#of course i'm exaggerating for the bit | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

inkandapex · 2 months ago

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in the paddock

Lando Norris x Y/N

Summary: Lando Norris and Y/N’s playful moments around the paddock never go unnoticed, the quick banter and unexpected distractions, they bring chaos, laughter, and a little extra love to every race weekend.

Words: 4.0k

Warnings: swearing

Ice Cream

It was media day, and Oscar had been assigned to create a short vlog documenting his weekend leading up to the race. He sat in his driver room, holding the camera to his face, giving a tour of his space and casually showing off the contents of his bag. He was making an attempt at being interesting, but the excitement just wasn't there. That is, until he heard muffled voices and laughter coming from the thin walls of the adjacent room.

A mischievous grin spread across his face, and you could practically see a light bulb light up above his head.

“You know what, guys, I might have something more interesting to share with you,” he said, standing up, camera still in hand but now pointing forward, walking towards the door.

He stopped just before it, straining his ears to listen to the voices outside. As soon as he knocked, the noise stopped abruptly, like a record scratch.

With a grin, he slowly opened the door and peeked his head in, the camera capturing a glimpse of Lando's room.

"Mind if I hang here for a bit?" he asked, winking at the camera.

Lando chuckled, looking up from where he was sitting on the couch. "Of course, mate. Woah, you're full-on vlogging now, huh?"

Oscar sighed, dropping the camera on the table across from the couch before plopping down next to Lando. "Media duties. They told me it's your turn next weekend, so don’t be teasing me," he said, shooting Lando a playful look.

Lando raised an eyebrow, glancing to his side. Just out of frame, someone else was sitting next to him. "Wanna join my vlog?" Oscar asked, turning the camera towards them.

A soft voice answered, "Can I?"

Oscar smiled as the camera panned to reveal Y/N, ice cream in hand, waving shyly at the camera. "Of course you can," he said, scooting over to make room on the couch for her.

Lando grinned at her fondly. "Gotta introduce yourself, love."

Y/N laughed nervously, taking a small bite of her ice cream before speaking. "Oh! Hello, I'm Y/N."

Lando smirked playfully, looking at Oscar. "She's my girlfriend."

Y/N’s face flushed a soft pink, and she gave a shy nod, still holding her ice cream cup. "Yeah, that's me," she added with a small smile.

Oscar tilted his head slightly. “Could hear you two all the way from my room.” He raised an eyebrow, setting up the shot like he was getting ready to expose them.

Y/N, her eyes widening at the comment, quickly set her ice cream cup down as if ready to explain herself. “This man right here—”

Lando leaned back on the couch, crossing his arms, and sighed dramatically. “Oh, here we go…”

Y/N crossed her arms, leaning back on the couch, a playful smirk tugging at her lips as she looked at Lando, who was now sitting upright with an exaggerated, almost dramatic expression.

"I got here probably an hour or two after you guys did," she started, holding the ice cream cup in her hand for emphasis. "He texts me saying, 'Oh babe, we have ice cream down at hospitality, it's the flavour you like.' It was all a plot so he could eat off of mine, ‘cause John has him on a diet."

Lando immediately shot up in defence. "No! Liar—baby, is it or is it not the flavour that you like?" His eyes were wide, as if he was about to win the argument with this one fact.

"It is, but—" Y/N raised her eyebrows.

Lando quickly interrupted, triumphant. "Exactly! I texted you with the intention of letting you know we had ice cream, you know, because I’m thoughtful like that—"

"—Yes, but did you or did you not immediately grab the cup from me and start eating it?" Y/N leaned forward, smirking at him.

Lando's expression faltered for a moment, then he leaned back with a sheepish grin. "You exaggerate."

Y/N raised a finger, not letting him off the hook. "Lan, you opened the door, said hi, and took the cup from me without even saying 'hello' properly!"

Oscar, who had been sitting quietly next to them, alternating between watching the argument unfold and glancing at the camera with a growing grin, finally spoke up. He shifted the camera slightly to get a better angle of the chaotic scene.

