to fuck you the way I want.”

You smile knowingly. You get it. When Jaemin fucks, he fucks intentionally. He likes to take his time, kissing every part of you—your wrists, your forearms, your stomach, your hips, your thighs, your ankles. All of it, like pieces of art only he gets to appreciate. He likes that you’re his, wants to remember how lucky he is to be the only one savouring every inch of you. He’s patient, thoughtful. Fifteen minutes wouldn’t give him the time to indulge like he usually does.

That’s probably why he hasn’t tried fucking you much during the tour; but right now, you don’t want careful. You want quick. You want messy. You want to make him feel good, even if it’s just for a short time.

“I never said you had to do anything,” you murmur, peppering another kiss to his neck, your voice low. “I said I can do a lot in fifteen minutes. So, please, let me make you feel good, Jaem.”

He bites his lip, conflicted. Jaemin knows he shouldn’t, really knows he shouldn’t, but the desire coursing through him is too much to ignore. He wants this, so badly. That’s why he’s letting you help him slide his briefs down, just enough. You don’t take them all the way off—time’s not on your side—but just enough to let his hard, eager cock spring free. His tip is  flushed and angry, glistening with pre-cum, thick and veiny and standing to attention.

“Shit, Jaem, this must fucking ache, baby.” 

You wrap your fingers around his cock, and he shudders the second you touch him—so sensitive. Jaemin’s eyes stay locked on yours in the mirror, pupils blown wide as he watches you slowly start to stroke him. But there’s no time for slow, no time for teasing. You have fifteen minutes to make him cum, and you will.

“God, Y/N… shit—please,” Jaemin breathes, his voice wrecked. “You’re fucking killing me.”

You just smile, sly and dirty, as you keep working him over. He’s like putty in your hand, his hips rolling forward, chasing the friction, so desperate, so fragile, so pent up. Your fingers twist and stroke, applying just the right pressure to make his whole body shudder—abs tightening, breath hitching. It’s mesmerizing. And it’s even hotter knowing he’s watching it all unfold in the mirror, eyes hazy, lips parted, completely undone by you.

You lean in, your lips just inches from his ear, and whisper, “You’re so hard for me, Jaem. It’s so pretty.”

His eyes flutter shut. He loves being pretty for you, loves being perfect when he can, loves when you tell him. His head falls back as he surrenders to the sensation, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. And you can feel it—the way his body tenses, a different kind of tension building deep inside him.

You pick up the pace, stroking him faster, more deliberate. Long, languid strokes, your grip firm but careful, paying extra attention to the head—just the way he likes it, the way you know will get him there to make use of the time. 

You can’t help but smirk when his hips start moving more frantically, short breaths turning into whimpers, pleads—desperate, breathy begging.

“Think your stylist will be pissed if you cum on these pants?” you tease, easing the pace. “They look expensive… maybe I should stop—”

“Don’t…” pant, “You…” pant, “Dare.”

You wouldn’t—of course not. You don’t want to stop, but you’re not a menace either. You don’t want him getting into any trouble because of you. So, you do the only thing that makes sense.

You drop to your knees.

He barely has a second to process it before your mouth is on him—warm, wet, and devastating. The moment your lips wrap around his cock, sucking him deep, his vision dots, pleasure attacking him so hard it nearly knocks the breath from his lungs.

His arm shoots out, palm slamming against the mirror. “Oh, fuck… shit—baby, I’m gonna—fuck!”

You don’t slow, don’t falter—your head bobs relentlessly, determination driving you. Jaemin’s cock throbs with every glide, every flick of your tongue, and when you glance up at him—God, he’s beautiful like this. Completely wrecked.

His sweet mouth turned sinful, spilling filthy curses between gasping breaths. His glossy eyes, dilated and cloudy, drink in the sight of you. Pink lips part, and tremble, because he’s so utterly lost in the satisfaction you’re giving him. Until finally, his knees buckle, his hand slips from the mirror, and with a broken moan, he grips your head, holding you in place as his hips stutter—shattering—while he spills down your throat.

