#making connections where there are none that's me

[s1eepy-bear]

‧୨🌿୧ ₊˚ 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥・𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐

pairing: robert 'bob' reynolds x ex shield agent! f!reader

summary: it's your first day on duty and you bring donuts for the team. a silly morning encounter reveals bob's hidden vulnerabilities. you quickly developing an unexpected connection with him.

content: MDNI!, no y/n, silly, fluffy, cute, slow burn

warnings: not proof read, bob's abs lol

a/n: i finally thought of a title for this series! i wonder if i'm getting too hung up on everyone else's interaction with the reader, should i focus more on her interactions with bob? let me know <3 Chapter 1

That night, a soft, balmy breeze billowed your open curtains, bringing with it the faint, persistent pulse of New York's distant hustle and bustle. You lie in bed, soft sheets enveloping you as you try to drift into sleep. Behind your closed eyelids, a persistent image gnawed at you: Bob’s red, shy face. 

A sliver of guilt hangs heavy in your chest for having flustered him so abruptly. You now have a level of access to those in the spotlight that SHIELD had never granted you, and the excitement of your new proximity to the New Avengers had entirely swept you away. You must remain professional.

Just two years ago, Bob slowly inked New York City away into darkness, turning people into shadows one by one, causing severe damage to the city and resulted in numerous injuries.

With this in mind, flirting feels frivolous and irresponsible when confronted with the ghosts of his past. And if he is in a vulnerable head space, you don’t want to be the one to take advantage of it, even if it's unintentional. This isn’t the kind of crush you can afford to have.

With these thoughts plaguing your mind and the heavy exhaustion from the busy work day, you slowly drift off to sleep.

༉ ✧˚₊

The following morning, the sun drenched the landscape, laying a shimmering, almost translucent veil over everything it touched. A gentle breeze dances through the air, making it a little chilly since the sun is still low on the horizon.

You woke up extra early to drop by the charming donut shop you frequent to grab breakfast for the whole team. You opted for something simple, sugar donuts, until you learn everyone’s preferences.

You walk into the tower from your car, the bag of donuts in hand, thoughtfully greeting the other workers maintaining the tower along the way. The light above the sensor in the elevator beeps green when you touch the access key to it and whirs into motion, swiftly bringing you to your desired floor.

The common area where the team welcomed you yesterday is now dark due to the curtains being drawn. The space is quiet, spared from the steady, low hum of the air conditioner running. You check your watch: only 6:10. Most of them are probably asleep.

You decide to take this time to brew some fresh, actually hot, coffee. While the pot gurgles, you tidy up various spots in the common area and kitchen: throw pillows on the floor, a bag of Goldfish crackers left open, a few books and magazines scattered around, dishes in the sink, cereal pieces that didn’t make it to the mouth, expired things in the fridge.

The smell of the fresh brew fills the space as you continue to busy yourself with noting down numerous items, food, and snacks for restocking. You silently note to yourself to get everyone’s phone number so they can get ahold of you if they ever need something.

“Oh, good morning,” Yelena says as she walks out from a corridor, which you learned from her yesterday, leads to the gym. Her face shiny from a thin sheen of sweat as she makes her way toward you, wiping the sweat off with the towel around her neck. Her short blonde hair is pushed back with a headband.

“Good morning, Ms. Belova,” you greet her back with a mellow murmur, the sound soft enough not to disturb the early morning quiet. 

“No, no, none of that,” she plops herself down on one of the leather bar stools by the kitchen island, the stool legs scraping faintly against the floor. You tilt your head, a question forming in your head. The coffee maker gives a final satisfying beep, its brewing cycle complete.

“Just Yelena,” she clarifies. 

 You smile at that, “Well, Yelena, would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

You collect two mugs from the cabinet, the ceramic cool beneath your fingers, and fill them both with fresh coffee. Wisps of steam rose lazily from the dark liquid. The rich aroma blossoms in the air as you set one mug before her. She nods appreciatively.

“So, you think Bob is cute, huh?” Yelena inquires, a playful glint in her eyes, just as you raise your cup to take a sip. The unexpected question catches in your throat, forcing a sharp, spluttering cough.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” your initial serene expression crumples, replaced by a deep flush rising to your cheeks. You lower your cup to press your fingers between your eyebrows in a flustered manner. Yelena laughs, a low, throaty sound, propping her elbows on the counter.

“Come on, you wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t mean it.”

“It’s not that I didn’t mean it, it’s just…it was unprofessional,” you avert your gaze, suddenly the bleak marble counter looks very interesting. 

“Who cares!” She lightheartedly rolls her eyes. “We’re hardly a professional organization. You just said what was on your mind.”

“Still,” you insist softly, tracing the rim of your mug with your thumb, the ceramic now warmer due to your body heat and hot beverage.

The Watchtower's dormant systems hummed—a low, almost imperceptible sound that seemed to amplify the awkward quietness. Your downcast eyes catch the wrinkled paper bag of donuts—your saving grace.

“Anyways…care for a donut?” You ask as you hold up the bag. “I settled for something basic since I don’t know what everyone liked. Let me know if you have any preferences,” Yelena gives you a knowing look, taking a deliberate sip of her coffee to hide her lips twitching with suppressed amusement. She is letting you off the hook, for now.

Yelena reaches for the bag, her fingers lightly hover as she carefully chooses what must be the perfect one. She takes a huge bite and lets out a genuine, drawn-out groan of pleasure. “Mmm! This is good, actually good, better than whatever dad tries to make.” 

You let out a quick exhale of a laugh. The tight knot of tension in your chest finally loosens. You pluck a donut for yourself, not bothering with Yelena’s meticulous selection process.

Even with her teasing about Bob, a warm wave of relief washes over you. You've found a genuine connection with at least one person on this team. Well, there's Alexei too, but Alexei is friendly right off the bat, like a big, boisterous golden retriever.

As you and Yelena enjoy your donuts, a quiet murmur of conversation and two pairs of footsteps draw steadily louder. 

“Wow, looks real tidy out here,” Walker’s voice announces from just around the corner. He steps fully into the kitchen, Bucky Barnes following close behind him. They both are in athletic gear, ready for a morning workout. “Smells real good too.”

“Good morning, Mr. Walker, and nice to finally meet you, Mr. Barnes.” Your lips curve upward in a polite greeting. Bucky simply returns it with a nod and a small smile of his own, while Yelena tosses a casual, “What’s up, losers?” their way.

“Some coffee and donuts?” you offer, holding up the bag. Both of the super soldiers accept enthusiastically. While they chat with Yelena, you busy yourself with coffee and mugs.

"Maybe this secretary thing is awesome after all," Walker remarks complacently with a smirk, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine amusement. He works away at his donut.

“Walker,” Bucky lectures, his voice a low, warning rumble.

You smile as you set their coffee in front of them on the kitchen island. "Just part of the job,” you can’t deny that it feels good to have someone acknowledge and appreciate your work, even jokingly. 

༉ ✧˚₊

After a quick breakfast, the others begin to disperse. Yelena leaves to go take a shower, and Bucky and Walker make their way to the gym. 

You inhale your donut in a few quick bites and retrieve your company-issued tablet from your purse, flipping through various tabs, reviewing the team’s schedule today. Although each person on the team is sent their own schedule, you keep everyone’s, so you can locate someone if you are looking for them, or if someone doesn’t make it somewhere on time, it’s your duty to check on them.  

A quick glance confirms the mission briefing for tomorrow: the whole team, minus Bob. It seems like Val is utilizing the new support staff—you, to keep him company while the team is deployed. While your role for most of the team is to respond when needed, your duties for Bob involve a slightly more active form of oversight. You have to make sure that he wakes up before noon and eats all his meals. 

For now, you sit in the common area with the curtains drawn open, as you review what would be stacks of paperwork if it weren’t digital. The Watchtower is brighter but not much more lively. Today is everyone’s day off; therefore, some go their separate ways to take care of business. You would usually find the quietness relaxing, but the lack of structure is unnerving. It’s not the kind of stressful, rigid work environment you're used to.

You officially met Ava Starr when she strolled past the common area on her way out. Her movement fluid and silent, as if gliding. Her ethereal, pale blue eyes remind you of a fairy.

With your introduction, she simply mutters, “finally, another girl.” A faint smile tugging at her lips.

“Want a donut?” 

How many times have you said the word ‘donut’ today?

“How thoughtful, don’t mind if I do,” Ava says, giving you a nod of thanks before she disappears.

A moment after Ava leaves, just when the air has settled, a soft padding of bare feet against the tiled floor catches your attention. Bob’s eyes are half closed, still lost somewhere in sleep, as he wobbles slowly across the common area toward the kitchen, oblivious to you. Strands of his brown hair stick out in different directions, appearing golden under the sun. You would alert him, but there’s something so captivating about watching Bob just existing, devoid of nervousness or uncertainty. 

He rubs his eye as he yawns tiredly, reaching a hand up under his shirt to scratch his stomach. The fabric rides up, revealing his abdomen. Your eyes widen, and your heart jolts against your ribcage. His baggy clothes make him look unassuming, even scrawny, but the reality is anything but. Beneath the fabric lay an expanse of taut, defined muscles that spoke quiet strength—a sharp contrast that stole your breath. You swallow thickly.

Fuck.

Still unaware of your presence, Bob's eyes finally open fully, drawn by something in the kitchen. His gaze falls on the last donut remaining on a plate. He absentmindedly grabs the pastry and starts feasting. Mid-chewing, he turns, locking eyes with you, and freezes.

“Oh shit,” he says incoherently, you almost didn’t make out his words. He swallows his bite, his eyes wide from surprise or panic, you’re not sure which, “uh, hey…that wasn’t yours, was it?”

You sputter, a fit of laughter hits you all at once, and you can’t seem to take a full breath. Maybe it was because of how carefree he was the second before, but reverted to his usual self in the snap of a finger, or the fact that there’s sugar on the side of his mouth.

Your laughter evokes a bashful smile from Bob, “So, was that a 'no, it wasn't yours,' or do you just enjoy my cluelessness?” He says, his tongue darts out briefly to lick away the sugar on the side of his mouth. 

“Maybe I do, and the donut is for you,” you say, still breathless from laughing. “You’re lucky that I’m here to make sure no one grabbed two.” 

“Thanks,” Bob lets out a sigh of relief, clearly still a bit embarrassed but grateful. "I…I didn’t know that you were going to be here today.”

“Well, Bob, I have a job here,” you tilt your head with an amused smile as you make your way to the kitchen, to him. “And I’ll be here every day.”

“Right, that makes sense…” His voice trails off. 

A quiet elation blossoms within him in your presence, like a breath of fresh spring air. You, with your gentle smile and disarming frankness, are a stark contrast from those who walk on eggshells around him, wary of rattling the Void. He doesn’t hold that against them, but it felt good being treated like he’s a normal person—no serum, no Sentry, no Void.

A tingly, warm feeling spreads across his chest, a feeling he didn’t even realize he missed. His bashful smile softens further, and his gaze, usually a little distant, settles on you with a warmth that matches the new feeling in his chest. He clears his throat gently. "So," he begins, “what exactly is your job with us…I mean, I know you are our uh, assistant or secretary, but what does that entail?”

“Well, just about anything, I can cook for you guys, get groceries, manage paperwork, clean, be good company,” you list, but pause, “speaking of groceries, you guys are very out. Would you come to the store with me? I’m not sure what everyone likes.”

“Oh, um…” Bob's face falls, his blue eyes clouding with sorrow. "The team doesn't like me going outside," he explains quietly. "Because the Void might come out, you know. And that's... not good."

“So you just…stay here all day?”

“Pretty much.”

You soften your gaze, speaking gently. "Val actually mentioned you're allowed to leave the Tower with a companion. You can't conquer the Void by being cooped up all day, Bob. Besides, we're only going to grab groceries, we'll come straight back if you'd like, and I'll be right there with you." You suggest, being careful not to pressure him into something he's uncomfortable with.

“Are you sure?” Bob fiddles with the sleeve of his sweatshirt—you learn that it’s a nervous habit of his.

“I believe in you. Do you believe in yourself?”

Bob seems to ponder it over in his head and eventually takes a deep breath. “Okay…I will at least try.”

“Alright,” you beamed, unable to stop the big smile spreading across your face. “That’s all I ask.”

Your smile lightened something in Bob, drawing a soft, answering smile to his lips.

Bob nodded, his gaze softening as he held your smile, “yeah…”

You tilt your head, a playful glint in your eye. "So, are you flying us or should I drive?"

button divider by @/bernardsbendystraws

[starm0onlight]

hello ms ma'am kaede !! 💗i hope you've been well. bubble anon here, i just want to say that i absolutely ADORE your layout and your work! may i request, a telemachus x reader angst, where basically they broke up bc lost interest but not feelings for each other, and neither of them wants to reach out but would love to try again? thank uuu <3

—🫧

stitches wounds!

₊˚⊹ ᰔ pairing: Telemachus x reader

₊˚⊹ ᰔ note: im not every good at writing angst but i hope i did well!! also yes i said I'll post it tomorrow but i got excited and finished it.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ warning: none

₊˚⊹ ᰔ content: angst, neglecting, break up, hurt/comfort, crying, apology, Athena and Penelope pushing Telemachus to fix things, happy ending.

🐺- you don't know how everything happened until it did, until it's too late to fix.

🪶- suddenly everything change, you start spending less time together, start talking less to each other, and sometimes not even spending any time with each other.

🐺- and then you two start to argue about the stupidest thing ever and for no reason. you thought it's all was because of the suitors and everything stressing him out, that he was just nervous about everything in the palace.

🪶- but even after his father came back and the suitors were gone, nothing changes, it becomes worse. not even good morning or good night. you barely see his face.

🐺- that when you decide to talk to him about it, that you couldn't be treated like this anymore. and that's when everything fall apart, you two decide to break up and everyone could go to their own path.

🪶- as heart broken as you were you thought it was for the better, that like this you won't feel neglected or ignored that's you'll find someone to actually love. but words were easier than action.

🐺- no matter how much you tired you couldn't forget him, everything seem to remind you of him, even the smallest thing seem to connect to him. but you ignore it, saying it'll all go away, but it never did.

🪶- on Telemachus side things weren't as easy too, he was suffering from his mistake, not only from himself but also his family.

🐺- his mom liked you so much and was devastated when she saw you leave and Telemachus tell her about your break up, she try to talk to him about it. but Telemachus was stubborn.

🪶- he didn't wanna admit his mistake, didn't wanna admit that he lost the only person that ever loved him and cared for him, didn't wanna dmit that he made a mistake her regret so deep but can't fix.

🐺- even athena notice it, how sad and shallow he look, like he just lost his core, his hope. he can't admit it through words but his actions never missed anyone eyes.

"you need to go and talk to her" said athena as she looked down at Telemachus who was laying in his bed, he was tired, not physically but emotionally.

"I'm fine, i don't need to talk to her, she's probably forget about me by now." he said as he rolled in his bed as if he was searching for something, maybe for the presence of his lover. for her warmth in his cold bed.

"look at yourself, you're miserable Telemachus even I can't stand and watch you do this to yourself. you still love her, you're just too stubborn to face it."

her words were true, even Telemachus knew it. but what could he do about it? he already missed up once, he doesn't wanna do it again.

"it's already too late now, it's been weeks. i don't even think she wants to see my face anymore" he said as he sighs deeply burying his face in the soft sheets.

"too late better than never, and there might be still a chance to fix everything. so before it's too late make up your mind." said athena before she turned into her owl form flying out of Telemachus room and away from the palace.

Telemachus just let her words sink in, is there really time to fix things? what if he makes things worse. what if he can't fix anything. what if you already moved on to another person?

after a while of thinking he made up his mind. he's going to take yoy back, he doesn't care if there's already someone else, ge won't let anyone take you from him.

he stands up on his feet and decided to do something about it. he might fuck up but he'll try, for you. for his undying love for you.

🪶- after his talk with athena Telemachus quick went to his mother room, asking her for her advice about what he should do to win your forgiveness.

🐺- Penelope was more than happy to see her son finally come back to his sense and take back what was the best thing in his life. you.

🪶- she tells him about stuff he should do and should say, that he doesn't need a script that his words most be true coming straight from his heart.

🐺- after that Telemachus was more excited now to go and try to fix things, maybe you guys could go back to what you were, before his stupidity ruin everything good hime has.

you were laying down in your bed as tears stormed down your face. no matter how much you try to convince yourself it won't work. you still love him, you still crave him but something inside you forbids you for doing anything about it except crying and asking yourself if there was a way everything could be fixed.

suddenly you heard a knock on your door, it was surprising since no one ever came to visit you. you just stop crying for a little before sighing deeply.

you get out of bed as you fix your clothes and whip your tears making sure they're invisible to whoever comes to see you. you look at the mirror one last time before going to answer the door.

as you opened the door you suddenly were hit by the view of Telemachus sitting on one knee with flowers in his hands, you were too shocked to even make a reaction.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry i was an idiot and ruined everything, I'm sorry I didn't mean for this to happen, i was way too stubborn to see anything or to realized I've ruined the best thing that ever happened to me. i don't deserve your forgiveness, not after what I've done, but please im just asking for another chance, i promise I'll do anything for you. i won't be that idiot and loss you again."

he said way too quickly for you to process, you couldn't even believe the view. Telemachus is here, after all these weeks he came to apologize? something in you tells you to shut the door in his face, but something else tells you to forgive him.

Telemachus had his eyes to the ground all the time, he didn't dare to look at you in the eyes, he couldn't. not after everything he's done.

he only lifted his head when he gears the sounds on your soft crying, his head quickly shot up as he saw you, the love of his love crying as her eyes become red and buffy.

"hey hey.. please don't cry please. i was an idiot and I don't deserve your love but please don't cry.." he said as he quickly stood up putting the flowers aside as his hands went to hold your face, whipping your tears slowly.

"you idiot, you dumb asshole, after all these weeks you came now!" you said almost angrily but you made no move to push him away, matter of fact you got closer leaning more into his touch.

"i know i know, i deserve everything you say about me. i was stubborn and let my pride take the better of me, but i couldn't just stand and see the love of my life slipping through my fingers" he said before trapping you into his arms in warm embrace. the warmth you missed.

"i know I'm late but I'm back now, and I'm asking for another chance to fix everything I've ruined, to build something new with you, are you willing to give me it?" he said as he pulled back enough to look into your eyes.

he has a soft smile on his face and his eyes were full of love and care, then you see him again. the man you fall in love with, the man you swear your life to.

"of course i will you fucking idiot, i could never love anyone but you" you said as you pull him back in your arms, holding him tightly as if he would disappear if you let go. he hold you in just as tight.

"i love you too and don't worry, i promise i won't do it again, athena and my mom would have my head if i did it again" he said sarcastically but he meant every word.

you were happier than ever, maybe the gods decided to give your love another chance and you'd make sure not to miss it up like last time. oh you wouldn't let him go, not again, not ever.

[aurora-writesjjk]

➷ That Kiss ➹ ║ JJK

✦ synopsis; two best friends fake-date for a wedding, but one unexpected kiss sparks real feelings, jealousy, and a confession that changes everything.