"I deal with this every time she attends a race," Oscar said, his voice full of mock exasperation, his grin widening. "It's like a whole drama series, but with ice cream."

Y/N glanced at Oscar, raising her eyebrows. "Oscar, don't act like you're not entertained by it."

Lando nodded, a smug look on his face. "Exactly. You love the drama."

Oscar just shook his head, chuckling. “Who needs Netflix when I have this to watch?”

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Doting

It was the end of a rainy weekend, and the paddock was winding down. Teams were busy packing up, their trucks being loaded with gear, while the last few fans remained outside in the wet weather, holding out caps and posters, hoping for a last-minute signature from their favourite drivers.

Lando was walking hand-in-hand with Y/N, umbrella in his other hand, holding it above them both. He was visibly exhausted from the race, his shoulders slumped slightly as they walked toward the exit. Y/N, sensing his desire to head back to their hotel, gently tapped his arm and motioned toward the fans still waiting.

“You should go say hello for a bit,” she said softly, her voice barely audible over the rain. “They’ve probably been waiting all day.”

Lando glanced over at her, a little reluctant but knowing she was right. He nodded in agreement. “Yeah, alright.”

They made their way toward the barricade, where the fans eagerly held out their items. Lando let go of Y/N’s hand for a moment, reaching out to grab a sharpie from a fan to sign a couple of caps. He was focused, signing with a practiced speed when he noticed something, Y/N was no longer under the umbrella.

She was standing off to the side, smiling and chatting with a few fans on her own, completely unbothered by the heavy rain, her hair starting to curl from the moisture.

Lando’s face immediately shifted from casual focus to concern. “Hold on a sec—” He handed the signed cap back to the fan, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Y/N. “Baby, please, it’s raining. Come here.”

Y/N let out a soft laugh, shaking her head as she waved him off. “I’m fine!” she called over the noise of the crowd and the rain, her voice warm with affection, though it was clear she didn’t mind the water.

“No, you’re not. It’s pouring, my love,” Lando sighed dramatically, looking at her like she was stubborn beyond belief. With a quick glance at the fans, who seemed content, he jogged back over to her, the sharpie still clutched in his hand.

As he got closer, Y/N raised an eyebrow playfully, “What are you doing?”

“I’m getting you under the umbrella, where you belong,” Lando said with a soft smile, holding the umbrella above her head and taking her hand again. He gently pulled her closer, the water dripping from his jacket, though he didn’t seem to mind.

Y/N laughed, leaning into him as the rain continued to fall. “I told you I’m fine. But thanks, though.”

“You’re stubborn,” Lando teased, a hint of amusement in his voice as he leaned down to kiss her temple. “But I’m not letting you catch a cold after all this.”

One of the fans who’d been watching the interaction smiled brightly and shouted out, “You two are adorable!”

Lando, still holding the umbrella for Y/N, looked up with a grin, giving a quick wave to the fans. “Alright, alright, you’ve seen the cute moment—now, let’s get going before she pulls the ‘I’m fine’ card again.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but smiled, squeezing his hand as they made their way toward the car, the rain finally easing up just as they reached the hotel.

The fans, still waiting outside in the drizzle, had a bit more to talk about that night, the sweet little moment between their favourite driver and the person who always seemed to make him smile.

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Stole my girl

It was race day in Australia, and the paddock was buzzing with excitement as the drivers began to make their way in for FP1. Fans crowded near the entrance, eager to catch a glimpse of their favorite drivers, and the media was ready to pounce with their questions. As Lando made his way through the throngs of people, he paused to sign a few autographs and answer a couple of questions. But one fan’s inquiry caught his attention.

"Y/N isn’t coming today?" the fan asked, their voice laced with curiosity.

Lando chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Oh, she’s here, alright. And funnily enough, I know exactly who she’s with.”

He wasn’t wrong. As soon as Lando stepped into McLaren hospitality, the sound of a familiar laugh reached his ears, and he couldn’t help but smile. He spotted Y/N sitting with none other than Daniel, chatting animatedly like they hadn’t seen each other in years.