You don’t waste a drop—you take it all. The first spurt hits the depths of your throat, warm and salty, and you swallow without hesitation. Jaemin’s body jerks, shuddering through the aftershocks, broken moans filling the air. Slowly, you pull back, his cock slipping from your mouth, leaving a thin trail of cum on your lips. You want to lick them clean, let your tongue dart out to catch every last drop—but he doesn’t let you. 

His thumb gently brushes your lips, gathering up the rest of his release that you couldn’t swallow. He presses it to your mouth, rubbing slow and teasing, until you part your lips for him. You take his thumb into your mouth, sucking it clean, making a show of licking up every last drop, relishing the taste. At least you didn’t get anything on his clothes—that would have been a nightmare.

When he finally pulls his thumb from your mouth, he sighs, his body relaxing as he comes down from the high. He reaches out to pull you to your feet, and you smile up at him.

“Look at that,” you tease, nodding toward the small blue clock on the wall. “Two whole minutes.”

He groans, “Ugh… don’t remind me.”

You laugh, teasing, “Told you, I can do a lot in fifteen minutes. It’s a gift.”

Almost like a switch has been flipped, your words spark something wolfish in his eyes, and before you can process anything else, he’s pressing his mouth into yours, pushing you back against the cool glass of the mirror.

You gasp, breathless, “Jaem—what are you—”

“Making the most of my fucking fifteen minutes. I have thirteen left, no?”

“But I thought you were in a hurry—”

He cuts you off, his grip tightening around you as he presses you harder into the surface. “Put your fucking hands on the mirror, Y/N, and lift up your dress. I’m fucking you.”

You don’t protest, because it’s his turn now. His turn to wreck you, to possess you, to scramble your mind until you’re nothing but a puddle beneath him. You place your hands on the mirror, feeling the cool glass beneath your palms. It contrasts sharply with Jaemin’s firm, heated grip on your hips and his fingers that are digging into your skin. 

Making the most of his seconds, Jaemin slams into you from behind, his cock driving deep inside your pussy, movements fast and urgent. You squirm, suddenly reminded of the fact that you're in his dressing room, just a few feet away from the backstage crew. Quickly, you pull one hand away from the mirror to cover your mouth and stifle the sounds he’s about to work out of you.

Jaemin fucks into you fast. It makes you breathless, the glass fogging up around your hand as he pounds and pounds. The rhythm is frantic, the strokes short and sharp. The sound of your bodies slapping together echoes through the room, filthy, wet smacks that are almost obscene.

The two of you have never had sex like this before—though you’re definitely not complaining. It’s messy. It’s rushed. It’s wild. And it feels so damn good. His hands are everywhere—gripping your breasts, your ass, your thighs through rustled fabric. His time may be counting down, but he still needs to touch every inch of you as he moves inside you. 

“Look at how well you take me, baby,” he breathes, his teeth grazing your ear, nipping at the lobe. “Look at how perfect we fit together. Made for each other, yeah?”

You nod eagerly, your breath hitching as you whisper, “Yes.”

“Exactly,” he groans, “So damn perfect for each other. You’re gonna make me cum again, baby.”

The mirror shows a distorted reflection of Jaemin's face, twisted in pure ecstasy. His eyes are shut, mouth parted in a silent scream as he fucks you relentlessly like an animal. You feel the sweat dripping down his face, the tension rippling through his body as he chases his release.

“Not yet,” you beg, “Please, Jaem, not yet. We have six more minutes.”

He doesn’t know why he can’t hold himself back now—he usually enjoys long, drawn-out sex. It’s his favourite. But everything feels too overwhelming, too good. You, here, on tour, with the clock ticking, the stakes, it all turns him on for no reason at all. But nothing—and he means nothing—gets him harder than the thought of pleasing you. 

So, he holds back, gritting his teeth as he fucks you raw, resisting the urge to be greedy. Lets himself soak in the feeling of your warm, wet walls pulling him in instead.

And damn, it’s worth it—always so damn worth it to watch you melt beneath him, needing him to hold you up as your body trembles. Your orgasm hits you hard, making your pussy clench around him desperately. Jaemin is only human, and he can’t hold on any longer, not with you pulsing around him. 

He groans with a final thrust of his own. “Fuck—”

Looks like you both can do a lot in fifteen minutes.