✦ genre; fluff, angst, fake dating, best friends to lovers

✦ pairing; jungkook x reader

✦ word count; 7.5k+

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The wedding invitation arrived on a lazy Thursday evening, exuding an elegance that starkly contrasted with the casual clutter of Y/N's apartment. Crafted from thick, cream cardstock with gold-foiled lettering and sealed with a wax emblem, it resembled something out of a historical drama. Y/N stared at it lying on her hallway floor, juxtaposed against her worn Converse and a half-empty Amazon package containing face masks and a lint roller.

She picked it up, her stomach sinking as she noticed a small handwritten note tucked inside, penned in Eunha's neat handwriting:

Please, you really have to come. It just won't be the same without you. You mean so much to me, and I want to share this happiest moment with you. And yes, bring your boyfriend too—the one with tattoos.

Love, Eunha.

Y/N stared down at the letter in her hands, the soft weight of the cream cardstock somehow heavier than it looked. Her mind began to wander, drifting through memories and tangled thoughts. How had her life led to this strange, almost surreal moment?

She thought about Eunha, her new friend, so vibrant and warm, who had quickly become one of the few people she truly trusted. Their friendship had blossomed fast—two souls unexpectedly connected in the bustle of a busy office.

But then, the weirdness of it all hit her again. Eunha's fiancé was none other than Minjae—her ex-boyfriend.

Minjae. He was her first love—the one who made her heart race with a joy she had never known. They had been so happy once, wrapped in the innocence of first romance, dreaming of endless tomorrows. She had liked him so much, more than she had ever admitted even to herself. But life had other plans. Things hadn't worked out the way they hoped. Minjae had to move to London, and the distance stretched more than just miles between them. The breakup was peaceful, without drama or bitterness, but it still left a hollow ache. Two years had passed since then.

A few months ago, Eunha had transferred to the Seoul office from the London branch. That's where she and Minjae had met—working overseas. They crossed paths, fell in love, and now they were getting married.

When Eunha joined the office, something about her clicked with Y/N instantly. She was warm, easy to talk to, and quickly became someone Y/N genuinely trusted. So when Y/N later found out that Eunha was dating Minjae—her ex—it caught her off guard. The timing, the connection, it was unexpected. A little strange. But she came to terms with it quickly. There were no grudges, no bitterness—just quiet acceptance. And more than that, she was happy for them. Truly. Life moved the way it wanted to.

She had moved on. No matter how much Minjae had once meant to her, those days were memories now, carefully tucked away but never forgotten. It was awkward at first, navigating this new dynamic with Eunha and Minjae intertwined in her life. But Eunha was genuine, kind, and a true friend. And eventually, Y/N found peace in the unexpected triangle fate had drawn.

Y/N was still holding the wedding invitation when her phone buzzed. It was a message from Nari.

Nari: Please tell me you got the invite. Don't even think about skipping it.

Nari wasn't just Y/N's close friend—she was also friends with Eunha and had received an invite to the wedding herself. So it made sense she knew about it.

Y/N smiled softly, about to reply, when another message popped up.

Nari: Ugh, I have to go back to Busan. My dad's not doing well, so I can't make it to the wedding.

Y/N's heart tightened hearing that, but Nari's teasing tone quickly followed.

Nari: But you? You better be going... and definitely with that tattooed Greek god you keep bragging about.

Y/N groaned into her palms. "I'm an idiot."

Because yes, she had invented a boyfriend—well, not invented. More like borrowed. Jeon Jungkook, her best friend and occasional emotional crutch, just happened to be real. Kind, thoughtful, achingly attractive, and absurdly aware of how girls tripped over their own feet looking at him.

The lie had been a stupid white one. They were at a cozy dinner party, and someone had asked if she was still hung up on Minjae. She wasn't. Not really. But in a moment of panic, she'd said she was dating someone new. When pressed, she'd blurted out: "Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook."

Now she had an invitation in her hand and the beginnings of a full-blown identity crisis.

Before she could spiral, she called Nari.

"You told them you were dating Jungkook?" Nari wheezed from the other end.

"I panicked!"

"You panicked and chose Jungkook? Literal boyfriend material? Sweetheart? Puppy in a leather jacket?"

"I didn't think it would matter. It was months ago. I thought she'd forget."

"She handwrote a note, Y/N. You know what this means, right?"

Y/N sighed. "I have to go."

"And take Jungkook."

Y/N closed her eyes. "I can't ask him. He's probably busy. He has clients. A life."

Nari paused. "...You do remember he once cancelled a date because your ceiling was leaking, right? Showed up in pajamas with a toolkit?"

Y/N laughed softly. "Yeah."

"You're his girl. He'd go to hell if you asked him."

"Please take care of your dad, okay? Keep me updated."

"I will. Have fun with your date, you lucky girl!"

Godhhh. And the call ended.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Baby 🫀: hey, so...

Baby 🫀: remember when I maybe said we were dating to someone

Baby 🫀: and it may have been Eunha

Baby 🫀: and she may have just sent me a wedding invite

Baby 🫀: and also called you "the one with the tattoos"

He replied within ten seconds.

Kook 🐰: i am the one with the tattoos

Kook 🐰: are we going to a wedding??? omg is there cake

Kook 🐰: also how convincing is our relationship

Kook 🐰: on a scale of "holding hands" to "accidental makeout in front of grandma"

Y/N dropped her phone, face flushed. Then picked it up again and called him.

He answered like he'd been waiting.

"Well, well, well," he teased. "If it isn't my fake girlfriend."

"You're not even surprised," she groaned.

"Not even a little." He sounded smug. "You talk about me way too much. This was bound to happen."

She huffed. "Okay. Look. You don't have to say yes, but I need someone to go with me to this wedding. Just for the weekend. I'll pay for the suit. And—"

"Stop." His voice dropped into something warm and gentle. "You don't have to bribe me, Y/N. I'll go."

Her chest eased.

"Really?"

"I would do anything for you Y/n"

Y/N smiled, the knot in her chest unwinding. "Thank you, Kook."

"You don't have to thank me. You know I'm always down to be your emergency contact or fake boyfriend or whatever the hell you need."

He meant it.

She knew that.

Jungkook had always shown up.

When Minjae left for London and Y/N came home crying into a cardigan three sizes too big, it was Jungkook who showed up at her door with takeout in hand and an understanding silence. He let her cry into his hoodie, held her through the worst parts, never pushing, never judging.

They had been best friends since their first year of college. He was the one who quietly became something. He made her laugh when heartbreak threatened to swallow her whole, stayed over when her anxiety spiked in the dead of night, and somehow remembered the exact way she liked her tea: sweet, milky, with just a touch of cinnamon. Through every late-night study session, every celebration, every moment of doubt and every burst of hope, Jungkook was there. The kind of person who was both her best friend and so much more—the one who knew her better than she knew herself and loved her for all her messy, beautiful parts.

God, their friendship was everything—unshakable, comforting, and deeply real.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The sharp buzz of the doorbell sliced through the quiet apartment. Y/N took a steadying breath and crossed to the door. She swung it open—and froze.

There he was.

Jungkook, standing in the dim porch light, looking like a damn movie star caught in the spotlight. His hair was slightly tousled, the dark strands falling just enough to brush his forehead. His eyes—those deep, intense dark eyes—caught hers and held them hostage, sparkling with quiet mischief and something unspoken. He wore a perfectly tailored white dress shirt, the top two buttons undone just enough to reveal the smooth line of his collarbone and the hint of a tattoo peeking from beneath. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing lean, muscular forearms that spoke of strength without effort. His charcoal gray slacks hugged his hips in all the right places, and the way he shifted his weight—casual yet commanding—made Y/N's breath catch.

A slow smirk curved his lips as he caught her staring. "What's wrong? Did I just make you freeze?" His voice was low, teasing, dripping with playful confidence.

Y/N blinked, cheeks flaming. "Am I supposed to be moving?"

He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a gentle tease. "I'm just saying... am I looking that good tonight?"

She swallowed, heart pounding. "Maybe a little."

"Good." He grinned, then softened. "Take your time. I'm in no rush."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Inside, he heard the soft click of her door opening, followed by the quiet pad of her footsteps. Jungkook looked up from where he stood, adjusting his cuff.

And then he froze.

Y/N stepped into the room, and for a second, everything else faded—the ticking clock, the low hum of the city outside, even his own breath. She looked... ethereal. The dress hugged her in all the right places, the fabric shimmering like water under moonlight every time she moved. Her hair was pinned delicately, a few loose strands framing her face in a way that made her look both elegant and soft. The glow on her skin wasn't from makeup—it was something deeper, something luminous that he couldn't name. Her eyes, bright and steady, locked onto his, and suddenly he felt like he was seeing her for the first time.

Not just pretty. Not just beautiful.

She looked unreal.

His throat tightened. "You look..." His voice cracked, and he had to swallow before continuing, softer now. "You look stunning."

And he meant it—every syllable soaked in something he wasn't ready to admit·

Jungkook smiled — genuine smile that made his eyes crinkle just enough to be irresistible.

He reached out and offered his arm.

The sleek black car waited outside, polished to a mirror shine. Jungkook slid into the driver's seat with smooth confidence, tossing the keys to Y/N to unlock the passenger door. As she settled inside, the interior smelled of leather and a hint of his cologne—clean, with a trace of something warm and woody that made her pulse quicken. They didn't speak much as the city lights blurred past the windows. Jungkook finally broke the silence, pulling from his jacket pocket a small folded piece of paper—the wedding manual.

"Read this," he said, his voice low but teasing. "Important stuff: who to greet first, where to stand, when to smile, and when to avoid dancing disasters."

Y/N laughed softly, unfolding the notes and scanning the neat, careful handwriting.

Jungkook caught her eye and winked. "We've got this."

And just like that, the night felt less daunting—and a little more like an adventure they'd face together.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Outside the venue, the soft hum of music drifted into the evening air. Jungkook stood beside Y/N, arm looped through hers.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

She nodded, inhaling slowly. "Just a little nervous."

He looked at her, calm and steady. "We've got this, alright? Just trust me."

Y/N met his gaze and gave a small, genuine smile. "Yeah. Okay."

They stepped inside, moving together through the crowd with quiet confidence. A few steps in, Y/N spotted them near the floral arch — Minjae and Eunha, side by side under the soft glow of fairy lights.

Jungkook leaned slightly closer and murmured, "You're glowing more than the bride, just so you know."

She gave him a look. "Shut up."

They walked forward together.

Eunha spotted her almost immediately and broke into a wide, genuine smile. "Y/N!"

Before she knew it, she was being pulled into a warm hug.

"You look gorgeous," Eunha beamed, pulling back to take her in. "Like, actually stunning."

"You're the one in a wedding dress," Y/N smiled, eyes soft. "You look beautiful. So happy."

"I am," Eunha said quietly. "And I'm so glad you're here."

Y/N glanced at Minjae — standing just behind her, his expression slightly awkward, but polite.

"Minjae," she said with a nod. "Congratulations. I really wish you both the best. A lot of happiness and peace."

"Thanks," he said, lips twitching slightly into a smile. "That means a lot."

Jungkook, silent until now, stepped just a little closer.

Eunha's eyes flicked toward him and lit up.

"Oh! Jungkook, right?" she said, grinning. "I've seen you before. You've picked Y/N up from work a few times."

Jungkook smiled, just the slightest tilt of his lips. "I have. You have a good memory."

"Hard to forget someone that good-looking in a car like that," she teased. "We all used to peek through the blinds."

Y/N groaned. "Eunha!"

"What? It's true!" Eunha laughed. "You'd come out with that little tote bag, and he'd be leaning on his car like he was in some photoshoot."

Jungkook glanced down at Y/N with a cocked brow, amused. "So you never told me you had fans at your office?"

She narrowed her eyes. "I was trying to protect your ego."

Eunha was grinning from ear to ear. "You two... I honestly didn't see this coming. You guys always said we are 'just best friends,' remember?"

"Yeah, well," Y/N said softly, looking up at Jungkook for a fleeting second. "Fate's weird like that."

"It really is," Eunha agreed. "But I'm glad. You seem... good together."

There was no malice in her voice. No awkwardness lingering. Just a girl who had found her own happiness, and was genuinely happy to see someone she once worked beside finding hers too.

Jungkook held his glass up slightly. "To fate, then."

Y/N laughed. "And good wine."

They clinked glasses and stepped aside as another couple approached to greet the newlyweds.

As Y/N and Jungkook walked toward the open bar, she exhaled softly — like a little weight had been lifted.

"You handled that well," Jungkook murmured beside her, tucking his hand gently against the small of her back.

"I think I've officially leveled up," she whispered. "No tears. No awkward tension. No wine thrown at the groom."

He grinned. "I'm proud of you. Also slightly disappointed. I was kind of rooting for a wine-throwing moment."

"Too bad. You'll have to settle for civil emotional growth."

He looked at her, gaze lingering. "I could get used to that."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The venue was alive with soft laughter, low music, and the occasional clink of glasses. Around them, couples melted into each other—some stealing quick, shy kisses, others lost in slow, lingering embraces. The warmth and closeness in the room built like a tide, rising and pulling everyone closer.

Among the crowd, a few familiar faces from the office watched from a corner — the ones who had been told Jungkook was her boyfriend. They stood in a small circle, eyes darting between her and Jungkook with poorly hidden curiosity. The atmosphere around them buzzed with the intimacy of slow dancing and the growing closeness of every couple swaying to the music. The unspoken rhythm of the night whispered one thing: here, in this moment, it was only natural.

Jungkook's voice broke through the hum, low and steady. "May I have this dance?"

She smiled, heart skipping, and nodded, stepping into his space.

His arms circled around her waist with quiet possessiveness, pulling her closer until their bodies aligned perfectly. She slipped her arms around his neck, feeling the steady beat of his pulse beneath her fingertips. His fingers slid to cradle the back of her neck, thumb brushing softly along her jaw. It was a tender touch, but his eyes burned — dark, desperate, like he was barely holding himself together.

He pulled her in slowly at first, savoring the closeness, like he couldn't believe she was finally here — with him.

His eyes flicked to her mouth.

A pause.

A breath.

A choice.

Then — he dipped his head and kissed her.

It started soft — hesitant, like a question. But the moment it happened, something gave way. Like a dam bursting. Like breath after drowning. The kind of kiss that felt like a secret spilling between them. The kind that didn't feel fake at all.

And neither of them pulled away.

Her hands gripped his jacket, pulling him closer, needing more. Their mouths moved in rhythm — lips parting, pressing, tugging. His tongue brushed against hers, cautious at first, but as she responded, all hesitation vanished. Their tongues tangled, teasing and tasting, until the kiss turned messy and breathless, wet with heat and longing. He tilted his head to the side, deepening it further, groaning softly into her mouth. She answered with a quiet whimper, fingers threading into his hair, tugging — desperate and aching like she'd waited too long for this.

His palm slid to the curve of her waist, the other anchoring her by the small of her back as he pressed her against him fully. The world around them fell away — the music, the lights, the people. All that remained was the shared fire in their veins.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested together, breaths shallow and lips red and swollen. A thin string of saliva still connected them . It was enough — the kiss said everything, and the night held its breath with them.

As the music faded into softer notes, Y/N and Jungkook finally stepped away from the dance floor, still catching their breath from the heat of that kiss. The reception began to slow and guests started making their exits, Y/N and Jungkook stood from their table, the warmth of their earlier kiss still lingering in the space between them. Without needing to say it, they both knew it was time to leave.

Eunha's eyes lit up when she saw them approaching. "You're heading out?" she asked, pulling Y/N into a quick, affectionate hug.

"Yeah," Y/N smiled. "Thank you again—for everything. It was beautiful."

"I'm so glad you came," Eunha said, her voice low and genuine. "Truly."

Minjae offered a polite nod, his eyes flicking briefly between them. "Have a safe drive."

Jungkook returned the nod with quiet confidence, standing close to Y/N but saying nothing more.

Just before they turned to go, Eunha leaned in with a teasing smile. "And hey... that dance? Let's just say the sparks didn't go unnoticed."

Y/N let out a quiet laugh, cheeks warming. "You're imagining things."

"Mmhmm," Eunha hummed playfully, but she didn't push further. "Goodnight, you two."

"Goodnight," they echoed in unison, then slipped out into the cool evening air, side by side.

Jungkook chuckled softly and linked his arm with Y/N's as they made their way to his car. The evening had settled into a calm hush, the buzz from the reception fading behind them. He opened the door for her, waiting until she was settled before sliding into the driver's seat beside her. The car hummed to life, but inside, it was silent—thick with something unspoken.

Y/N stared ahead, her hands in her lap, the ghost of the kiss still lingering at the edge of her thoughts. It had happened. It was real. But it wasn't supposed to mean anything.

She spoke first, voice calm but too practiced.

"About earlier... the kiss."

Jungkook's hands stilled on the wheel. He didn't look at her, just waited.

Y/N took a quiet breath. "It was nothing. Just pretending, right? Everyone was doing it. We were just blending in."

"Yeah," Jungkook said after a moment, his voice unreadable. "Just blending in."

She gave a small, short laugh. "We did cross a line, maybe... but it was necessary. For the act."

He nodded, but said nothing.

Y/N turned slightly toward him. "We're best friends. I hope it won't change anything between us."

Jungkook's jaw tightened at that. He still didn't meet her eyes. "It won't," he said softly.

"It meant nothing," she repeated, as if saying it again would make it true.

"Yeah," he echoed. "Nothing."

But the silence that followed said otherwise.

He kept his eyes on the road. His grip on the wheel was too firm. And though his voice had stayed steady, something inside him had shifted—just slightly, but enough.

She didn't notice.

Or maybe she pretended not to.

And they drove on, both holding tight to a truth they'd agreed on, even if it didn't feel like one.

They drove in silence for a while, the city lights streaming past like distant stars.

When they arrived at her home, Y/N hesitated at the door.

"Stay a bit?" she asked, heart fluttering.

"Not tonight," he said quietly.

She nodded, watching him drive away with a mix of longing and understanding.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The door clicked shut behind her, and for the first time that evening, everything went still.

She leaned back against the wood, her fingers still tingling where they had touched him. The room was dark, moonlight spilling through the windows in soft, silvery lines. No noise. No people. No music. Just the quiet hum of her apartment — and the kiss still lingering on her lips.

She closed her eyes.

It had been... warm. Breathless. Real.

For a moment, she'd forgotten it was all pretend. For a moment, she'd let herself believe the way his hands held her meant something. The way he looked at her — like she was the only one in the room — that it was more than just part of the act.

But it wasn't.

It couldn't be.

They were best friends. That was all they had ever agreed to be.

She pushed off the door, tossing her clutch onto the table and kicking off her heels with a sigh. As she curled up in bed, her fingers unconsciously brushed her lips. A shiver ran down her spine.

It meant nothing, she told herself.

It was just pretending.

And maybe if she repeated it enough, maybe if she said it in her head like a mantra, she'd believe it too.

She turned off the lamp. But long after the lights went out, the memory of his kiss stayed with her, stubborn and soft and impossible to forget.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

He sat in the driver's seat for a while after dropping her off. The street was quiet, the world still — but inside him, everything was loud.

That kiss. Her words. The way she smiled, like nothing had changed.

Like it didn't matter.

He let out a shaky breath, leaning his head back against the seat, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling of the car. His chest felt tight — not the kind of tight that came from nerves or stress, but the kind that sat heavy in your bones. The kind that comes from being punched in the heart.

"It was just pretending."