“Glad to see you two are having fun,” Lando said with a smirk, walking over to the pair. He stopped just beside Y/N, leaning down to press a quick kiss to her cheek before sitting down next to her.

“They were looking for you, love,” Lando continued, grinning at Y/N. “I told them I knew exactly who you were with, and I was right.”

Daniel grinned playfully at Lando. “Mate, I haven’t seen her in ages!”

Y/N rolled her eyes and shot Daniel a deadpan look. “We literally visited two months ago, Daniel.”

Daniel shrugged dramatically. “Two months is way too long.” He leaned back in his chair with a smirk, clearly enjoying teasing her.

Y/N chuckled before her eyes lit up with excitement, reaching down beside her to grab her tote bag. “Oh! Look, Lan!” she gasped, pulling out a hoodie and a shirt. She held them up to show him with a grin. “Daniel got me some Enchante merch!”

Lando raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a playful smirk. “You barely even wear my merch,” he said, crossing his arms in mock frustration.

Y/N shrugged with a grin. “What can I say? His stuff’s just that good.” She winked at Daniel, who gave a dramatic bow in response.

Lando scoffed, shaking his head. “I swear, you two are plotting against me.” He leaned back, letting out a dramatic sigh. “You are my girlfriend, right?”

Y/N leaned in closer, giving him a soft kiss on the cheek. “Of course, I am,” she teased, “but I’ve got a soft spot for good merch.”

“Just wait until I drop my new line,” Lando said, giving Daniel a sly grin. “Then you’ll see who’s really got the best stuff.”

Daniel rolled his eyes. “Sure, Lando, sure.” He grinned at Y/N, adding, “Just saying, you've got high standards to live up too now”

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We're not getting a dog

Lando’s mind raced as he walked through the paddock, his eyes scanning every corner for any sign of Y/N. He had checked all the usual spots, asked a handful of people if they'd seen her, but she was nowhere to be found. His phone was practically glued to his hand, and after calling her multiple times with no answer, frustration began to settle in.

"She's here."

The voice came from behind him, causing him to stop dead in his tracks. He turned around to see a woman, unmistakably a Ferrari employee, flashing him a knowing smile.

"I'm sorry?" Lando asked, his tone more confused than anything.

"I assume you're looking for Y/N?" she asked with a teasing glint in her eye. "I saw her walk in with Charles and Alex. She’s inside."

Lando, without hesitation, started following her, eager to find his girlfriend. The woman led him to the other side of Ferrari's hospitality, and sure enough, there she was. Y/N was sitting on the floor with a giant grin on her face, playing with both Leo and Roscoe. The dogs were having the time of their lives as Y/N gently tossed a toy for them to chase, completely unaware of Lando’s arrival.

Charles, who had been standing nearby chatting with Lewis, glanced over at Lando and raised an eyebrow. “Got an AirTag on her or something, mate?” he joked, clearly amused.

Lando sighed, feeling a mix of exhaustion and relief. He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve been trying to call her for an hour. I’ve literally been walking around like a madman trying to find her.”

Y/N finally looked up at the sound of Lando’s voice, her expression softening as she met his gaze. She flashed him a pout and held up one of the dogs in her arms. “We need one.”

Lando crouched down beside her, reaching out to pet Roscoe, who was sitting loyally by her side. “Need what, my love?” he asked, his voice full of affection.

“A dog,” Y/N sighed, her eyes following Leo as he zoomed around the area, chasing after the other dog. “Look at them. How cute would it be to have one with us?”

Lando couldn’t help but chuckle softly at the sight of her glowing face. But before he could respond, Lewis, who had been listening from the side, grinned and added, “I can give you a contact”

Y/N’s face immediately lit up at the thought. “Really?” she asked, her excitement palpable. But then, her gaze flickered to Lando’s face, and she noticed the slight tension in his features.

Lando shook his head gently, a small smile tugging at his lips, but there was a hint of concern in his eyes. “Baby… we can’t. We both travel so much. It wouldn’t be fair to the dog.”