He scoffed bitterly to himself, shaking his head. Pretending?

Then why did it feel so real?

Why did his hands still remember the way her waist felt under them, the way she leaned into him like she belonged there?

He had kissed her like he meant it — because he did. Maybe not intentionally, maybe not with a plan. But in that moment, he forgot it was all fake. Forgot the lines. Forgot the act.

And now she was acting like it had never happened.

"We're just best friends. I hope it won't change anything."

God, it already had.

He sat there in silence, jaw clenched so hard it ached. His fingers gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing holding him together. He could still feel the ghost of her lips on his. Still see the softness in her eyes, the way she had looked at him — even if just for a second — like he was more than a friend.

Was he wrong? Did he imagine it?

Or had she just decided that pretending was easier than facing what was really there?

The truth stung: she hadn't felt it the way he did.

To her, it was nothing. A necessity. A moment.

To him, it was everything he had been trying to bury.

He exhaled slowly, blinking against the burn behind his eyes. He didn't cry — he never did. But damn, if it didn't feel like something inside him was breaking.

You're so stupid, he told himself. You let it happen. You let yourself believe—even just for a second—that maybe...

He turned the key and drove away, his heart heavier than when the night started.

And for the first time in a long while, he didn't feel like pretending anymore.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

A few days after the wedding, Nari had just returned from Busan. Her father was getting better, and now she was eager to catch up with Y/N. They met at their favorite cozy café, where the familiar warmth eased the tension just a little.

"So, how was the wedding?" Nari asked casually, but with a sparkle of curiosity in her eyes.

Y/N felt her cheeks warm and found herself stirring her coffee nervously. "It was... nice."

Nari leaned forward, a teasing smile playing on her lips. "Come on, spill the beans. I can tell something happened."

Y/N sighed softly, deciding to just say it. "Okay... Jungkook and I kissed."

Nari's grin widened. "I knew it! How was it?"

Y/N shook her head quickly. "It was nothing. Just pretending, because everyone else was kissing. We didn't want to look out of place. It didn't mean anything."

"We're just best friends," Y/N added firmly. "We can't cross those lines."

There was a brief silence, and then Y/N's voice dropped a little. "But... Jungkook's been kind of distant lately. I don't know why. I think I might've hurt him somehow. But we're just best friends. It shouldn't mean anything to him, right?"

Nari's smile softened. "You never know. Sometimes we get stuck thinking everything from our own side. Maybe you should just talk to him—clear things up. Communication's the key."

Y/N nodded, lost in thought. "Maybe you're right."

 

⋆˙⟡ Jungkook’s POV ⟡˙⋆

It's been a few days since I started acting distant around Y/N. I hate how I've pulled away, how I barely talk to her the way I used to. I hate that I made things awkward between us. What hurts the most is when she said the kiss meant nothing — that it was just pretending. Like it didn't matter to her at all.

But to me... it did.

That moment echoed in my mind, cutting deeper than I thought possible. I felt exposed and raw, like something important had slipped through my fingers.

I keep telling myself she's just my best friend. And that I'm the one who messed this up. The one who should take responsibility.

So I decided to invite her over for a movie night. No pressure, no expectations — just a chance to be close again, to try and fix what I let slip.

Because no matter what, I still care. More than I'm willing to admit.

Kook 🐰: Movie night at my place. You in?

Baby 🫀 : Depends. Are you actually going to let me pick the movie this time?

Kook 🐰 : Haha, maybe. But only if you promise not to pick a sappy romance.

Baby 🫀 : No promises.

Kook 🐰 : Deal. Come around 7? I'll have popcorn and my dog ready.

Baby 🫀 : The dog or you?

Kook 🐰 : Both, obviously.

Baby 🫀 : You're impossible. See you then.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Y/N's heart fluttered nervously as she climbed the stairs to Jungkook's apartment. The past few days had felt strange — quiet and distant between them — and she couldn't shake the small knot of guilt twisting in her stomach. She knew she hadn't been herself around him lately, and now, finally, it was time to try and mend things. When she opened the door, she hadn't expected to see anyone else.

On the couch sat a woman — elegant and poised, with soft curls framing her face and a warm smile that seemed natural and genuine. She was clearly absorbed in conversation with Jungkook, their heads close together over a laptop resting on the coffee table.

Y/N stepped inside Jungkook's apartment, her eyes meeting his briefly. There was something faint brushing at her heart, but she wasn't sure what it was.

"Hey," Jungkook greeted softly. "Didn't expect you so early."

"Hey," Y/N replied, a small smile on her lips.

Jungkook nodded toward the woman seated on the couch. "This is Hyejin — we've been working together on a project the past few weeks."

Hyejin stood and smiled warmly. Jungkook then turned to Y/N. "And this is my best friend."

Y/N gave a polite nod, feeling a little warmth at the simple introduction.

Y/N glanced between them. "You're busy tonight?"

Jungkook shook his head. "No, just wrapped up."

Hyejin glanced toward the door. "I should get going. I'll just take a cab."

Jungkook's tone softened but was firm. "No, it's alright. Stay for a bit."

Hyejin hesitated, but Jungkook continued, "I already made dinner. Please, have dinner with us."

His eyes briefly shifted to Y/N. "Please," he added quietly.

Hyejin smiled back, relaxing. "Alright, then. Thank you."

What was meant to be a quiet movie night for two quietly shifted into a trio — Jungkook's caring nature balancing his attention between both women, making sure everyone felt welcome.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Y/N sat cross-legged on the couch, absently scratching behind Jungkook's dog's ears as the movie played. Or at least, it 'should've' been playing. Instead, Hyejin had commandeered the remote, scrolling through options while Jungkook leaned over her shoulder, pointing at titles with an easy familiarity that made Y/N's stomach twist.

"This one's a classic," Hyejin said, tapping a thriller. "You love these, right?"

Jungkook grinned. "How'd you know?"

"Lucky guess." She smirked, nudging him with her elbow.

Y/N's fingers stilled in the dog's fur.

Since when did Jungkook like thrillers? He always groaned when she picked them, insisting on comedies or action flicks. But now, here he was, nodding along like Hyejin had cracked some secret code to his tastes.

The movie started, but Y/N couldn't focus. Not when Hyejin laughed a little too loudly at Jungkook's dry commentary. Not when she reached over to steal a handful of popcorn, her fingers brushing his. Halfway through the film, Hyejin's phone buzzed. She excused herself to take the call in the kitchen, leaving Y/N and Jungkook in charged silence.

Y/N stared at the screen, jaw tight. "She's nice."

Jungkook stretched his arms behind his head, oblivious. "Yeah, she's great. Really sharp—her ideas for the project are insane."

"I bet." Y/N's voice was clipped.

That got his attention. He turned, brow furrowing. "You okay?"

"Perfect." She forced a smile. "Just tired."

He studied her for a beat too long before Hyejin returned, sliding back onto the couch—"closer to Jungkook this time."

Y/N stood abruptly. "I should go."

Jungkook blinked. "Now? It's not even—"

Early morning tomorrow, she lied, already grabbing her bag.

Hyejin gave her a sympathetic look. "Oh no, did we pick a bad movie?"

"No, it's not that." Y/N avoided Jungkook's gaze. "Thanks for having me."

She was out the door before he could protest.

Outside, the night air was cool against her flushed skin. She barely made it three steps before her phone buzzed.

Kook 🐰: hey. you left your jacket.

Kook 🐰: also you're a terrible liar. what's wrong?

Y/N stared at the screen, fingers hovering. She could play it off. She should. But the image of Hyejin's effortless charm, Jungkook's easy laughter—it stuck in her chest like a thorn.

Baby 🫀: nothing. just didn't realize you had company.

Kook 🐰: are you jealous?

Her breath hitched.

Baby 🫀: don't flatter yourself.

Kook 🐰: then come back inside.

Kook 🐰: unless you're scared to admit something.

Y/N's pulse roared in her ears.

Jungkook appeared at the door holding Y/N's jacket, but before she could reach for it, his hand gently caught her wrist. His eyes searched hers, calm but firm.

"You're not going anywhere," he said quietly.

Y/N's breath caught. She glanced back toward the living room where the movie credits were rolling on the screen — the night coming to an end, but something unspoken lingering between them.

Jungkook turned toward the kitchen, calling softly, "Hyejin, let me book a cab for you."

Hyejin, already gathering her things, smiled warmly. "Thanks, but it's okay. I can manage."

"No, it's fine," Jungkook insisted, pulling out his phone and quickly ordering a ride. "I want to make sure you get home safe."

Y/N watched him carefully, a little surprised by how naturally he took care of Hyejin, despite their obvious closeness. There was no awkwardness, only a gentle ease.

The door clicked softly behind Hyejin, and suddenly the apartment felt quiet. Y/N and Jungkook settled back onto the couch, the silence no longer charged but soft — an unspoken invitation to start mending the space between them.

Jungkook's voice broke the silence first, low and gentle. "What's wrong?"

Y/N blinked, startled by the question.

He leaned a little closer, eyes searching. "Are you... sad? Because we planned a movie night, but someone else ended up here."

"No," she said quickly, too quickly. "I'm not sad."

But Jungkook wasn't fooled.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, voice softening. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... You know, it's just—she's kind, and she's been such a big help. Hyejin's been with me through so much lately, helping with work, always pushing when I get stuck. I couldn't just tell her to go."

He reached out before she could respond, pulling her gently closer.

They settled side by side on the couch, his arm wrapping around her shoulders naturally, like it belonged there.

"What movie do you want to watch now?" he asked quietly, voice almost a whisper.

Y/N shrugged, leaning her head on his shoulder, the familiar comfort easing the tightness in her chest.

He smiled softly, his warmth seeping into her skin as he reached for the snacks they'd brought.

Together, they watched the screen, the world shrinking down to just this quiet room and the soft glow of the movie. Halfway through, Y/N's eyelids grew heavy. Without a word, Jungkook shifted, gently lifting her in his arms. He carried her to his bed, tucking the blanket around her with careful hands.

He stood beside the bed for a long time after tucking her in. The blanket was pulled gently over her shoulders, her hair fanned out on the pillow, face peaceful in sleep. But inside him, everything was the opposite of peaceful.

He rubbed the back of his neck, sighing through his nose.

Hyejin was a good girl.

Beautiful, bright. Sharp-minded and always composed.

And yeah... she was into him. She hadn't said it out loud, not yet—but it didn't need to be said. The way she lingered sometimes, the soft teasing in her voice, the way her gaze held his just a little longer than necessary. He wasn't blind.

And he hadn't invited her over tonight. That part mattered to him.

He'd planned tonight with Y/N.

He always did, without even realizing it sometimes. The moment the week wore him down, when he couldn't see past the blueprints and deadlines and exhaustion—somewhere in his head, he just wanted to hear her laugh, sit beside her, not talk at all if she didn't want to. But then the meeting had stretched. The project had hit a final snag. Hyejin needed his help with the last-minute presentation, and it had made sense to finish it together. By the time she was there, it had already started. He hadn't meant for it to overlap.

Still... he'd seen the look on Y/N's face when she walked in.

That flicker.

She didn't say anything, not really. She never did. But he could tell.

And now, watching her sleep, that ache only deepened.

Why did it hurt like this?

Girls had shown interest before. Pretty ones. Smart ones. Some had even been bold enough to ask him out directly. But he'd never felt like this—never this confusion, this fear, this pull he couldn't explain.

With Y/N... it was always different.

It wasn't about her being beautiful—though she was. Or talented—or that too.

And now... he was scared.

Scared that he'd crossed a line.

Scared that she'd felt it.

Scared that if he kept letting his feelings grow like this, he'd ruin everything.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, dropping his face into his hands.

"I have to do something," he muttered quietly to himself. "I can't let this—"

He exhaled. "I can't risk our friendship."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Days Later

Jungkook didn't expect to say yes.

When Hyejin asked if he'd like to grab dinner "just the two of us this time," he'd hesitated.

But then he just… agreed.

Maybe he had to move forward. Maybe whatever he felt for her was just one-sided comfort... maybe.

He told himself it was just attraction. Familiarity.

He told himself that he couldn't wait forever for someone who might not feel the same.

Hyejin was kind. Easy to talk to. Funny, too. And she didn't pretend not to care—she showed up with genuine interest in her eyes, and maybe that was what he needed. Something simpler. Something clear. And yet—every night after he came home, he found himself staring at his phone screen. Wondering if he should text her. Wondering if she was thinking about him too.

But he didn't.

He couldn't.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The engine stuttered—then gave out with a tired sigh.

Y/N sat there, hands still gripping the wheel, staring out at the quiet street. Dusk settled heavy around her, painting the sky in dull streaks of blue and grey. She tried the ignition again. Nothing. The silence in the car felt louder than ever. Her heart beat once. Hard.

She looked down at her phone.

No one else came to mind.

No Nari. No colleagues. No maybes.

Just one name pulsed in her thoughts.

Jungkook.

Because somehow, he was always the one who showed up.

She barely hesitated before tapping his name.

It rang twice.

"Hello?"

His voice. Familiar. Solid.

"Hey... it's me," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

A pause. Then gentler, "Y/N? What's wrong?"

"My car broke down. I'm stuck near that gas station on 9th... the one with the closed café."

"You okay?"

"I'm fine. Just... stuck." A nervous laugh escaped her lips. "Didn't know who else to call."

"You did the right thing."

She could already hear movement, the shuffle of keys. "I'm coming."

"Jungkook, you don't have to—"

"I want to."

His voice dropped. "Stay where you are."

The call ended, but something about his last words stayed wrapped around her chest.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Headlights swept across the pavement as the car slowed beside her. Y/N straightened from where she leaned against the hood of her stalled vehicle.

The door swung open.

Jeon Jungkook stepped out.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

He looked obscenely good.

Black slacks, button-up rolled at the sleeves, hair styled effortlessly. Clean, confident, composed. The kind of dressed-up that screamed intention.

She swallowed. "Wow. You look..."

"Don't worry about the car," he cut in gently, stepping close, eyes scanning hers. "I'll handle it. Just come with me."

"I—okay," she said, caught off guard. "Are you... going somewhere?"

He didn't answer right away, just gestured toward the passenger side. She got in.

When he slid in beside her, she asked softly, "Is someone waiting for you?"

His fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel.

"She asked me to have dinner with her."

Y/N glanced at him. "Hyejin?"

He nodded, gaze on the road. "Yeah"

"Oh," she murmured.

A beat passed. The silence buzzed.

Then she asked, quieter still, "Is it a date?"

Jungkook exhaled. "Quite possibly."

She said nothing after that. Neither did he.

The silence felt heavier this time, stretched between them like something fragile. The city lights flickered past the windows, but all she could see was the way he'd dressed up for someone else.

When he pulled up to her building, she unbuckled her seatbelt slowly.

But she didn't get out. Not yet.

"Can I ask something?" she said, barely above a whisper.

He turned to her, patient. "Yeah?"

"She likes you," she said. It wasn't a question.

Jungkook chuckled under his breath. "Yeah. She kind of does."

"She asked you out," she repeated.

He looked at her then—really looked.

"She's a good girl," he said. "And I thought... why not? Maybe I should give it a try."

That hurt more than she expected.

But she only nodded, biting the inside of her cheek, masking the crack in her voice. "Right. Of course. That makes sense."

He didn't say anything.

She opened the door and stepped out, closing it gently behind her.

But his words echoed in her chest, long after he drove away.

"Maybe I should give it a try.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

A Few Days Later

She didn't mean to notice it.

Didn't want to.

But she saw them—again.

Jungkook and Hyejin, walking out of the cafe near his office.

He held the door open for her. She laughed at something he said. His eyes softened in that way he never used casually.

Y/N turned away too fast. Her chest burned.

She didn't know what was happening with her.

Or maybe she did. And just didn't want to name it.

She'd seen Jungkook with girls before. Casual dates. Pretty faces, fleeting moments. He'd never made time for them. Never let anyone in.

But this felt... different.

He looked invested.

Not just polite. Not just amused. He looked like someone trying.

Like someone who had chosen to try.

It stung.

God, it stung.

She had no right to feel this way.

She was the one who insisted on labels. "Friends."

She was the one who drew the line after the kiss, who said, "Let's not mess this up."

She was the one who told herself: It's just companionship. No strings. No questions. No feelings.

So why did it feel like something was being ripped from her chest now?

Why did it hurt to see Hyejin lean a little too close?

To watch Jungkook let her?

She shut her eyes.

This wasn't fair.

She was supposed to be okay with this.

But she wasn't.

She hated it.

The quiet ache behind her ribs. The way her thoughts kept looping back. The way her heart clenched when she imagined him texting Hyejin goodnight.

It wasn't just jealousy.

It was loss.

And somewhere in that twisted ache, a cruel little voice whispered:

If you'd said something after the kiss...

If you hadn't been so scared...

Maybe he would've chosen you instead.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

She didn't expect to feel it this deeply.

The ache, the sting — the unmistakable pinch in her chest when Nari mentioned that Jungkook wouldn't be coming to their Friday hangout.

"He said he has plans with Hyejin."

That one sentence buzzed inside her skull like a scream. Y/N didn't even realize how long she'd zoned out until her coffee went cold.

She didn't text him. Not for hours. Not that day. Not the next. She couldn't bring herself to look at her phone because every part of her heart felt betrayed by something she had no right to be hurt over.

They were just friends, right?

Right?

So why did it feel like her lungs were caving in?

She ignored his calls. Swiped away his messages. Didn't answer the door once when he knocked on a Saturday night.

She stepped out of her apartment after weeks, the sky was heavy with clouds, the kind of weather that made the air feel thick and quiet. She was headed out to grab some groceries, hoodie pulled tight against the cool breeze.

And then she saw him.

Leaning against his car.

Arms crossed. Eyes sharp. Jaw tight.

As soon as she noticed him, she turned on her heel.

"Don't walk away, Y/N."

His voice—deep and low—cut through the morning chill like a knife.

She froze. Not because he asked her to. But because if she turned around, she might break. And if she broke, she knew he'd see it all.

"What?" she muttered, back still turned. "What do you want?"

"Why have you been avoiding me?"

She scoffed, finally turning. Her eyes flashed with something between anger and heartbreak.

"I'm not avoiding you. I've just been busy."

"Bullshit," Jungkook snapped, stepping forward. "You haven't spoken to me in weeks. What the hell is going on, Y/N?"

She swallowed, crossing her arms — a weak shield against everything she was feeling.

"Nothing's going on. You're the one who's suddenly too busy playing boyfriend."

That hit. He blinked.

"Are you talking about Hyejin?"

"No," she laughed bitterly. "I'm talking about your new ritual of ditching your best friend to take her out."

Jungkook's brows furrowed, tension tightening his shoulders.

"I told you it was a date. I didn't lie."

"And you didn't need to," she snapped. "You don't owe me an explanation."

"Then why are you so damn upset?"

Silence.

He stepped closer, voice quiet now — rough around the edges.

"Y/N... I need to know. Why are you acting like this?"

"I'm not acting like anything."

"Like hell you aren't!" His voice cracked — not in volume, but in emotion. He was trying so hard to stay calm, but the heat beneath his skin was rising. "You ignore me, then throw shade about Hyejin. And you still want to pretend like everything between us meant nothing?"

She opened her mouth. Closed it again.

He didn't wait.

"What do you want me to do, huh?" he asked, stepping closer. His eyes searched hers like he was begging for an answer she couldn't give.

"Should I just stop seeing her? Stop living my life? Because we kissed and then you told me we were just friends?!"

Her breath hitched.

"You said it didn't mean anything."

"I lied"

[hivemuthur]

To Be Known - Ch.14.

viktorxfemale!reader very explicit as usual, Modern AU, set in London, current era but not very specific. It's just a love story.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST next chapter ->

word count: 11,3K (sorry)

warnings, or rather this chapter contains: questionable hygiene, unprecedented amounts of yearning, domestic fluff, spanking, anal fingering during sex, the usual crying after sex, mild subspace/domspace, foot fetish that kinda can no longer pass as mild, lots of biting, injections, oral sex, anal sex, and angst.

author’s note: A very small rewind to the morning, then we follow through the weekend and forward in Viktor’s POV. As usual, playlist here and artist is @petitesieste ♡ You will find some extra info at the bottom, but the most important info is that @doggrowth agreed to beta read those last few chapters for me and has been an incredible person while doing so ♡ So, thank you and yes, you can all direct formal complaints/thank you notes about the word count to Krys :')

Cross-posted on AO3

—

In his mind, Viktor blesses the day he let Jayce drag him out of work early to that gathering back in August. Mel’s birthday. Thanks to it—despite the outside looking more like another wet English winter, the kind with rain that carries no romantic undertone, only traffic impediments—his bed is warm. The mattress is dipped next to him where you lie, also warm, and even though Viktor is still one foot in dreamlands, he can feel your stare.

Your palm is heavy on his heart, one pulse threaded through the other, and Viktor realises he’s never felt so connected to someone before. He’s known other hands, plenty; careful, eager, sometimes skilled, sometimes bored, almost all of them carrying a trace of someone else. Always a story about a better or worse lover, always a gap. He remembers bodies that curled around him out of duty or habit, not this instinctive certainty. He’s loved, yes—but never like this. Never a love that makes his ribs ache and his mouth dry, all at once.

He’s fucked with the lights on and off, with strangers and not-quite-strangers, spoken lines that thrilled him in the moment and vanished the next morning. But none of them had ever pressed their palm to his chest like this and felt him shudder with something more than lust—felt him, seen him, trusted him enough to let him take, and to take in return.

When he opens his eyes, you’re there, looking at him like you might kiss him or eat him, and he would be happy with both.

You want him dirty, so he gives you just that and more. Soon, it becomes imperative that he feels every inch of your body under every inch of his, so with herculean strength he pulls out from the depths of your throat only to roll you over and splay himself flat on top of you.

And there, the fit that once was imperfect moulds itself into something pure and splendid—where Viktor can breathe deeply into his belly and let it expand into the curve of your lumbar spine; where the cushion of your ass greets the sharp edges of his hips; where the junction between your neck and shoulder shapes itself into a handle for his palm, and where his cock fits your womb fully until there is nothing empty left between you.

Where you both fall apart with I love you on your lips, each in your own language. And even though Viktor can still feel the last remnants of resistance, he praises every little step you take. He tries to acknowledge how enormous it is without using scary words. He says “meaningful” instead of “massive,” and “big” instead of “colossal.” The confirmation comes clear, your voice quiet: “I hate words. I prefer this.” And for now, he thinks, it’s enough.

He nudges your cheek with his nose. “Coffee? Shower?”

“Shower and then coffee?” you offer.

He comes closer, bites your cheek, gentle. “Shower together and then coffee?” Then, pulls back to look at you.

You hesitate, your expression shifting from calculation to a mask—not unkind, just uncertain. You school it into reconciliation and give him a quiet, “Okay.”

Your body moves away from him to stand, stretching the sleep out of your bones. You hold out your hands to help Viktor up. He wobbles, slower to rise, and you ask, “You alright?”

Viktor gives you a short glance of incredulity and then drapes himself over your shoulders, both arms wrapped around your neck, breathing warm into your ear. “No. I think I need you to carry me.”

You snort. “Would you look at that. Fucked the life out of me and now it’s ‘carry me.’”

He doesn’t miss a beat, voice gone soft and close: “I’m afraid you’ll also have to wash me.”

You shove at his side, still grinning, but you let him hang off you as you shuffle to the bathroom together.

Once inside, Viktor turns on the hot water, pulls out clean towels, sets everything in its place. You stand in the middle, stepping from foot to foot, seemingly uncomfortable. He notices, of course. Takes your hands in his, and for a moment, he is back at the first morning—when you gripped the duvet for dear life, wary of what he might see. He remembers peeling it off, the marks he left, the bruises on your neck so dark they took seven business days to heal.

Now there’s just one love bite, not nearly as severe, though he can still make out the shape of his teeth from it. He traces his fingers over the tendon, then kisses the spot, just a soft peck. His hands move down, from the sides of your head to your neck, smoothing your hair flat against your skull. “Now. That’s really pretty, isn’t it?” he says, looking you over.

You meet his eyes, wide. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

“I am telling you,” Viktor murmurs, smiling. He leans on you again with familiar weight, and the two of you step into the shower together.

His hand finds the water first, palm up, adjusting the temperature until it’s nearly too warm, then he guides you under the spray. He can’t help but watch: the way your hair darkens and clings to your neck, water streaming in tiny rivers over your collarbones, cutting through the hollow between your breasts. Light traces the droplets, bright against your skin. He’s always looking for new geography in you—always finding it.

He takes the bottle of gel and passes it into your waiting hands. “Go on,” he murmurs, voice gone soft, almost teasing. You meet his eyes for a second, eyebrow arched, and then squeeze a dollop onto your palms, lathering until your fingers are slick and fragrant with vetiver.

You start at his shoulders—steady, firm circles working behind his neck, then up, thumbs pressing gently at the hinge of his jaw, massaging behind his ears, tracing the tension from his temples. Viktor’s eyes flutter half-closed; he breathes deep, lets his head tip forward into your touch, every vertebrae singing in relief. You wash his hair, then down his chest, over his arms, pausing to knead at the muscle just above his elbows, fingers slipping into his armpits. He lets out an involuntary, ridiculous giggle.

You stare at him, half-mocking, half-awed. “My serious man is ticklish? Unthinkable.”

This right there—my man—cracks him open. He wants to say something clever, but all that comes out is another sigh, his head tipping back against the tile. “Apparently,” he says, breathless, “your man is full of surprises.”

You shake your head and go lower, hands moving down the line of his stomach, soap gliding over the rise of hip bone, lingering at the sharp edge of his pelvis. The gel trickles, glossy, into his pubic hair, and you follow it with careful, present fingers. It’s so gentle Viktor could almost weep with it, not arousal but gratitude, the feeling of being cherished.

His own hands come up, unsure, then settle lightly around your neck, and he drops his forehead to your shoulder, letting it all fade in steam and soap and skin. Your touch is reserved at first, practical, but then it grows tender, as if some negotiation going on in your head is resolving in his favour. Your palms slide to his ass, fingers digging in, drawing him closer, and then up again—following the curve of his back, hot water swirling down the path you make.

You come flush against him, chest to chest, and he feels the thud of your heart. Your mouth grazes his jaw, slow—gliding along the sharp line until it softens beneath his ear. Viktor feels every inch of it; every nerve is alive, the world reduced to you sheltering in him, the pulse drumming behind his own ears.

He pumps a ribbon of shampoo into his palm. “My turn,” he murmurs, words little more than breath. Fingers thread through wet strands, thumbs pressing at your temples, your head tipped back, neck exposed. Your face shifts from anticipation to bliss; eyes flutter shut, lips part on a cat-contented purr that vibrates against his chest.

Cradling your skull feels like rare privilege. He works slowly, fingers spreading, coaxing until your palms come to rest at his nape. With your head still tilted, he trails kisses up your slick throat, sealing the path with a gentle bite to your chin.

When you’re pliant and your hair rinses clean, he moves to your shoulders, kneading slow circles. Thumbs work the knots loose, then drag the slick lather down your arms, over your biceps, your forearms, and wrists. He wants to worship you quietly, the way light worships the morning.

Then, his hands run down, over your chest, careful—lingering at your breasts, thumbs brushing across nipples. He watches goosebumps chase the water, the way your body leans into him, as heart takes over head. He presses a flat palm to your stomach, then draws it downward between your bodies, letting the curve of his hand fit you, thumb stroking softly where you’re already slippery from water, from him.

His other hand travels the line of your spine, over the curve of your ass, then curls in from behind. For a breathless second he has you cradled front and back, fingertips touching—your body cupped entirely in his hold. You melt forward, arms looping around his shoulders, steam and water and the sharp-green trace of vetiver closing the distance between heartbeats.

Viktor kisses your temple. He murmurs, “God, you are beautiful,” and lets himself drown in the sensation of holding and being held—of giving and being given to, both at once, until you are one body, together braver.

Reluctantly, he turns the tap—because he could probably spend the rest of his life in this shower—water silencing in a single sigh. He cracks the door, steam rolling out, and braces on the metal handle screwed into the wall, testing his weight. You are there instantly, palm pressed between his shoulder blades, tucking yourself under his arm so he can lean on you as you guide him out into the cooler air.

He’s amazed by the way you help him, never making him feel stupid for needing it. You make it seem as if you’re the one who needs his weight to remain steady, accentuating your point with an atrocious twist of your spine against the sink. Viktor winces, the sound of vertebrae popping making him hiss through his teeth.

“Brutal,” he says, handing you your toothbrush, the corners of his mouth tugging up.

“But feels amazing,” you sigh, adding a crack of your neck to the ceremony, a grim little flourish.

He laughs. “I see a pattern in there.” You just shoot him a wry shrug, mouth already full of toothpaste.

Wrapped in towels, you stand shoulder to shoulder and brush your teeth. It’s nothing special, but to Viktor it feels extraordinary—normal, mundane, almost ceremonial in its bluntness. The routine feels gentle, a kindness to counter everything else that is difficult and complex between you. Still, he senses the performative edge beneath it all—a faint, familiar self-consciousness, indulgence shading into guilt. He tells himself he has about 48 hours to muster the courage for harder things.

You spit and rinse, then turn to face him, tugging him close by the loose fold of towel at his hips. “I like you like this,” you say softly.

Viktor hums, letting the sound vibrate against your temple as he pulls you in, hand splayed at the small of your back. “I thought you preferred me dirty,” he teases.

A chuckle, forehead dropping to his chin. “I seize the opportunity when it arises,” you say, and then, more quietly, “But I meant like this.” Your fingers slip under the towel and let it fall, pooling around his feet. “Warm and naked.” Your hands roam down his sides, slow, ghosting over ribs.

He blinks at you, caught off guard, a blush starting beneath the day-old stubble. “That’s…” he fumbles, voice abashed, “That’s good to hear.”

Your tone turns solemn, almost absent. “You are a beautiful man,” you murmur, fingertips brushing along his brow, as if smoothing some worry away. “Here,” you say, tracing a line down his temple. “And here.” A flat palm slides down his navel, pausing at the base of him, not teasing, just claiming. “And here.” You splay your hand over his heart, feeling the echo of his pulse. “And everywhere.”

He whispers your name, breath stolen, the sound of it almost a prayer. For a moment, Viktor is still—overwhelmed, held together only by your hands. Then he folds himself around you, pressing his chin into your shoulder, holding you as close as he can.

“You make me so happy,” he breathes, words barely making it past the lump in his throat. “Moje štěstí.” My joy.

It’s your turn to stiffen, barely, almost imperceptibly—a breath caught, a shoulder that just resists his arms. Viktor feels it, of course. He chooses not to remark on it, only squeezes you tighter, hoping you’ll take the message written in his muscles. When you clear your throat, he loosens the hold, and lets you free.

“A coffee was promised?” you say, voice light but wavering. He nods and kisses your forehead, as if steadying you for later.

You both dress in whatever is nearest—bare legs, except for Viktor’s braced one, and cotton t-shirts, still tasting of sleep. In the kitchen, you busy yourself with the French press while Viktor assembles eggs and bread.

There’s a clumsiness to the dance—no ritual yet, just two people testing out how much space the other will allow. He can’t seem to help it— he reaches out for your shoulder, kisses the crown of your head as you pass, fingers stroking the knob of your spine when you lean into the fridge. An act of worship after an act of worship.

When the coffee brews, you perch on the edge of a chair, hunched over your phone, thumb pressed against your mouth in a nervous, childish gesture. Viktor wipes his hands and watches you, quietly worried.

“If it’s important—” he begins, but you snap the phone face-down on the table and shake your head, abrupt.

“No. Just checking,” you say, smile thin. “I do have to do some reading though, if you don’t mind.”

He sets a plate before you—toast, eggs, a cut apple—and bends to kiss the top of your head. “I don’t.” Then, he sits across from you, starts to eat, but you don’t touch your food. Instead, you watch him as if you are trying to look inside him, past the slender border of skin, teeth worrying your lower lip.

He pauses mid-chew, fork in the air. “Are you alright?”

You nod, eyes watery, and try to smile. “Yes, it’s just—”

“Domestic,” Viktor finishes for you. You nod again, hair falling into your eyes.

He sets his fork down, whole attention turned to you. A hand is offered across the table, palm up—a silent invitation, just like that first morning, when Viktor was still trying to prove you wouldn’t be a quick fix. This time, he doesn’t have to wait. Your hand finds his, fingers curling in its hollow shelter.

“I maintain everything that was ever said over this table,” Viktor says softly, thumb stroking your knuckles. “I am still willing to compromise. And to remind you—I take only what you give.”

Your grip tightens, and you look down, lashes skimming your cheeks. “You deserve more than that,” you murmur, voice so low he almost misses it.

He sits back, thoughtful. Watches you with his jaw set tight, hating whatever is causing you to shrink with a burning passion. He knows for all of this—face creaseless and breaths artificially deep—you pay in currency of muscles pulled taut and ribs aching. He can see the tempest raging inside. But thankfully, by now, Viktor knows you so well it’s evident what should come next.

He clears his throat. “Come here,” he says, using the tone—the pass me the wine one, the open your legs one, the come for me one. Lately, it’s seeped into the you are very good one, too.

You stand, wordless, and circle the table, stopping before him. Viktor gestures to the floor with one finger, and you fold yourself down instantly, hands curling into fists atop your thighs, head bowed.

“You can touch me,” he says quietly. Your shuffle is immediate as you come closer on your knees and wrap your arms around his waist, cheek pressed to his lap. “Good girl,” Viktor murmurs, stroking your damp hair. “I have everything I need. Do you understand me?”

A whisper, barely audible: “I do.”

He pauses, thumb tracing behind your ear. Tilts his chin. “Another thing that I hope is understandable—I do have to spank you. For the car.”

That’s when you look at him, veneer cracking. Eyes darkening into something wilder, something honest and grateful, you crawl into his lap to straddle him, fingers twining into hair. A sigh leaves you, long, lungs emptying of staleness, as if you’ve finally returned to yourself.

“There she is,” Viktor purrs, holding you close, leashing the need to swallow you whole, to shake you into the recognition of safety he tries to press into your brain, to unzip his chest and show you how pure everything inside is.

He slips his hand behind your neck and gently urges you up, guiding you to stand. You obey by touch, making the inside of Viktor’s chest rearrange itself a little. Eye contact maintained, he takes your hand and draws you down to splay you across his lap. The crease of your pelvis settles on one of his thighs, the other slotting in beneath your armpits as you settle. With your arms hanging down, you can brush the floor with your fingertips, but choose to wrap your hands around the chair’s legs instead.

The preparation itself excites him—your body shifting from awkwardness to falling into alignment with his. Made for each other, Viktor thinks idiotically, and spreads his legs, making your spine elongate and your stomach dip between them—back arching, ass offered up, the focal point of all his attention. He watches the play of your ribs as you breathe, anticipation trembling in his hands as he smooths a palm down the small of your back and lower.

Underwear peels off like eggshell. Viktor lets it fall to the bend of your knees. He slides his hand up the back of your thigh—slow, fingers digging in, mapping the tension and softness until his palm settles to knead on the bare swell. Flesh that yields and tenses at his touch, a body that trusts him enough to offer up its softest part.

“Colour?” he asks, voice rough with effort, with want.

“Green,” you answer, almost breathless, the word escaping as if from the bottom of a well. Viktor twists his free hand into your hair, turning your face so he can see you—read the pinch in your brow, the way your mouth parts.

His palm cracks down with a short, ringing sound, flesh meeting flesh—sharp, and clean, just body, just trust. The impact travels up his arm, an aftershock blooming in his nerves, and he watches the white flare of his handprint rise, then fade, replaced by pink, then slow, inevitable bleed of red. His breath goes uneven. This is always where he walks a wire—each blow calibrated, measured out in the span between too little and too much. His mind scrambles to keep tally, muscles attuned to the little gasps, the bitten-off whimper when his palm lands heavier.

Viktor’s heart bends with the static of want and caution. With every smack, he feels the chasm yawning on either side—the terror of going too far, the heartbreak of not going far enough. The only thing holding him steady is the tension of your body under his, the knowledge that you would tell him to stop if you needed. That you trust him to do this right.

He lingers a moment, hand resting on the heat rising off your skin, letting you feel the shape of his touch. “Colour?” he murmurs, quieter now, thumb stroking behind your ear where the hair is softest.

“Green,” you whisper, voice thick with endorphins, and Viktor exhales, almost giddy with relief.

He delivers another blow, then another, watching the marks bloom and fade, each one proof of your resilience and his care. The chair creaks beneath you, your hands clench and unclench around the legs, your breathing ragged and alive. Viktor watches the back of your neck flush, the sheen of sweat gathering at your hairline, and as everything shrinks to the distance between his hand and your skin—he finds a place filled with infinite attention, and for a moment, perfect balance.

At some point, the ache in his hand blooms sharp and hot. His cock throbs, chafing against the cotton, every inch of him raw with focus. He lets go of your hair, arms dropping slack by his sides, and just breathes—deep, sated. He feels fed, as if something essential has been returned to him.

He studies the heat painting your ass, red and proud, fingers lingering to soothe and claim at once. When he helps you up, you sway a little. He cups your cheeks in both hands, squeezing gently, and you flinch—just a small wince, nothing hidden.

“Are you alright?” he asks, voice only for you.

You tip your chin, eyes glassy and mouth bitten raw, looking wrecked and impossibly sweet. He searches for the signal—checks if you’re falling, sinking, fading out. “Are you dropping?” he asks, softer.

You shake your head, arms looping around his neck, the skin of your thighs sticking to his with sweat and need. “Good,” Viktor murmurs, thumbing a streak down your spine. “What do you need?”

You’re all instinct now, sliding up against him, mouth near his ear, breath hot: “You.”

He nods, grateful, once, twice, again—just to make sure it’s real. His arm finds your shoulder, his nose buried in your hair, and you move as a single body toward the bedroom, leaving the kitchen a mess.

Once there, Viktor tugs his T-shirt off with one arm, knuckles brushing your ribs as he lifts yours next. Bare, you meet him halfway for a kiss—slow, drowning, a hum caught in his throat as he presses his tongue deep, tasting you like he means to drink every word you’d ever unsay. He catches your wrists, slides your palms down to the waistband of his boxers, and lets you push them down. Breath hitches when his cock springs free, slapping up against his belly, already flushed and hot.