Y/N’s enthusiasm faltered slightly, and she shot a glance over at Charles and Lewis, who had their dogs lounging nearby without a care in the world. “But Charles and Lewis seem fine with theirs,” she protested, her voice laced with hope.

Lando simply sighs noding reluctantly knowing he'd already lost "Alright baby, we'll look into it"

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At Williams

"I don't think you're going to lose her mate" Oscar said, chuckling as he walked over to Lando and Y/N

Lando had been holding onto her hand ever since they entered McLaren hospitality, not letting go once

"Oh trust me she's a runner" Lando laughs

Y/N rolls her eyes earning a side eye from Lando "I've already had to grab her from William's 3 times since we arrived at the paddock"

"I was catching up with Lily and Rebecca!" she exclaims earning a laugh from the boys

"What were too boring for you now?" Oscar teases

"Yeah, your Lily isn't here this weekend so you're not much help to me either" Y/N snaps back poking her tongue out at him

"I try to convince myself that she's here for me every now and then" Lando shrugs jokingly

After plenty of banter and laughs, Oscar and Lando were finally ushered into one of the private rooms for a quick meeting, leaving Y/N behind in McLaren hospitality.

Naturally, she took it as the perfect chance to sneak off, back to Williams, much to Lando’s growing frustration.

For the fourth time that day, Lando found himself walking into Williams hospitality, this time greeted by a few chuckles and sympathetic smiles from the staff, who were starting to see him around as much as their own drivers.

Spotting Caco sitting at a table in the corner with a coffee, Lando made a beeline over.

"I'm guessing she's with Lily and Rebecca again?" he asked, already half-defeated. "Mind pointing me in their direction?"

Caco laughed, setting his mug down. "Actually, she's with Carlos this time. Straight ahead, mate."

Lando gave him a tired wave of thanks and headed further into the building. He only made it a few steps before stopping dead in his tracks.

There she was — Y/N, wearing a pair of Apple Vision Pros, standing next to Carlos, who was mid–golf swing with another set on. Alex and Lily lounged on the sofa nearby, watching the chaos unfold, while Rebecca recorded it all on her phone, laughing.

Lando just blinked, almost in disbelief. "Really? Team bonding now?"

At the sound of his voice, Y/N pulled off her headset, flashing him an innocent, wide grin. Carlos, oblivious, continued his virtual golf game with full concentration.

Lando shook his head as he walked over, dropping down onto the sofa beside Alex with a groan. "You're playing VR golf?! You always say no when I ask you to play with me."

Y/N just shrugged, still grinning. "Maybe you need a better sales pitch, babe."

Alex clapped Lando on the back, trying (and failing) to hide his laugh. "Welcome to Williams, mate. We know how to recruit properly."

Lando could only sink deeper into the cushions, watching his girlfriend cheer Carlos on like she was the biggest Williams fan in the world, and knowing full well he was absolutely losing this battle.

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New contract

On the few race weekends Y/N could attend, she usually spent her downtime in the paddock with the WAGs, Lando’s family, or some of the McLaren team members.

This weekend, however, things had taken an unexpected turn, all thanks to a little controversy that had set social media on fire: rumours of Lando’s future at Mercedes. And the root of it all? Photos and videos of Y/N, casually sharing a cup of coffee with Mercedes team principal, Toto Wolff, before Free Practice 1.

It was now Saturday. Qualifying had just wrapped up, and Lando made his way into the media pen, fully expecting the storm that was about to hit. He and the team had already laughed about the rumors earlier, finding it almost impressive how far people would stretch the truth just for a headline.

And, like clockwork, the questions came flying in.

"Can we expect to see you in a different car next season?" The same question, for what felt like the fourth time that day.

Lando let out a small laugh, running a hand through his messy hair. "Like I’ve said, I think for the world record eighth time today — I’m not going anywhere."

"But the meeting? With Toto Wolff, and your girlfriend?" The interviewer pressed on, eyebrows raised like they were uncovering some major scandal.

Lando just shrugged, tilting his head a little in disbelief. "So what?" he said, trying not to laugh at how ridiculous it all sounded. "My girlfriend knows Toto personally. She's good friends with Susie, knows their kids too. It's not all business around here, you know? A lot of us actually form meaningful friendships outside of racing."