Your hands don’t stray, fingers curling around him, stroking lazy and sweet. But Viktor’s palms find your shoulders, coaxing you gently to turn around for him, to see what he’s made of you. He admires the fresh aftermath: your skin glows, red as a full plum where his hand landed, blotched here and there, blood vessels just beginning to break the surface—a map of his want, soon to ripen into bruises only he’ll ever get to touch.

“Let’s see,” he says, sliding a hand between your thighs. His fingers find you drenched, and the sound he makes is half praise, half disbelief. “Oh, aren’t you just a brilliant slut,” he murmurs, dragging the tips of his fingers through your slick. “All ready for me.” He bends and kisses the knob at the top of your spine, his mouth gentle while his hands have been anything but.

He talks that talk, but his heart is raging with wonder, sick with longing, horrified by how necessary this is—how empty life would be without the mess you make of each other.

Arms wrapped around you, he sits on the edge of the bed, pulling you onto his lap, your back flush to his chest. With certain hands, Viktor spreads your thighs and lies back. “I want to see your ass,” he says when you glance over your shoulder. You lift your hips and reach back, guiding him in, slick and tight.

Your sigh is a flutter in the hush; Viktor’s breath stutters when the backs of your thighs press to his pelvis, and he strokes a trembling palm down your spine, coaxing you to lean forward, arching, open.

It’s a fit almost too snug—his cock twitches, nerves firing all along his skin. “Fuck me, my darling,” he breathes, voice trembling with want, knowing damn well how devastating it’s going to be.

It gets confirmed when you brace your palms on the edge mattress between his legs and move—a fat, thorough grind, making the whole length of his cock flare up with pleasure, his balls tightening where your lips kiss them.

The feeling alone would be enough to make Viktor’s breath drag rough and heavy in his chest, but it’s the sight—fuck, it’s the sight that pulls a moan from deep in his throat. He watches himself—cock gleaming, vanishing, and reappearing between the plush of your lips, the wetness shining where you swallow him down. He’s everywhere, pressed up and inside, and the thought alone nearly ends him.

His hands roam, unable to choose a single place to linger. He smooths his palms up your back, thumbs circling the bruised marks he left, then slide lower. He can’t help himself—fuck-drunk and lewd, he licks his thumb and slips it between your cheeks to tease you. Not a push, but a gentle press, just tracing, just to see how you react, hips flexing harder on him.

“Oh fuck, please—” you beg him, arching your back, coming halfway to meet him.

He knows he’s the needy one. So he makes you join him in the needy country, as if covering up the fact that—even with you here, after you’ve confessed something tremendous in the smallest way possible, after letting him outright punch the reciprocation into your skin—he is still fucking yearning. The need grows inside him like a tumour, swelling larger and larger the further in he ventures. It undergoes a metastasis, mutates into a fear that he won’t be able to keep his promise: I take only what you give.

He wants—no, he needs—to be inside you, but the way he is now isn’t enough. He needs to be really inside you, to have his skin enveloped by yours, your teeth behind his, eyes seeing the same thing. Only then is it home. Only then is he whole. Only then does existence become bearable.

“Please, what?” he asks, meaning to tease, but it comes out too rough, almost pleading.

You look over your shoulder, innocence incarnate, lips parted. “Please, fill me up.”

He groans—a broken thing—and presses his thumb in, slow and torturous, past that tight ring of muscle. Free hand clamps down on your hip, holding you steady, himself together. The sound you make—ethereal, unreal—carries through him like a current. Viktor does everything he can to memorize it, desperate to keep it in the deepest vaults of his mind.

You move as one, his brain fixed on the feel of your body bowed above him—heart-shaped, marked, wanting. His cock buried deep, thumb trapped tight, your ass flushed and blushing with his devotion. Your legs splayed over his hips, soles facing the ceiling, toes flexing with every grind. He wishes he had more hands—one for your neck, another for your clit, another just to pin you in place.

He’s saying things, half-talking, half-muttering—soft, filthy endearments that slip into Czech whenever the English cracks apart. “Miláčku, podívej se na mě—my girl, my perfect girl. Děláš mě šíleným.”

He feels unhinged, nearly strangled by pleasure. Every muscle in his body is wound tight, heat coiling low and sharp, his cock pulsing inside you, web after web of slick breaking as you ride him. He watches your hips roll, the shape of your back, the way your cunt and ass squeeze him, hold him, claim him. He could die from it—die happy.

You rut down onto him and break—clenching hard around his cock and thumb, head thrown back, wild. He tells you not to stop, can’t bear the loss, voice gone ragged. “Milovaná, nezastavuj—” Don’t stop, my beloved.

It takes barely one roll of your hips, one glance over your shoulder, and one more thing—the parting of lips and, from between them—“I love you,” falling out, honest and trembling. And then he’s gone, coming so hard his torso bows up off the bed, an arm wrapped tight around your waist, dragging you down as he buries his face in your shoulder and bites, desperate to keep you from leaving this perfect, violent orbit.

“Stay, stay, stay,” Viktor mutters through laboured breaths, one hand coming to collar around your neck, the other sliding up blindly, gathering the sweat off your skin until it finds another wetness—cheeks dampened with tears, rolling down to your mouth and chin. “Oh, darling,” Viktor coos, and he knows then that he will have to part from you for an agonising second if he wants to see you.

He makes the Sophie’s choice and guides your hips up. There’s a silver lining in it—he gets to watch his cum roll out of you lazily; it almost makes up for the loss of your shelter. You shift awkwardly to wrap around him, chest to chest, arms circling his neck, legs locking around his waist, nose buried in the safety of his neck. His mind reels with countless I love yous, but he finds it hard to speak.

He tries to express it through gestures—uses your hair as a lever to pull your head away and up, so he can kiss your face. It starts at your forehead, a long press of mouth, then lower, on your brow, down below your eyes where tears dry into salt on skin, and finally your lips, parched from all the breathing. He stays there long enough for your thighs to stop shaking.

“How are you?” he asks, brushing hair away from your face.

You scan his face, but he knows it’s within your own mind that you do the searching. “Overwhelmed,” you say carefully, nodding. He nods back, encourages you with a swipe of his thumb over your cheek.

“Sore. But good,” you offer, and Viktor smiles at this effort. “And uh—” Foreheads touch. “Starving.”

He laughs into your mouth, relieved that the drop is not too severe. He’d feel bad for boasting his temporary invulnerability to everything if you were sunken deep. “So it takes fucking you twice to get you hungry, noted,” he says, and what’s meant to be playful comes out adoring.

“Apparently,” you reply, nuzzling back into him, body slack and warm.

He makes eggs again. Fresh coffee. Accepts the painful loss of the sight of your skin marked by his hands when you get dressed, and tries to be grateful that you like to walk sock-free even when it’s cold. He lets you read on his bed, head resting in the small of your back while you lie on your belly, and he stares at your ankles crossed above him.

It’s impossible not to look. The strong column of your Achilles tendon calls to him with its pale tension, and for a second he is overtaken by the shameless urge to see how it would feel between his teeth, or pinched precisely between the hard pad of his thumb and forefinger. Every protruding bone has a history: the little bruises and scuffs on your ankles, fresh from catching a corner or missing a step when you walk too fast. Toes, curled and a little distorted from years of flats, ballet slippers, heels, each one telling him more about how hard you’ve lived in your body.

Before sense can intervene, he reaches. The ball of your heel fits exactly into the hollow of his hand—he presses, feels the push of your pulse beneath skin, and then his thumb finds the arch. He digs in, gently, and you hiss, but your eyes do not lift from the page.

Undeterred, he works his fingers over your toes, flexing each one in turn, bending until there’s a soft pop. There’s a noise from you, unguarded—half exhale, half protest, half pleasure.

“Is there another fetish of yours I should be aware of?” you murmur, not looking up.

He pulls by the ankle and kisses the arch, lips dragging lazily across skin that never touches the shoe sole. “It’s not so much a foot fetish,” Viktor hums, mouth pressed now to the soft tendon above your heel, fulfilling the old fantasy and scraping his teeth, gentle, along the bone, “as a just you fetish. I thought that one was clear.”

You rest the folder flat on the mattress and look back over your shoulder. “Why does my foot ah—” A yelp, half-indignant, cuts you off, as Viktor bites your calf, mouth grinning against your skin. “Fall victim to it?”

He chuckles, boldness gathering. His tongue flattens along the line of your leg, and he marks the trail with a kiss where muscle hardens into bone. “I take what I can get.”

“Oh, you poor bastard.” You roll to your back, propped up on your elbows, sliding just out of his reach, face a perfect mock-scold. “Haven’t you just fucked me twice?”

“That was a long time ago,” Viktor retorts without shame, crawling over you. His arms slip around your waist, and he drops his head onto your stomach, weight gentle, breath warm against the cotton. “Will you read to me?”

“It’s a play,” you protest, laughter bright in your voice, fingers threading through his hair, scratching at his scalp.

“Do you want me to read with you?” Viktor props his chin on your sternum, gaze openly pleading. You look at him and then down, a shy smile flickering as you try to dodge the question. “What?” he prods, grinning, fingers creeping for the folder. “What are you reading?”

“No—” You try to hold the manuscript out of his reach, twisting away. He won’t give up; it turns into a clumsy caricature of wrestling, your body slithering and laughing, his hands scrabbling for the folder. “Viktor, no, I will tickle you,” you warn, but it’s too late. He gets his hand on the edge, you dig your fingers mercilessly into his ribs and suddenly he’s writhing and giggling, helpless under your assault. You press your advantage, straddling his hips, pinning both wrists above his head with your hands, breathless and triumphant.

“That’s not fair play,” Viktor manages, voice—he hopes—an adorable whine, breath still ragged with laughter.

You bite your lip, clearly weighing the risk. He quiets, tone shifting into soft and coaxing. “What is it that you can’t show me?” It’s almost an accusation, a velvet demand, like how dare you keep your reading list a secret from the man who’s just mapped every contour of your foot.

For a beat, you hold out, then sigh, defeated, releasing his wrists. You reach above his head and drop the booklet square onto his face.

He laughs, peels the script off, and glances at the title. The gasp he gives is almost theatrical—delight, surprise, something else. “I don’t think I’m the only one fetishizing here.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Your fingers wiggle, threatening more tickles, but Viktor’s faster this time—he rolls you both over in a smooth move, pinning you underneath him, face-to-face, grin wicked and smug. He knows you let him win.

“My darling girl,” he sighs, feigning long-suffering patience, waving the manuscript just out of your reach, “clearly you are obsessed with me.” He taps the front cover. “Reading Havel under my nose. And The Memorandum, no less. Excellent taste. I can’t help but wonder what inspired it.”

You say nothing, eyes darting away, cheeks burning so hot he feels the heat bloom beneath his lips as he nuzzles your jaw and temple. He leans in, mouth brushing your ear, voice low and fond. “For once, I’ll take your eyeroll as surrender. Now, I’ll ask again—would you like me to read with you?”

You consider, head tipped back against the mattress, lips pursed in a thoughtful pout. “Do you know it?”

“Of course,” Viktor murmurs, kissing the shell of your ear. “Not by heart. And I am no actor,” he adds, lifting his head to catch your gaze, “but I can read.”

“Will you help me with the languages?” you ask, your index finger tracing along the curve of his bottom lip, as if you need some more convincing.

“Will you admit you are obsessed with me?” Viktor’s teeth catch your fingertip, biting down just enough to make you gasp.

“Are you trying to bully me into something?”

“No, I would never,” he says, all innocent, but his hands have already slipped lower, groping you, rubbing your body against his. “Just humiliate you a bit,” he goes on, voice rough with affection, fingers winding gently into the hair at the nape of your neck. “Maybe some more violation—” His tongue flicks at your throat, hot and lazy. “We will have to see how it goes.”

You exhale, somewhere between surrender and laughter. “Alright.”

He stops, hands going still, eyes searching yours. The air changes—suddenly serious, another step taken into the unknown.

“Viktor, will you read out The Memorandum with me?” you ask, a little shy beneath the boldness.

He grins, bloody delighted. “I thought you’d never ask.”

You settle on the bed, Viktor against the head board, you between his legs with your back against his chest, and read The Ptydepe Lesson scene with roles assigned by feeling. It goes smoother than expected. The scene revolves around organisational employees trying to learn a new, artificial corporate language, dictated by an unknown force. Viktor is stuck between exasperated sighs and giggles depending on where the scene takes him in his own work environment.

He makes a solemn face while reciting the lines belonging to Gross, the managing director, who desperately tries to handwave his lecturer’s scold. “The third sub-word escaped me,” he says, reading it out from the booklet resting on your knees.

“Unfortunately, the first two sub-words also escaped you, like all the other Ptydepe words which I was trying to teach you only a moment ago,” you say in a flat tone of a teacher withering away under his student’s absent glances. “When one considers that the interjections are the easiest part of Ptydepe and that my requirements have indeed been minimal, one cannot avoid concluding that in your case it is not merely a matter of average inattentiveness or negligence, but of that particular inability to learn any Ptydepe whatsoever which stems from a profound and well-disguised doubt in its very sense. Under these circumstances I don’t see why I should oblige you by reading aloud and, what’s more, translating an unauthorized text.” You take a deep breath trying to read out the finishing line. “Chozup puzuk bojt!” comes out and Viktor snorts.

“Goodness! So much fuss about three little words!” he replies and even though his character is supposed to leave abruptly while stealing a fire extinguisher, he leans in to nuzzle your neck. “Does this mean I get an F, Mr. Lear?”

“I do not think that is your line Mr. Gross,” you say, tilting your head toward him. “I suppose you do get an F though.”

“Really?” he teases. “Isn’t sleeping with the teacher going to get me anywhere?” His mouth trails a line down your tendon, then up, stopping to nip at your ear. “Clearly I’m too simple to learn your language,” Viktor whispers, hitting closer to home than he would like to admit.

During this little act, he wonders if it’s at all possible, or will some things forever remain oblique. He tries to remain calm, but under the skin he’s buzzing, giddy at being granted another bridge between his world and yours—theatre that translates, that outright mocks miscommunication and bureaucracy, something that connects both of you almost seamlessly.

There are ways of explaining it, and Viktor can’t decide which one would tickle his ego more: the self-indulgent romantic scenario, in which you were crafted exactly to match him; or the other, where it’s an active, seemingly equal effort on both sides—you, spying on the collection of objects within his apartment, plucking the exact right ones, and then doing further research on him. He thinks it’s the second one that devastates him more. He hopes he will be able to do the same thing to you, one day.

Between the time of afternoon descending into evening, Viktor cooks again. You eat together, talk about The Memorandum. The little glimpses of what this could be get interrupted by you phasing out, thumb flicking at your phone, face unreadable in the dim kitchen light. Viktor manages to bring you back each time—hand on your shoulder, palm resting on your thigh, a low-voiced question about a line in the play. You answer, eventually, eyes clearing as you return.

Later, he has you in bed, sucking lovemarks into your belly—because apparently having your ass painted into shades of red and violet is not enough; there has to be some claim on the front of you, too. You, clearly amused, let him have his fill. When he deems another of his works complete, he crawls up next to you, turns to his bedside drawer, and pulls out the syringe. Your eyes are on him—wide, uncertain, but more curious than worried—and Viktor realises it’s just another part of himself he could hand over, easy as breath.

He passes you the syringe, palm open. “Would you like to do it for me?”

You hesitate, shifting to sit cross-legged beside him. “Are you sure?” you ask, turning the syringe over in your hands like something both precious and sharp.

Viktor just nods. “You’ll be fine. I trust you.”

You follow his quiet instructions—cleaning a patch of skin on his stomach with antiseptic, brushing over faint, old bruises. The smell stings, nerves pricking. You watch his face, as if you’re half-waiting for him to flinch, but he only watches you, patient, and calm.

“Like this?” you ask, positioning the needle, hand steady in the way you force it to be.

“Exactly,” Viktor murmurs, his hand covering yours, encouraging.

You press the plunger down, slow, and careful. When you’re done, you draw back and inspect his skin, eyes narrowed. “Will it bruise?”

Viktor shrugs, eyes crinkling. “We’ll see. Sometimes it doesn’t. But if it does, at least we’ll match.”

You snort. “Sap. Absolute sap.” But your voice is fond, lips brushing his shoulder.

He grins, hugs you into him, rubbing his face against yours. “Only for you, my darling.” Then quieter, almost as if reminding himself: “I love you.”

To Viktor’s relief, you only squeeze him tighter, face pressed to his chest. “I love you too. God, I love you, you have no idea.”

This is how trust grows, Viktor thinks. Between gestures and confessions still scarce, he takes what he can get, and gives what you will accept.

Sunday comes with another reset. After his shower, Viktor finds you stretching and yawning in the bed, hand searching blindly, and for a moment he hopes it’s reaching for him—until he sees your fingers curl around your phone. At first, you don’t notice him, but he gets your attention by dropping the damp towel on the bed and reaching for some briefs.

“Hi,” you say, sleepy, propping yourself up on your elbows.

“Hi yourself.” Viktor leans in and kisses your forehead. “I’ll make the coffee, you can take a shower.”

You hum something, crawl off the bed and shuffle to the bathroom. His eyes follow you until your foot disappears behind the creak of the door you leave ajar.

In the kitchen, Viktor is stuck between ruminating and cherishing his last full day with you. He understands the sacrifice damn well, but can’t stop himself from hoping that whatever he’s doing is working. He wonders what it would be like to have you here at all times, without your lives divided into four different locations.

The crack of joints announces you in the doorway, and Viktor shakes all those thoughts off. Instead, he welcomes your arms wrapping around him—and winces at the phone clutched in one of them. It buzzes against his sternum intrusively, so he leans into the instinct—plucks it from your grasp and turns to kiss you. Your mouth is flushed clean, tissues cool with menthol, and he sinks into it while an idea forms in his head.

He walks you toward the table, tongues joined, licking flat against each other, and before you can prop yourself against the wood, he tells you to bend over.

“What are we doing?” you ask, already in position.

“I am having breakfast,” Viktor tells you, beyond pleased with his own joke, while getting himself a chair to sit down to his meal. “And you are feeding me,” he says, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your sleeping shorts and peeling them down. He exhales heavily at the sight, can’t help the primal growl forming somewhere in his chest. Yesterday’s bruises have indeed ripened overnight, a palette of plums and wine-dark reds. Fucking beautiful, if anyone asks him—ownership and trust imprinted on skin.

He promises you he’ll be gentle, though he’s not certain of either—how much you care, and how much he’ll be able to hold back. He fucks you with his tongue relentlessly, keeping you open with his thumbs, and chuckles every time your hips push to grind on his face.

And truly, Viktor just wants to eat you out—nothing more. It would be good to forsake breathing altogether, just to continue without breaks, but inevitably the need for a gasp of air parts him from you.

“Tell me how it feels,” he says, evening out exhales with inhales, and when you clearly can’t form a coherent thought, the wicked part of him wins over the kind one, and he decides to tease you further.

It feels fantastic to watch you squirm like this. You try so desperately to be good for him, to word out the plea, even though Viktor is certain he’s the one who wants more at the moment. His cock hangs heavy in his boxers, and he doesn’t have to look to know there’s a stain where the tip meets the cotton. His balls contort every time you glance over your shoulder, outright begging him to end you.

So he buries his cheeks against yours, thrumming with the warmth of inflamed skin and vessels broken underneath. He pays attention to keep his thumbs gentle where he spreads you and pushes his tongue inside. Soon, the scent of vetiver mixes with spit and slick and drips from his chin onto his knee. You come gripping the table’s edge so hard your knuckles pop.

And Viktor meant for it to be just this, but he remembers you need to be fucked twice to get at all hungry and sit with him through breakfast without fidgeting. His briefs slide down his thighs faster than thought, and he places himself all flushed and heavy in the crease of your ass, hips rocking, cock gathering all that’s wet.

“How are you?” he asks, hoping for the best. You look back, give him one of the best sets of bedroom eyes he’s seen in his life and tell him, “Good.”

It’s honest. It makes him happy.

In no time, he leans forward, palms planted hard against wood on either side of your shoulders and—oh—he’s confessing what his desire has darkened into before he can catch the thought leaving him.

“I am so tempted to fuck your ass like this, you have no idea.”

He closes his eyes for an agonising second or eternity. There’s a hum in his ears like he’s underwater, and what breaks through the static makes him almost fail to hold back a whimper.

“Do it,” you whisper.

Viktor releases a slow-motioned exhale. He checks twice. Then again. He feels drunk but tries to remember all the steps. It’s one finger first. Then two, then three. In the meantime he checks and checks and checks, and it’s green, green, green all the way through. He holds onto your throat, makes it look like control, but truthfully, it’s him fumbling for one. In the meantime, he torments himself by rocking his cock between your slick thighs. It’s all too much, nearly, and he’s not even inside you yet.

And then he is, and he hates himself for having to pause. He knows damn well it’s maddening to stop at the head, that the stretch needs constant movement to settle, but he just fucking can’t. Too tight, too wet, almost too warm. His chest is burning and his fingers twitch around your neck, seized in the contraption of your body, until you beg him.

“Please fuck me. Please, please, please fuck me,” you slur, hand tightening around his on your throat, and Viktor moves on instinct. It’s slow, still so very slow, but every inch burns his cock with pleasure rooting so deeply he can’t breathe properly.

When you finally take him, Viktor nearly comes on the spot. He feels his balls pulling up so sharply it’s almost as if a phantom hand is squeezing them. It’s not at all frantic. He’s slow, even more thorough than usual. He doesn’t get to bottom out, but to fuck your ass first thing in the morning is possibly one of the best things Viktor has ever experienced. The final uncharted part of your body surrendered, and at last he can say he’s been in all your holes twice over and you enjoyed each and every invasion.

He’s fully aware he’s doing things backwards, literally. That it should be talk first, fuck later. Moreover, it should be talk first and face all the lingering doubts, all your shared fears, but this—this is easy. It’s the language you’ve both invented for yourselves. It’s no Ptydepe, it’s communication that overrides speech and bleeds straight into neural pathways.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” he hisses into your ear and spills first, holding onto you—one hand tightening around your neck, the other circling your clit blindly. Viktor thinks this is it, that he can’t get more overwhelmed, but then you crest and break—milking him violently, cursing and mumbling his name out.

It takes him forever to get a hold over the tears threatening to break out. Another forever to lift himself off you, pull out and slump back onto the chair. He indulges first; admires the view—his cum dripping out in spasms, sliding into your slit, then down, down where it coats your thighs. Panting, he leans forward and kisses your ass, murmuring praises and questions.

“Děvče moje,” he whispers. “Talk to me. How are you, my darling girl?”

You peel yourself off the table on trembling legs, and stagger before gravity decides for you. Viktor is there to catch you as you straddle him—shackle him. Body flushed, slick, wrecked, you press into every inch of him, as if it’s the only way to keep your atoms together.

Your arms circle his shoulders, hands crawling into the damp mess of hair at his nape. Fingers tangle. You bury your face against him, and all that leaves you is a shattered little sound: “Fuck, Viktor.”

He cups your face immediately, both hands warm and shaking. “Fuck Viktor good? Bad?” he asks, mock-serious, thumbs stroking your cheeks.

“Good. So good, Jesus.” You breathe it, eyes unseeing. “You’re so good. Fuck, I can’t speak.”

“That’s not new,” Viktor says, fond. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, brushing the damp away from your temple.

You shoot him a look—spent, indignant—and he laughs, low and bright, chest rising against yours. He’s grateful that this is all that there is to the aftercare today—just holding. He needs it himself, to hold onto you. You stay tangled on the chair until Viktor’s thighs go numb and the coffee grows cold.

“I think we should have breakfast in bed today,” Viktor hums into your shoulder and it’s your turn to laugh.

You find it in you to joke around with him, and indeed, you have breakfast in bed. Afterwards, you clear the dishes together and float around each other in the rhythm that settles into comfortable once again—refilling the kettle, trading glances and brushes of mouth. Eventually, you settle in the lounge. Viktor stretches himself out on the sofa with a book, and you curl up beside him, legs tucked under, head on his shoulder. It feels good. Simple. So good he begins to believe it might hold.

But the stillness doesn't last. Something catches in your posture—your eyes flick to phone by your side and the tension seeps back in, quiet and sure as a change in weather. Viktor notices. He's put so much effort into anchoring you here, that when you freeze after reading one message, it hits him like a draft under a closed door. You battle it. He can tell: the way your breath sucks in before you force yourself to lean back into him, book in hand, spine pressed to his side. For a while, you win. But your fingers tighten slightly each time you turn the page.

Inevitably, when left to just be, it densifies with more of your ticks and worried glances, every time you check your emails. At some point, your foot twitches and you shove the phone face down on the couch with a long, exasperated sigh. Viktor knows there is something to brace for.

“How upset will you be if I leave soon?” you ask, rubbing a hand across your face, voice pitched low, cautious.

“Terribly,” Viktor says with a smirk, trying to lighten the moment, but your pleading expression is hard to ignore. He sobers, shifting closer. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, absolutely,” you assure him quickly, reaching over to place your hand on his lap. “I just accumulated over a hundred emails and half of them I actually have to respond to before tomorrow.” You show him your phone, the unread count almost accusatory.

“It’s fine,” he murmurs, ignoring the evidence, rubbing slow circles into your arms instead. He watches the tension in your shoulders and lowers his voice. “Would you like me to drive you home?”

“No. Rest,” you reply, putting a hand on his cheek, gentle. There’s a long pause as you breathe in the sight of him, then, softer: “This week might be terrible, Viktor.” The words sound unsure, an apology for something that hasn’t happened yet. “I know it’s unfortunate timing—”

“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “It’s fine. I know.” He cups your face, brushing his thumb over your cheek, studying every tired detail. “I know, alright? Any chance I will see you?”

“Maybe Thursday?” you offer, the hope in your voice unsteady.

“Maybe Thursday,” he echoes, quieter, more to himself than to you, and then with a bit more warmth, “Maybe Thursday is good.”

His 48 hours cut short, he tries to see you off with dignity, arms looped loose around your waist as you tug your coat on, scarf bundled high on your throat. It’s a slow, shuffling kind of farewell, made of shards of moments.

At the door, you lean in for one last kiss and Viktor can’t help himself—he catches your face in both hands, mouth warm and soft against yours. He kisses you once, twice, a third time, until you laugh quietly against his lips and nudge him back, whispering, “Let me go, V. I’ll be back.” But he can’t really do that. He loves the V but winces at the wording.

Even when you step out into the corridor, he follows, trailing a touch down your arm, holding onto the very tips of your fingers until you break contact to press the lift button.

He leans in the doorway, barefoot on cold tile, watching the metal doors slide shut between you. Only when he can no longer see the shape of your shoulders does he let his head tip forward, eyes closed, breathing you in from memory. The corridor is silent. He mouths, “Maybe Thursday,” to the empty hall, as if repetition might make it lose the maybe.

Back inside, the flat is too big, the light too bright. Viktor wanders through the rooms, unsettled, hands restless in the absence of your skin. He drops onto the couch, head falling back, and breathes deep—coffee, shampoo, a trace of your perfume on the collar of his jumper. He tells himself not to look at his phone, but still checks occasionally.

He replays the last two days in his head, wondering if it was something truly dire that’s ripped you away from him, or if your declaration of here—Viktor still isn’t sure if you’d meant his flat or the space between his arms—was just something overblown in the moment. He’d rather believe that Young Vic has suffered some real tragedy without you.

At the Institute, he’s short with Jayce, loses himself in busywork, invents tasks. He answers messages from interns with mechanical precision, but when the screen lights up and it’s not you, he gets almost angry. Evenings bleed into each other. He starts rereading The Memorandum, just for the sound of your voice in his head.

There are texts, of course. You send a late-night photo of your desk, a single-word “buried,” and he replies with a line expressing endless understanding, but the ache only sharpens. He calls once, just to hear you say goodnight, and at some point the line goes quiet with static and your even breathing.

By Wednesday, his leg aches—a dull, insistent throb. Viktor rubs it absently, blaming the weather, but knows it’s more than that. Thursday morning, your message comes: Can’t make it tonight. I’m so sorry. Weekend is slammed too. Soon, I promise. I miss you terribly, I will call in the evening.

He stares at the screen for too long. His thumb hovers over the keyboard, searching for the right words—something gentle, something that won’t reveal the scale of his disappointment. He types I understand. Take care of yourself. Let me know if you need anything, and deletes it twice before hitting send. You text asking if he’s still awake around 2 a.m., hitting that bitter spot of Viktor getting three hours of restless sleep. He curses the missed window in the morning.

The weekend crawls by. He doesn’t leave the flat, just circles from kitchen to bedroom, the bed always too cold. At night, he tries not to think about the taste of your skin, the little noises you make, the ghost-ache of your weight on top of him. He tells himself it’s unreasonable, that adults survive weeks apart, but it doesn’t help.

By Monday, he’s furious at himself for being so transparent. By Tuesday, he’s just lonely. The longing is a tide that eats away his resolve. On his lunch break, Viktor buys two coffees and stands outside the Young Vic, cursing himself for every step that brought him here. He almost turns around, twice, but longing is heavier than hubris.

He is pointed to your office without question, his heart climbing up his throat, knuckles white on the coffee tray and cane. The theatre’s corridors feel more like territory to cross than space to be welcomed in; each step closer to your door, Viktor’s chest aches with hope and something like dread.

“Viktor?” Charlie’s voice comes from behind him, friendly but curious. “I’m guessing you have a pressing matter to our director?”

Viktor blinks, thrown off. He juggles the coffee, tucks the cane in the crook of his arm and manages to offer his left hand. “Ah, Charlie, yes? I don’t think we’ve ever—”

“We haven’t, and I blame her.” Charlie gestures to the office door, his smile both sharp and kind. “Nice to formally meet you.” His handshake is firm, brisk, and Viktor is struck by the easy confidence. “She’s inside if you want to say hello. Come,” Charlie says, already pushing open the door.

As soon as the door cracks open, Viktor hears your voice, jagged with stress. “Charlie, I swear to fucking God I’m going to start firing people if those lights are not—” Your eyes land on Viktor and you falter, just a fraction, composure snapping back like a rubber band. “Oh.”

“Look who I found in the hallway,” Charlie announces with theatrical nonchalance. “Here’s the list of potential thieves.” He presses a post-it to your laptop and, with a conspiratorial salute, “And I will give you two a minute.”

“Charlie—” you call after him, one finger lifted in warning, but he just grins. “Nobody leaves until we find the lights.”

“Aye, captain.” He vanishes, door clicking shut.

There’s a tension now—static and charged. You push up from your chair, circling to lean against the front edge of your desk. The space between you and Viktor isn’t vast, but it feels newly formal, like you’re standing in front of an audience. He notices your neck is already clear of his marks.

“Ugh, sorry about that,” you mutter, running a hand through your hair. “Someone stole two scene lights, and we have a pre-premiere on Friday, can you believe it?” The words come out quick, tumbling, nerves disguised as business. “What are you doing here?” You try for casual, but your eyes are still searching him, wary.

Viktor holds out the coffees, a feeble offering, but words fail him—what explanation is there, really?

He steps closer, places the tray on the desk beside your hip, then suddenly—he’s kissing you. He drinks you in, greedy, hand cupping your jaw, thumb grazing the soft patch below your ear. It’s hunger and relief all at once, a week’s worth of longing poured into one breathless rush. For Viktor, it’s a first, full, living breath in days, taken straight from your lungs. “I missed you,” he mutters, hoping for reciprocation.

But just as quickly, he feels your hands against his chest—not pulling him closer, but gently, insistently, pushing him away.

“Not… here, okay?” you murmur. To anyone else, you’re composed, polite. But Viktor sees the flicker of panic in your eyes, the way your shoulders tense.

He falters, warmth draining. “I—” His voice stutters, unsteady. “Forgive me, I… I thought I could nurture you with some caffeine.” He tries a half-smile, still aching to close the distance between you.

“Yes. Yes, you can, thank you.” You take the coffee, busying yourself, fingers trembling ever so slightly. “Just—Charlie and I—” You gesture helplessly at the chaos of your desk. “I’m trying to solve a cris—”

Before you can finish, Viktor just wraps his arms around you, folding you close. His embrace is wordless, meant to shield, to say I see you. I’m here. Your body stays rigid at first, but after a heartbeat you melt, just enough, letting your forehead drop to his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” you breathe, arms cinching tighter around his waist.

Viktor shakes his head, pressing a kiss to your temple. “No, no. Don’t be. I’m just being silly.” His voice is soft, a little rough with emotion hiding under the smile.

You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes serious. “You are not.” Your hand rests at his ribs, fingers fidgeting. “I just can’t seem to finish before the middle of the night lately, and the closer we are to wrapping up, the dumber people get. After Friday—”

He strokes your back, soothing. “Alright.”

“Saturday, I should be finally free for at least a day,” you promise, voice sounding like you don’t fully believe it.

He nods, squeezing your hip. “Alright. Miláčku, it’s alright.” He tries to smile for you. “I’m sorry for ambushing you.”

“No, it’s fine, I just—” you start, voice strained, “I’m just—”

“Very busy. I understand.” He cups your cheek, thumb sweeping under your eye, trying to reassure you even as a hollow feeling expands from his stomach, starting to eat at him.

You look up, searching his face. “Viktor—”

He shakes his head again. “I really do. I know I don’t look like I do, but I promise, it’s all good.”

You open your mouth to say something more, but your phone bursts to life, buzzing sharply on the wooden surface. You pick up, exhale through your nose. “I’ll be right there,” you say quickly, voice morphing into that brisk work register, then hang up and turn back to him. “I have to go. We’ve found the lights.”

He lets his hands fall to his sides. “Go, go. I’ll see you.”

You lean in, press a hurried kiss to the corner of his mouth, then nearly run for the door, hair flying as you disappear down the hall.

Viktor stands alone in the office, rubbing a hand over his face, dizzy with relief that he got to see you at all—and dreading the consequences of his own indulgence, the aftertaste of longing already working its way back in. He has no idea how much of a breach this was, and is completely unsure if he at all regrets it.

Left alone, Viktor takes the opportunity to look around your office. He doesn’t move from his spot, just lets his gaze wander. It’s unmistakable—you half-live here. A pair of flats kicked under the desk, one toe scuffed raw. Scarves tangled over the back of your chair, a mug with lipstick rings left to stain into permanence. Folders fanned out and annotated within an inch of their lives, but there’s a tube of mascara lying in the middle of a printout. In the corner, a blanket crumpled over a sagging armchair. Three chargers knotted together on the radiator, as if you’ve just shed layers and left your nerves exposed.

Lured in, he trails his fingers along the edge of your desk, half expecting to find only a mess of paperwork and rehearsal schedules, but what draws his eye is the small, battered paperback wedged between piles—Morality Play by Barry Unsworth, spine cracked, your notes scribbled in pencil along the margins. There’s a faded photo tucked inside, the kind from a cheap photo booth: you and Charlie, arms flung around each other, eyes wild with exhaustion and laughter, grinning at the strip of light above their heads. It’s almost too much.

Viktor straightens, meaning to leave, when his eyes catch a yellow post-it on your monitor: call V, the ‘V’ shaped into a looping heart. He smiles in spite of himself. It’s enough, for now. Coffee in hand, cane tapping at the doorframe, he lets himself out—feeling, at last, a little less unmoored.

—

The Memorandum: a play by Vaclav Havel, a bureaucratic farce. It manages to turn the absurdities of office life and administrative jargon into something both horrible and actually funny. It’s from the sixties, but super valid now. The main point of it: in an organisation a new corporate language is being implemented, everyone has to learn it, nobody knows why, they are just being told it will make everything better.

Over the course of the play, the office’s managing director (Gross) receives a memo in this new language—Ptydepe—which, naturally, he can’t read. Nobody questions the system, only how best to survive it. By the end, the new language is abruptly discarded, replaced by another, and the cycle repeats—nothing learned, nothing resolved.

Czech translation: Děláš mě šíleným. – You are driving me insane.

Disclaimer: By mentioning pale tension in reference to Achilles tendon I do not suggest MC’s skin tone—what I mean is the way skin pales from its original colour when stretched over joint/muscle/tendon.

[writeonwhiskey]

act like you love me: ch 8

a/n: apologies this is late. i listed the dates to post these chapters before taking into account the changes in my schedule for the summer 🫨 word count: 4k tracklist: behind the light [ fic master list ]

8 - Mostly Professional

WEEK 6 (continued)

Waking up next to Hyunjin’s warm body confirms last night wasn’t a dream.

And more than that—it meant something.

The last few weeks of whatever has been brewing between you hadn’t just been in your head. The feeling—the connection, it was all real.

But that doesn’t stop the alarm bells from ringing.

Because no matter how much you wanted it, you don’t know if it should have happened.

Still, you don’t move away. With one leg draped over his, his arm loosely around your waist—you stay where you are, letting yourself feel the terrifying comfort of it.

You fit together too well. Like you were made to.

And that scares the hell out of you.

You shut your eyes and press your forehead against his chest, as if the pressure might quiet the panic rising within you.

You were hoping this wouldn’t feel like anything. A passing curiosity…an itch you both wanted to scratch.

But this? This morning-after cuddling? This soft, sleepy warmth wrapped around you? This feels like the beginning of something. And that’s a problem.

You’ve worked too hard to let a whispered rumor ruin it all. So has he. You know how the industry works—people love to talk. One careless moment, one slip, and suddenly your name is tangled up in headlines that have nothing to do with your talent.

On-set romances are messy. They’re dangerous. Career altering. You told yourself you wouldn’t go there. And yet—here you are.

But it’s not because you were caught up in the heat of the moment…not really. It’s also not because it felt impulsive or reckless. It wasn’t like that at all. It was a slow, inevitable crossing of a line you kept redrawing, closer and closer, until there was nowhere left to stand. You let this happen. You wanted it, even knowing the cost.

It felt that powerful.

Behind you, Hyunjin stirs. His hand slides up your back, and then he mumbles sleepily, “Don’t move.”

You bite your lip.

You don’t want to.

God, you don’t want to.

So, you stay a little longer, letting yourself have this one small, selfish moment. One soft, quiet breath where it’s just you and him and none of the consequences.

But eventually, you do pull away. Slowly. Reluctantly. His arm tightens reflexively before loosening. He shifts to his side and sprawls across the bed as you slip out.

You cover yourself with an over-sized, off-the-shoulder sweater before padding to the bathroom to wash your face, brush your teeth, and to try steadying your thoughts.