He gave the camera a half-smile, hoping that would finally put the fire out.

Not long after, Lando made it back to his driver's room, still a little amused by the chaos he'd just walked out of.

Inside, Y/N was already there, sitting patiently on the small couch, her hands nervously picking at the hem of her sweater.

When she heard him come in, she looked up, giving him a sheepish smile. "I’m sorry..." she said softly, guilt written all over her face.

Lando frowned slightly, pulling off his fireproofs and grabbing a clean shirt from his bag. "For what, my love?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"I saw them... asking you about Mercedes," she said, rubbing her palm across her forehead in frustration.

Lando chuckled, ruffling his hair as he pulled the shirt over his head. "PR and Zak actually found it hilarious," he said with a grin.

"Not funny, Lan..." Y/N groaned, sinking deeper into the couch. "I think I might’ve caused you a bit of trouble."

He walked over, dropping onto the couch beside her and placing a reassuring hand on her thigh. "Baby... it's really not that big of a deal," he said, his voice soft. "It’s their fault for reading too much into it."

Y/N pouted up at him, her big eyes making his heart squeeze in his chest. "I was just talking to them about their kids," she mumbled.

Lando laughed again, pulling her gently into his chest. "I know, baby," he said, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. "And even if you were plotting to ship me off to Mercedes... I’d still love you."

Y/N let out a small laugh against his chest, feeling the weight in her stomach finally ease. "I’d never send you anywhere," she whispered, smiling.

"Good," Lando said, squeezing her closer. "Because McLaren’s stuck with me... and you’re stuck with me too."

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Biggest Fan

It was finally Lando’s home race at Silverstone, and the energy in the air was electric. The entire weekend had been building up to this moment. The thought of racing at home, in front of his fans and family, gave him a boost of motivation. This wasn’t just another race , this was the race.

Lando was on the truck for the driver’s parade, clutching his umbrella to shield himself from the relentless British rain. The crowd's excitement was palpable, but the weather? Not so much.

The interviewer approached, microphone in hand. "Lando! Home race for you today, and pole position too. How confident are you about taking home the win?"

Lando flashed a wide grin, nodding gratefully. "I’m pretty excited. My whole family’s here, so that’s a big bonus. Oscar’s starting right behind me, so hopefully, we can secure an easy 1-2 today. Big points on the line."

The interviewer raised an eyebrow. "But are you worried at all? Max is starting in P3, and we’ve got George in the Mercedes not too far behind either."

Lando leaned forward, a serious glint in his eye. "Honestly, I’m more focused on getting a good start. Hopefully, the weather clears up a bit before the race…" He trailed off as his eyes flicked to the crowd ahead. He squinted, trying to catch a glimpse of something. "Uh... sorry, I think I just saw my girlfriend in the stands."

The interviewer followed his gaze. "She’s in the grandstand?"

Lando nodded, fully turning his attention to the crowd now. There she was, standing right in the middle of the stairs of his dedicated "Landostand," among his fans, waving and pointing frantically in his direction. As soon as she realized he had spotted her, she raised a banner high. It was a custom banner, with Lando’s helmet design and his initials and number bold and clear for him to see.

Lando let out a soft laugh, grinning. "You're insane, I love you." He blew her a kiss through the camera. "Why are you even out there in the rain, baby? It’s pouring!" He laughed into the mic. "I don’t even know if she can hear me."

The other drivers, who had been watching the interaction, couldn’t help but chuckle at the cute moment. Carlos, ever the jokester, waved to Y/N from where he stood on the truck. She immediately waved back with enthusiasm.

Lando laughed, shaking his head. "And... there she goes. Lost her attention already," he said, still scanning the grandstand with a soft smile. "Love you, baby. Get back to the garage before you catch a cold."

Hearing him through her phone stream, Y/N quickly gave him a thumbs up and blew him an exaggerated kiss. Lando grinned, reaching out to theatrically catch it mid-air, then pretended to tuck it safely into his pocket.