In the kitchen, you put the kettle on and lean against the counter, fingers brushing your lips.

Why did it have to feel that good?

It would have been easier if it were bad.

But it wasn’t.

It was incredible. The ache between your legs is a traitor’s reminder of just how incredible it was.

But it’s not just the sex. That’s what makes it dangerous.

It’s the fact that it’s too easy to like Hyunjin after peeling back some of his layers. It’s too easy to want to be around him. Too easy to memorize the way he smiles when he thinks you’re not looking. Too easy to feel wanted when he touches you.

You start telling yourself it can be a one-time thing. A mistake you won’t repeat. Something you can tuck away and forget as soon as you step back on set. You only have a month left of filming and then he’ll return to a world of glitz and glamour far beyond the scope of what you ever imagined for yourself. You can get through this.

Your phone rings, pulling you back to reality. You swallow the lump in your throat and glance at the screen. It’s your agent.

“Hey,” you answer softly.

“How’s everything going?”

“It’s going really well,” you say. And for the most part, it’s not a lie.

“Good, I’m glad to hear it.” She pauses for a beat. “Have you given any thought to the KBS offer?”

You exhale. It’s a big opportunity. A shift. But one that could change your trajectory as Hyunjin mentioned last night.

“Yeah. I’ll do it.”

“Really?” she sounds surprised. “I was sure I’d have to twist your arm a little.”

“No—I’m okay with it. Tell them yes.”

“Okay, I’ll get the contracts drawn up. We’ll need to boost your socials. A few curated posts to grow your following in the days leading up to your appearance on the show.”

“I don’t know what to post.”

“Don’t worry about it, we’ll get the team on it. Oh! You’ve gotten kind of close with Hyunjin, right?”

Your heart immediately starts hammering behind your chest.

“We’re friends, sure,” you say too quickly.

As if summoned, Hyunjin emerges from the hallway, gloriously naked. Your eyes snap away, heat rushing to your face.

“Do you think he’d be open to some behind the scenes shots? Nothing that gives away the plot, just enough to tease the chemistry. Maybe he can post it as well and tag you—it would give your account a boost.”

You feel like you’re choking.

This. This is why it’s too risky.

Because using him for clout—packaging intimacy into content—feels like betrayal. Of him. Of yourself. Of what last night meant.

Your agent asking this confirms that a relationship with him would only diminish the hard work you’ve put in on your own.

“I don’t know. I’ll ask,” you murmur.

“Keep me posted. And remember—run everything you post through the team first, okay?”

“Yeah. Will do. Bye.”

You set your phone down and exhale sharply.

When you turn around, Hyunjin is standing across from you now, pants on but shirtless, a lazy smile tugging at his lips.

You don’t want them to, but your eyes trail down the lines of his chest, taking in the way those chiseled muscles taper into his jeans, and that damn slutty waist of his.

"You just gonna run off without saying anything?" he teases lightly, voice still rough with sleep.

You gesture toward the stove as the kettles start to whistle. “I’m making tea.”

“I used your toothbrush, by the way.”

You scrunch your nose. “Gross.”  

“Really? That’s too intimate for you? After everything we did last night.”

Touche. It hadn’t been once. Or twice. To be honest, you’d lost count after the shower. You devoured each other, over and over.

“I have spares. You could have asked.”

“I wanted to use yours,” he says, stepping behind you. His arms slide around your waist as you pour the scalding water into two mugs.

You catch yourself as you start leaning into his embrace, snaking away from him. "We should...talk.”

You drop the tea bags into the mugs and turn to lean against the counter. You push at his chest gently to create some space between you, and he lets you.

He props himself against the opposite counter, watching you too closely.

"We have to keep things professional,” you begin. “On set. Around the team. It’s better if we pretend nothing happened."

Hyunjin's smile fades into something softer, unreadable. "For the project?" he asks, like he already knows the answer.

You nod, feeling the tightness in your chest. “Last night was…great, but we both know there’s no future here. That was the one and only time.”

He tilts his head. “Just ‘great’?”

“Hyunjin.”

“Okay, okay,” he relents, hands raised. “Go on.”

“There’s too much at stake for both of us,” you say. “This thing—whatever this is—it can’t go anywhere.”

“Shouldn’t we get to enjoy our lives, too?”

“It wouldn’t lead anywhere. That’s what I’m saying.” You brush him off. “Let’s just agree to keep it professional.”

“Sure,” he says, standing up straight. He starts toward you, and you can feel your heartbeat pick up with every step. “Professional.”

He stops in front of you, gaze never leaving yours. He lifts your hand to his lips, kisses your knuckles, then higher, brushing your wrist, then your forearm. A shiver runs through you.

You should pull back. You told yourself you would. But instead, you find yourself leaning in, drawn by the quiet pull of him, the way he makes it so easy to forget every reason you had to resist.

"Hyunjin..." you whisper, caught somewhere between warning and want.

“Tell me to stop.”

He says it so softly. So dangerously—like he knows that phrase is your kryptonite.

His mouth trails up your arm, to your shoulder, then your neck—each kiss unraveling more of your resolve.

“Tell me…” he murmurs.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

Your hands wrap around his neck — tugging him closer, needing more. You slide your hands up to his head, rubbing the velvety texture of his hair as you pull him harder against you.

"Just one more ti—" you start, but his lips capture yours before you can finish.

Your sweater slides off your shoulders, pooling around your hips as he lifts you onto the counter, stepping between your legs. His hands roam—your waist, your thighs, your back—exploring like he’s reclaiming you. You tilt your head back, granting him more access, and he takes it greedily, kissing a path down your throat.

He lifts you again, arms strong around you, and carries you to the living room. You don’t say anything to stop him.

You don't want to.

At the back of the couch, he sets you down and pulls away just enough to look at you. He cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. You meet his eyes, breathing heavy, lips parted in anticipation. He kisses you once more before turning you around. He lifts your sweatshirt, revealing that you didn’t bother to put anything on beneath it when you got out of bed.

“Fuck, y/n…” he groans.

His hands skim down your back, over your ass, fingers sliding between your legs. He rubs his fingers up and down your slit, feeling how wet you already are as he laces your back with kisses. He works your pussy as if he became an expert in one night, teasing your clit one minute, then fucking you with his fingers the next.

His other hand comes up, groping your breasts, pulling a moan from your throat.

“You like it a little rough, yeah?” he murmurs into your ear as he pulls at your nipple.

You nod, unabashedly.

Then his hand climbs higher—wrapping around your neck. He doesn’t squeeze, just holds, grounding you against his chest as his fingers fuck your pussy. You gasp, body trembling from the overload of sensation.

“Does that feel good?” he breathes.

“Yes,” you pant, hips circling against his hand.

His hand at your neck slides around to the back, and he guides you down until you’re bent over the couch. You hear him drop to his knees behind you and feel his fingers part your cheeks.

“How am I supposed to stay professional,” he muses, “when I’ve already seen this pretty pussy?”

His tongue replaces his fingers, and you push your ass back for more. But before you can enjoy his tongue too much, he slips two fingers back inside.

“You want me to pretend like I haven’t tasted you?”

He withdraws them slowly, then brings them to his lips, sucking them clean.

“I’m not that good of an actor.”

He stands, pushes down his pants, and without hesitation, sinks into you with one firm thrust.

Every thought you had earlier? Gone.

Every rebuttal? Shattered.

This—this is what you want.

Giving your body to him completely.

To cry his name.

To push back against his cock and beg for more.

He grips your hips and fucks you harder. You hold onto the couch to keep yourself steady, meeting each thrust with your own.

You were wrong before.

This will be the last time.

It has to be.

WEEK 7

But it’s not.

The next week slips by in a haze of long hours and secret glances across crowded sets.

You and Hyunjin are getting along better than ever—laughing between takes, moving through scenes with an easy rhythm that has the crew praising your chemistry.

It’s a dangerous dance you’re playing behind the scenes. Stealing moments when no one’s looking. Disappearing into one of your dressing rooms under the pretense of running lines when all you’re really doing is touching, tasting, needing each other in a way that feels addictive.

And although it feels like you’re doing a good job of hiding it, you can’t tell if Minho and Han are starting to catch on. During a scene where Jae-hoon and the innkeeper share a lingering look, Minho smirks as soon as Chan calls cut.

“Should we leave you two alone for privacy?” he asks, loud enough that you and Hyunjin can hear him.

Han throws his arm around Minho, grinning, “Nah, let’s stay. See the good stuff for ourselves.”

You try to laugh it off and scrunch up your face in disgust.

“We’re just good at what we do,” Hyunjin shrugs it off.

Thankfully Minho and Han leave it at that, but Hyunjin shoots you a wink when they’re not looking. You shake your head and turn away, clenching your jaw to keep from smiling.

Whatever that’s going on between you isn’t negatively affecting filming. So it feels fine. Like maybe you can get through this while having your cake and eating it too, because you don’t want to stop fucking Hyunjin. Sleeping next to him. Laughing with him. Holding him.

It’s thrilling.

But every time you let it happen again, you always tell yourself it's the last time. That you'll be smarter tomorrow.

You pull the innkeeper’s pants back up while Hyunjin is seated on the couch in his trailer, still shirtless, catching his breath. As you pull the pants up near your ass, he lurches forward, hooking a finger in the belt loop and drags you to him.

“Don’t put that away yet,” he says, cupping your ass as he kisses your bare stomach.

“We’ve been ‘running lines’ for twenty minutes,” you say, looking around for your shirt. “We need to go back.”

He lifts his gaze, locking eyes with you as he nibbles at the soft flesh of your stomach. “But my dick is still hard.”

You close your eyes, as if not being able to see him will release you from the never-ending temptation that is horny Hyunjin wanting you.

He tugs at the pants, but you hold onto them tighter to keep them from moving. Not one to back down from a challenge, he manages to slip a hand beneath your underwear, his path clear since you haven’t buttoned the jeans yet. His fingers find your folds, stroking between them until your hips are rocking towards his face.

“And your pussy is still dripping,” he murmurs.

You place your hands on his head, wishing his hair wasn’t buzzed off so you had something to grip. You palm his forehead and push until he’s leaning back against the couch, but his fingers are still on you.

You grab his wrist, but he doesn’t still his movements, and you can’t stop the moan that falls from your lips.

“Don’t make me put you in timeout, Hyunjin. Stop.”

He doesn’t play around when that word comes out of your mouth.

He sighs, reluctantly removing his hand. “What if I can’t?”

“You just did?” you counter, buttoning up your jeans.

“No, I mean in general,” he says, reaching for his shirt to pull over his head. “What if I can’t stop wanting you?”

You’ve asked yourself that very question.

Is it normal to want someone this much? Is it just infatuation onset by the close proximity and the developing emotions of the characters you’re playing? Will these feelings fade when filming ends?

You lean back against the vanity as you button up your shirt. “Have you ever done this before?”

“Sex?” he sasses, pulling his briefs back on.

You look around the vanity for something to throw at him, but there’s nothing.

“With a co-star.”

“No,” he says softly. “I haven’t ever wanted to…before you.”

You mull over that for a moment, letting his words wash over you.

“Do you think this is only exciting because it’s a secret we’re hiding from everyone?”

He’s quiet as he considers your question.

“No,” he says again. “It adds to it, sure, but I don’t think that’s all this is.”

“It is,” you say, defiantly lying.

He stands from the couch and closes the distance between you. He leans down so you’re eye to eye.

“Bullshit,” he calls you out. “I could never get a good read on you at first, you know that? I wasn’t sure if you felt this too, and I wasn’t sure if you’d even want to cross this line with me for a million different reasons. But we did. And I like it. And so do you.”

“What would your agency say?” you counter, because one of you must remain level-headed.

He leans back at that.

“Exactly,” you say in response to his silence. “It’s just fun. That’s all it can be.”

He steps forward again.

“So now I’m just a good time?” His leans down to kiss you briefly.

“You’re impossible.”

He grins, pulling his pants back on. “You love it.”

“I don’t,” you shake your head.

Love is too strong of a word. It’s not allowed in this space.

Week 8

The sneaking around continues. The whispered declarations that this can’t work, that it’s just a phase, become fewer and farther between. At some point, you both surrender to the pull. It’s not a relationship—not officially—but it feels like more than just sex.

After a late night of filming, you, Hyunjin, Minho and Han go out for dinner. The four of you fall into easy conversation over shared plates and empty soju bottles. You make sure to sit at the opposite end of the table from Hyunjin, and he respects that choice.

You’re not feeling great, but you’ve put on your best face, not wanting to miss out or draw attention. You push your food around your plate more than you eat it, hoping no one notices.

Minho nudges you lightly. “Don’t tell me you’re full already. We have another course coming.”

“I’m pacing myself,” you lie with a small smile.

Across the table, Hyunjin meets your gaze for the briefest second—just long enough for his eyes to soften, the hint of concern flickering there before he looks away again. He doesn’t push. He plays it cool, leaning into the performance of indifference, but every so often you feel his attention on you like a phantom touch.

And once you’re back at the hotel, taking the elevator up, the familiar pull begins. It’s quiet—just the four of you. Everyone’s mellow from the alcohol and the long day. Minho and Han are talking about some game they’re planning to play when they get back to their rooms.

When the elevator dings at your floor, you step out with Minho and Han—but then Hyunjin follows, like he’s on autopilot.

Minho arches an eyebrow. “Where are you going. Mr. Penthouse?”

Hyunjin freezes mid-step. For a second, it’s like the mask slips—the man who’s been sneaking into your bed without hesitation now caught in the act.

You shoot daggers at him with your eyes, trying to will him back inside the elevator. Your heart pounds—not from fear of discovery, but from the weight of realizing how much you want him with you tonight, even though sex is the furthest thing from your mind.

Hyunjin backpedals with a shrug and a crooked grin. “Too much soju. This isn’t the top-billed cast member floor.”

The tension in your shoulders ease as he steps back inside casually, like it was nothing, but you both know better. The ache of wanting and not having simmers beneath your skin all the way back to your room.

Your body aches—not just from the long day, but from the dull, persistent cramping that’s been nagging at you since this afternoon. You hadn’t mentioned it at dinner—at a table full of men. You’d smiled and laughed and played your part, even when you weren’t feeling up to it.

You shower, change into your pajamas and just when you’re curling up in bed, your phone buzzes.

Pastry Prince👑 [11:48 PM]: you want to come up?

You hesitate, then start typing.

You [11:50 PM]: Not tonight. Sorry. I’m kind of dead and cramping.

There’s a pause, and you wince at the reply you expect: a thumbs-up emoji, maybe. Silence. Instead—

Pastry Prince👑 [11:52 PM]: cramping like…period cramping?

You stare at the screen, a little surprised he even asked.

You [11:52 PM]: Yeah.

Pastry Prince👑 [11:53 PM]: got it. stay put.

You [11:53 PM]: Literally wouldn’t move if I could.

No response.

You turn on the TV in your room for some background noise, flicking through the channels before settling on a recently released movie.

Thirty minutes later, there’s a soft knock at your door.

You pull yourself out of bed to answer it. You open it just a crack—only to see Hyunjin standing there with a plastic bag clutched in both hands and a very awkward expression on his face.

“Don’t judge me,” he says immediately, pushing the door open wider. “I ran over to the convenience store but had no idea what to get.”

He steps inside, kicks off his shoes and walks through the hotel room, turning the corner toward the bedroom. You follow after him, catching him inside unloading the bag on the bed like he’s giving a presentation.

“A heat patch,” he says, placing it down. “Two, actually. I wasn’t sure how long they last. Also got chocolate, ice cream…and this rice porridge thing that looked comforting. I don’t know. And tea. And water. And, uh—” he pauses, reaching into the bottom of the bag, “—some ibuprofen.”

You stare at the assortment, warmth slowly flooding through your chest. For a second, you forget about the dull ache in your lower belly. All you can feel is his thoughtfulness. His care.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you tell him.

But part of you aches at how much you wanted someone to. Because it’s been so long since someone did. With your family on the other side of the planet, you’ve learned to manage everything on your own, to pretend any moment of weakness is no big deal.

“I know.” He shrugs, setting the last item down. “But I wanted to.”

You glance up at him. His face is a little red, and he won’t quite meet your eyes.

You don’t know what to say. Not really. So, you just nod, figuring it’s a more favorable response than bursting into tears.

You wanted this to just be sex. Wanted to believe that’s all it was. But this? This is the part that will break you. This is what makes you start to hope for things you know you shouldn’t.

“Thank you,” you murmur. “Seriously.”

He smiles—small, soft. “Get into bed. Do you want some ice cream?”

You nod again.

You lay in bed, paying more attention to the sound of him moving around in the kitchen than what’s on the TV. He comes back and you both eat bowls of ice cream together, cross-legged on the bed with a fresh movie playing in the background.

He disappears again when you’re done eating, leaving you with the chocolate and telling you to utilize one, or both, of the heating pads.

When he comes back, he climbs into bed next to you. He situates himself before wrapping an arm around you and pressing your head into his chest. Your body curls into his instinctively.

No kissing. No touching, beyond the warmth of his hand tracing circles around your back.

It’s the quietest night you’ve had together.

And somehow, the most intimate.

a/n: and i OOP. what are these wishy-washy feelings!? how could you resist hyunjin, though? lets be real. more soon -- still adjusting to my summer schedule (and trying to date? who am i rn??) so i may not be able to post for this fic twice a week moving forward since my time is cut down quite a bit.

@hwangjoanna / @hanniesbubuwife / @straycat420 / @tsunderelino / @dessianna1 / @akindaflora / @tirena1 / @krayzieestay / @ehstay / @spookiesakura / @aria-again / @sakuraseyebrow / @brekkers-whore / @sailor--sun

[lordofthetwistedflies]

To @yuurivoice, my favorite content creator

If I can reuse a compliment I sent on anon because interacting with people you look up to is intimidating: You have made so many people feel so loved fir so long, and that is something worth cherishing.

Personally, you've made me feel loved when I thought I was unlovable. You've made me feel pretty when I thought I was too hideous to be seen in public. You made me feel like I was worthy of the opportunities around me. And when my chronic illness and the anxiety from it threatened to pull me under, your content has been keeping me afloat for months. Thank you so much for that.

I'm so sorry with everything happening right now, its the perfect storm of bullshit that can get to be too much. Trust me, I've been there too. I know one person's words aren't going to be enough to counteract the tomfuckery of the platforms you make your livelihood from, but if I can return a fraction of the love you've given your community back to you, that would be enough.

I'm chomping at the bits for more EoE content. I can't wait to see where Bittersweet and Talk Floral go. My Al and Seth plushies are eagerly anticipating their friend coming home. I'm like,,, so excited for Red Tape??? I've never been this excited for a book before???

On a completely separate note, you've fostered the only fandom I've truly found friends in. I'm so happy here, and I've made connections with people I can actually call my friends. This community is amazing, and none of it would have been possible without you. Thank you.

For keeping me grounded. For keeping me afloat. For keeping me sane through high school into college. Thank you.

[moonchild-in-blue]

I come crawling on my knees bc who better to ask this than the number 1 Espera fan. 🥺 I've just been thinking about Sleep Token (what a surprise lol), and I'm curious if there's any info on how Ves and the Espera ladies met? Everyone in this band seems so close, so I've been questioning how they all became colleagues and friends. 🥺❤️

AAAAAAAA Crow!!! Thank you sooo so much for this question!!! This is something I've been wondering myself for a long time now, but somehow never really delved into it - this gave me the perfect excuse to do so! 💙

I'm gonna preface this by saying we do not actually have much info about that. This is simply me connecting dots with what little information we have publicly available.

So! We can't really talk about Espera, without talking about Exploring Birdsong. As we all know, they were the opening band for Sleep Token on their first headliner ritual, the infamous St. Pancras Old Church ritual, back in 2018.

This is the first time Exploring Birdsong comes in contact with Sleep Token, and they would be their staple opening band up until January 2020. From there on forward, only their lead singer Lyns and the backing vocalists Paige and Mattie (later known as the collective group Espera) would continue to be performing with the band as live backing vocals (as of 2023 they seem to be permanent live members, as before they didn't tour with them every time).

Now, how did they meet? That's the big question here.

Exploring Birdsong were founded when Lyns, Matt and Jonny were studying music in Liverpool (in LIPA to be precise), back in 2015/16 if memory serves me right. Starting in 2017, they released a couple of singles and started to perform live (with the other 2 Espera girls, before they were a thing). Most (if not all) of their shows at the time were set in Liverpool, Manchester, or around that area.

Sleep Token at the time was playing shows mostly in London and around the south, opening for other bands and such. Quite the geographical difference, so it seems unlikely they would've met then. Even in terms of music, Sleep Token was more involved in the UK metal sphere at the time, while EB were very much in the prog-rock side of alt. music.

In fact, there's this one 2020 interview of EB, right after they finished touring with ST for the last time, that mentions that difference in public between EB fans and ST fans. Here's that excerpt:

To further emphasise that EXPLORING BIRDSONG are making waves they were hand picked to support the enigmatic SLEEP TOKEN on a handful of UK dates which gave them the ideal chance to test the waters and see how their offering would fare in a more metal focused environment.

“The reception was very warm!” Lynsey exclaims. “The crowd were really receptive to our songs. We’re not in a totally different vein to SLEEP TOKEN but I was intrigued to see how we would get on with a more metal oriented crowd. There are definitely elements of our songs which are similar but I was apprehensive how they would react but people came up to us afterwards telling us how much they enjoyed it so I’m really glad.”

Every publication dating 2020 and back that mentions Exploring Birdsong and Sleep Token together, references the fact that EB were hand-picked by ST to open for them (again, they were the staple opener for Sleep Token during that 2018-20 period, save for a couple of dates where schedules didn't align). Which again, is a bit odd given they were in very different scenes, both geographical and musical. As far as I know, none of them (EB) have any connection to any of the guys' past projects, so that can't be it either.

HOWEVER, back in March 2018, Exploring Birdsong announced they would open for the Welsh prog-rock band Godsticks in May 2018, in the Camden Assembly (London).

As far as I can tell from their FB page, this would be their first time as a band performing in London. As we all know, Sleep Token have performed in Camden in the past (Camden Rocks festival in June 2018 actually!) In fact, Camden is a known spot for alt music and culture, so it would make sense for locals (musicians and fans alike) to frequent these places and get to know bands that way.

Funnily enough, Enter Shikari have performed in the Camden Assembly, one of the first bands signed to Basick Records - Sleep Token's first label.

It is very likely that Sleep Token (and I'm gonna go on a limb and say Vessel himself, given the similarity in music influences he has with EB, as opposed to ii and iii who come from VERY different, much, much heavier musical backgrounds) may have seen their opening set, and got in contact with Exploring Birdsong then. They were only announced as opening acts for the ST Pancras show in September, which gives them plenty of time to get acquainted with each other and have that first ritual together.

Exploring Birdsong were already set to be in London in October to support Godsticks again, so it's possible they took the opportunity and invited them to the inaugural ritual.

Now, what's really funny too, is that even though EB would only release their first EP in 2019, they had quite a few singles/repertoire ready (including a few vocal-only covers on their socials).

The most notable is actually their (Don't Fear) The Reaper cover, which was recorded right after their Camden show, and released later that summer, which was recorded in Liverpool's Anglican Cathedral - that's right! They performed in a church months before Sleep Token did 😌

The cover itself is beautiful, the girl's voices are pretty much center stage, and the whole vibe feels both eerie and sacred, not unlike Sleep Token's (especially at the time). I've reccomended it here before, and really can't overstate how beautiful that cover is.

Would that maybe influence ST's decision to have them on board? Maybe 👀 This cover was also featured in Kerrang! Radio (which is a big deal given they don't usually feature covers), so you can say it definitely caused an impact.

This is honestly my best guess as how they came together. I can't find any more links between Sleep Token and Exploring Birdsong aside from this, and given their overlapping schedules prior to this, it seems unlikely they would've come across each other.

I think it's really sweet they heard this random band one day and went - "Yeah. These are the ones, this is it." And to see that friendship continue to exist (the girls now being a seemingly permanent part of their live acts; the guys still supporting each other) is really really cute.

Fun fact, although EB stopped opening for ST in 2020, they were actually all together in 2023, where both Sleep Token and Exploring Birdsong were playing Radar Festival. Given their history, and the fact that the girls were part of both sets, it's likely they were all watching each other and having a good ol' time 🥹💙

If anyone has any more info about how Sleep Token and Exploring Birdsong met, I would really appreciate that!! This is as far as I managed to gather.

I'm also gonna leave a link here to my Exploring Birdsong propaganda post, in case anyone is curious about their music and wants a place to start.

[butchpeace]

I keep thinking about how discouraging it is for me as a Butch Lesbian to be surrounded by people who hate being women. All these people have similar life experiences to mine: they see femininity as an oppressive cage and they have fought to be free from it, they want to be respected as people, etc. But for some reason, this awareness of patriarchy and oppressive gender roles has led them to believe that being a woman is the most horrendous existence on Earth.

It's so disgusting to me that they believe "I do not fit into these ideas of what a woman must be, therefore I am NOT a woman"…….Do they not realize how fucking sexist this is? And where does that leave me? Being called "they" when I've buzzed my head (by grown women whom I have talked about sexism with in the past), people making assumptions about my Art and Life based on the way I present. This is just my natural state as a woman. YOU are the one who believes women cannot live this way, or they must want to be men.

Nothing will EVER change the way a female interacts with the world, we are both still female, you are just deluding yourself into thinking you can experience the world as a male. I don't even feel like I can talk to my TIF friends about this because they will immediately shut it down or get upset or think I'm soooo evil. But I have lived through it, and I know this does not have to be their life.

I feel very lonely as a Butch in this age. I exist in a place where there should be COUNTLESS Butch Lesbians. I know numerous TIFs but only one Butch….who now wants to be called "he" and sees Butchness as "transsexual"-adjacent. We are not the same. I Love being a woman. You are scared of embracing your femaleness and living your life to its fullest potential. I just wish I could get them all to read some Theory. Hahahhaaaa

What happened to all the Butch Lesbians? I wish I lived in a time where Lesbians were proud homosexuals who destroyed gender roles and embraced their femaleness and the femaleness of other Lesbians….A woman can dream </3

I crave to know older Lesbians who have so much lived experience and knowledge. I feel this is greatly missing from the Lesbian community at this time.

Where can I meet other women like me?

🪻

People don’t talk about this enough. Butch lesbians are the demographic that has been most victimized by trans ideology. And because we’re considered invisible by the wider world, no one pays attention to it. It really has been a major crisis.

All the masculine women I met when I was in college (2009-2014) transitioned to some degree. None stayed identifying simply as butch women. Some have returned to that identity recently, but every single masculine lesbian I’ve ever known under the age of 35 has either disidentified from womanhood or transitioned at some point. Many are still disidentified or transitioned, and we’re all in our 30s now.

And I know that the same thing that happened in my local community has happened almost all over the country.

It’s impossible to really get across how deeply I feel this has wounded us as individuals and as a community.

If we have no pride in our womanhood, no connection to feminism, no connection to lesbian community, no connection to our history…What are we?

When I was living as a man, I was no one.

I had no real identity, no real place in the world. I was just living underneath a mask that was an approximation of the “man” that I thought I would be happiest as.

The only lesbian community I had was caught up in the early wave of trans ideology. We didn’t talk about lesbian history, we didn’t talk about butch history. Everyone talked about their feelings and experiences through the lens of gender identity.

“I was always boyish, so I’m nonbinary.”

“I always want to be The Man in the relationship, so I think I’m actually supposed to be a man rather than a woman.”

“I hate my body, and that’s a symptom of gender dysphoria, so I’m going to change it.”

We didn’t understand who we were and we were being fed the completely wrong information about our identities and our place in our community.

The lesbian community is the epicenter of this, and GNC lesbians are the ones getting the most hurt.

Sorry, I went off on a whole tangent haha

As for where you can find women like you — get involved in every lesbian event you can find! Talk to everyone of all ages and especially the women who look the most like normal lesbians. And if there’s no events like that near you, make something.

Online community can also be great. Just work on slowly finding women like yourself and slowly build a community around them. Discord is a great option for this! As much as it can be difficult that we have to create these communities for ourselves, it’s not as hard as you think and it’s very worth it! 💜

[elevenenthusiast]

As a Byler, I don’t believe Will is truly the protagonist of the series and he never was.

I love him. He’s one of the most emotionally complex and heartbreaking characters on the show. His storyline is rich with trauma, repression, loneliness, and quiet resilience. And as a Byler, I’m incredibly invested in how his story ends. But being a powerful, meaningful character does not automatically make you the protagonist.

This is where a lot of the fandom seems to get confused. Stranger Things is an ensemble show. Its strength has always been in how it balances multiple narratives, shifting the spotlight between characters depending on the season. But just because a certain character becomes the emotional center or the “plot anchor” of a specific arc doesn’t mean they’re the main character of the entire series. The protagonist is the one who drives the story forward the person around whom the overarching narrative is built.

Season 1? Will was the plot. His disappearance kickstarted the story, but he wasn’t the one moving it forward that was Mike, Joyce, Hopper, and especially Eleven. The action revolved around finding him. He wasn’t the one making choices he was the goal.

Season 2 was the only time Will was treated like a main character. He had agency, depth, and a terrifying connection to the Mind Flayer. But even then, he wasn’t the one pushing the plot forward the people around him were. Meanwhile, Eleven was on a parallel journey discovering who she was, and the season ended with her making the final, climactic choice to close the gate again, tying it all back to her.

Season 4 shifted the focus to Max. Her grief, trauma, and link to Vecna made her the emotional heart of the season. She was the one we feared for most. But just like Will in S2, she was the anchor for that season’s conflict not the protagonist of the entire show.

That has always been Eleven.

Eleven is the reason any of this is happening. She opened the gate. She’s the link between the real world and the Upside Down. The government, the lab, the Mind Flayer none of it becomes a threat without her. Even when the show shifts focus temporarily, the larger mythology always circles back to her. She is the heartbeat of the story.

And it shows she’s had the most screen time overall, she’s been at the center of every major poster, and she’s arguably the most iconic and recognizable character from the entire series. When people think Stranger Things, they think of her.

So yeah, as a Byler, I care deeply about Will. I love his story. I’m glad he’s becoming the central focus again in Season 5. But that doesn’t change the foundation of the show. It started with Eleven, it’s always been about Eleven, and it’s going to end with her.

I’m not trying to cause division I just need to say this because this argument genuinely upsets me. I don’t like that the female character is constantly having her importance erased or downplayed. I am a Byler shipper, but I’m an El stan first and foremost. This is something that’s been backed up by the writers themselves, and it’s obvious if you’ve actually been paying attention.

[luciemggio]

More than just acting

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x actress f’reader

Warnings: none

Summary: Sebastian Stan and Y/N Y/L/N charm in an interview, hiding a real romance behind playful banter and on-screen chemistry.

The studio was set in soft golden light, meant to mimic the mellow glow of sunset—the perfect backdrop for two actors who had just starred in what critics were calling the most emotionally raw romance of the decade. The film was called When It Fades, and it was anything but subtle. Intimate, honest, slow-burning, tragic — the kind of story that demanded everything from its leads.

And its leads — Sebastian Stan and Y/N Y/L/N — gave it all. Maybe even more than they intended.

“Five minutes,” called the producer from behind the camera, adjusting her headset as the lighting team made final tweaks. Sebastian stood by the coffee table on set, absently stirring his tea even though he hadn’t added sugar. He was dressed in dark denim and a crisp white t-shirt under a navy jacket — effortless, but clean. His hair had that slight wave to it, like he’d just run his hands through it before they rolled. He looked calm, but there was always that flicker of mischief behind his blue eyes.

Y/N was seated already, legs tucked to the side, ankle crossed over knee. She wore soft grey trousers and a vintage olive blouse tucked in just right — elegant, but not trying too hard. Her hair was styled in loose, glossy waves. Her eyes followed Sebastian as he approached and settled beside her, just close enough that their knees brushed for a heartbeat too long.

She didn’t move away.

“Rolling in three, two…”

The slate clapped, and suddenly, the friendly murmur of set chatter vanished. The room shifted, slightly charged, as the host leaned forward with a smile.

“We’re here today with Sebastian Stan and Y/N Y/L/N — stars of the upcoming film When It Fades. First off, congratulations. The film is beautiful — raw, romantic, emotional. Audiences are calling it a masterclass in chemistry. What was it like filming something so intimate?”

Sebastian glanced sideways at Y/N, his lips twitching.

Y/N answered first. “Honestly? Exhausting,” she teased, slouching just enough to look unbothered. “I had to look into that face for three straight months.” She gestured at him dramatically.

Sebastian pretended to look wounded. “Wow. Already starting with the slander.”

“I’m just saying,” she shrugged, fighting a smile, “some of us had to work harder.”

“She means I broke character,” Sebastian admitted. “A lot. I couldn’t stop laughing during a scene where I was supposed to confess my love while crying. She kept making these… expressions.”

Y/N turned toward the host, wide-eyed. “He cried like a sad puppy. The first time, I was genuinely moved. By take five, I was like, are you squeezing an onion behind your back?”

The host laughed, clearly delighted. “Did either of you expect the chemistry to come so easily?”

There was a beat — just a second too long — where neither of them answered. Sebastian scratched the back of his neck. Y/N bit her lip, but not in a coy way — more like she was swallowing a memory she couldn’t say out loud.

“I think,” Sebastian finally said, “that sometimes you meet someone, and it just… works. The connection is there before the camera starts rolling.”

Y/N didn’t look at him, but her smile deepened. “It helps when you trust the other person,” she added. “When there’s respect. Comfort.”

“And when your co-star saves your ass on a daily basis,” Sebastian muttered, half under his breath, making Y/N let out that sudden, delighted laugh — the real one, not the one for press junkets.

“Tell them about the rain scene,” she said, nudging him with her elbow. “He kept slipping on the cobblestones. You don’t see it in the movie, but we had to do twelve takes because he wiped out every single time.”

“I was barefoot,” he defended, mock offended. “They made me barefoot.”

“You insisted on it!”

“Okay, I suggested it for realism. I didn’t expect to be skating on old European pavement.”

The host interjected, “There’s a rumor going around that the kiss in the last scene — the one where your characters reunite after years apart — was unscripted. True?”

Y/N froze slightly, a second too still. Sebastian rubbed his palms on his jeans.

“I mean,” he said slowly, “we knew the scene was ending with a kiss. But the way it happened… that was a little off-script.”

“We kind of forgot the cameras were there,” Y/N murmured, half-smiling.

The host gave a knowing look. “A lot of people are wondering if anything developed between you two off-screen. I mean — it’s hard not to wonder.”

They both laughed — loud and exaggerated, too big to be genuine.

“That’s the power of acting,” Sebastian said smoothly. “It’s our job to make it feel real.”

“Mmhmm,” Y/N added, crossing her arms. “We just have very good instincts.”

But her eyes met his. And for a second, their bodies didn’t move. There was something there. The kind of look that held history — not just the rehearsed kind, not the kind that dies when the director yells cut.

After the interview wrapped, the cameras stopped, and people began shuffling about. A handler offered Y/N a fresh coffee. Sebastian stepped to the side, stretching, running a hand through his hair again.

“You okay?” he asked quietly when she joined him.

She nodded. “Wasn’t too obvious, was it?”

He grinned. “Only to people who’ve been in love before.”

She rolled her eyes and bumped his shoulder. “You were good.”

“You were better.” His voice softened. “God, I missed your laugh.”

The air between them shifted again — this time no audience, no pressure. Just the two of them in the quiet between moments. She looked at him, really looked, and her fingers brushed against his without thinking.

“You know we’ll have to keep this up through awards season,” she said with a sigh.

He gave a lazy smile. “You think we’ll get nominated?”

“I think people are obsessed.”

He leaned in slightly, voice just for her. “Then we better give them a show.”

And as they walked off set together — two actors, two friends, two people in love playing pretend for the world — they didn’t hold hands. But their shadows, long in the studio light, moved in sync. Almost touching.

Like they always did.

Even before it was real.

Even before either of them admitted it.

[azonewithu]

Its not just tyrm you ir snyone tay tey ill ruin snyones cozy silly lil imagery. People hate God thats sll there is to it. They hate God i said. I never believe anythi g a monkey tells me. I proved none of yas realky know wtf youre talking abbout. Those assholes need product yo sell. I fo t wanna hear about snyones talent at a gisbt idiot filled loser tskent show. How come i can just kill any if you so easily? Because youre not actually resl lije i obviously am. I dont wanna hear from your dip shit hakf awake fabs im talkn to you. Nibidy ive seen dien where you ste is too terribly tslented kuch more than snywhete else. I just like dome people more than other for other reasons. Thats all. Talent? Wtf is even that. More like connected than talented these days. Those assholes i beat srnseless sbd lowwr than me or how ill ever be. They need oroduct yhats sll do thertes choices thete they make them. Youre lucky not typical. To get back sll your tunes that are a littke dated now anywsy i mean its pop. Its the nature pf thst beast. Its not timeless as peopke say it is it fades faster but we need a lil product just never believe your oen hype. Entertsinmebt is not life and it actually looks like a tough shitty chote or job. Its not easy in naby cases not even worth it. Look whet hspoened yo a lot of girls n guys. I woulf t want it i would t wsnt those assholes following me fir a few lousy paydays. I mean at your pay rate maybe its worth it. But i kill assholes and too many of thrm follow you people around.

its nice to have a friend

[ravi-is-my-beloved]

I just realized that interconnected hoses of the fire engines to give the 118 good water was a callback to everyone in the neighborhood connecting their Christmas lights to give power to the little boy’s medical equipment during the storm. (I forget which season it was, but you get the gist.)

[queenerdloser]

i just finished dark heir

[icewindandboringhorror]

Would most people realistically use 'carry' and 'convey' as synonyms in typical speech?? Seems a slightly reaching comparison to me lol

[microwavetoaster-selfships]

I think I need that "Wow, I haven't stubbed my toe in five months! I was then shot fifty-seven times." Audio again

[sforzesco]

poetry might not convince me to pay attention or care about the medici family beyond necessity, but you CAN convince me to turn the spotlights directly onto lorenzo de' medici with phrasing like this. intimately linked. even wedded, you say. and with galeazzo maria sforza's named mentioned. fascinating choice of words.

Magnifico: the Brilliant Life and Times of Lorenzo de’ Medici, Miles J. Unger