"Saving that one for later," he said with a wink, turning back to the camera, still smiling like an idiot.

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tttabii · 8 days ago

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── 西村力 EYES ON YOU ; NISHIMURA RIKI

pairing ୭ bad boy! ni-ki x student council president! reader.

word count: 9162 ; mentions of ni-ki and the others smoking cigarettes, fluff, college au!

THE STUDENT COUNCIL OFFICE WAS unnaturally still save for the swish of the papers as you flipped through another round of proposals for the festival. All the ideas had been swimming around in everyone's heads since the fall festival only a month away; some of them were truly imaginative and some just downright stupid.

You let out a tired sigh as you stamped "Approved" on a handful of ideas that might actually have a chance: a food fair, with international dishes made by students, a photobooth with a vintage train design, and a long horror escape house that jumped off the page. You had to admit it was smart. If executed well, they could get interest from other nearby schools and also be a plus on the academy's record. That was worth approving.

You finished up the last file and then you heard it; that knock. You had become used to it. Annoyingly familiar like a ringtone you had grown too tired to change.

You groaned. "Ni-ki... what now."

When you opened the door you saw the same sight: Nishimura Riki with a crumpled piece of paper in hand and an annoyingly smug smile like he had already won.

"I know the deadline's over, but come on—just take a look at it," he said, holding out the paper with those stupid puppy eyes he always used when trying to get his way.

You crossed your arms. "No. A deadline's a deadline. I'm not making exceptions for some dumb festival stunt of yours."

You were closing the door when he stuck his foot in like his mother owned the place, and let out an exaggerated sigh. Rolling your eyes, you back at your desk, regretting not locking the damn thing.

He strolled in with bravado. "Come on, baby. Just this once."

You gave him a glare, your heart beating just a bit faster with that term of endearment, which only annoyed you more."I'm not your baby. And you can stop calling me that. This isn't one of your little games."

But you took the paper out of his hand anyway. Because, of course, you always ended up hearing him out, no matter how much you told yourself not to.

You quickly scanned the proposal. A foam party.A real foam party. It sounded absurd and almost genius.You cocked an eyebrow. "And who exactly ae you doing this with?"

He leaned on the edge of your desk with ease. "My bros. We've been talking about it for a while."

You sigh quietly and gave the paper back. "I'll think about it. But don't get your hopes up."

He laughed, clearly enjoying the moment, and began stepping away from you to head to the door. "I won't. but you are going to approve it, I know you can't resist a good-looking guy with an agenda."

You dismissed him, "Go away."

He walked away, but not before catching the way your eyes lingered a second too long on his outfit. He has seen it, he knew it. You never stared outright—but with guys who know how to dress, he knew he could expect your attention, whether you liked it or not.

The next morning, the wind was light as you walked up the few stairs of the school, the white sundress flowing around your knees. You wore your bag slung over one shoulder, your glasses slipping down your nose as your eyes tried to focus on the paper in your hand. You were mentally reviewing your schedule for the day, already dreading the backlog of reports you'd have to approve.

You'd seen Ni-ki earlier, surrounded by a couple of girls leaning against a tree, wearing that obnoxious smile that surely belonged on the cover of a magazine. You ignored him, as you always did.

But of course, he had to announce his presence. He deliberately collided with you, and before you had a chance to do anything, he had snagged your glasses off your face, holding them above him like a smug toddler with a toy.

"Ni-ki!" You shifted your arms to reach for them, annoyed. "Give them back!"

He just grinned like he was in on the joke, and held them a little higher. "Nope. Not until you say please."

You stood on your tiptoes again to reach, and one hand instinctively gripped his arm for balance. Standing that close, he could see everything. The soft curve to your lashes, the blush on your cheeks, the way your eyes appeared so much clearer and prettier and more... you without the frames.

"You know," he leaned in and teased, "you look so much better without these."

Without warning, his other hand slipped around your waist, steadying you when you almost lost your balance. You jolted, realizing it was him, and stepped back instantly. "You're such a nuisance," you muttered, snatching your glasses from his hand and hurrying off toward the student council office, vision still slightly blurred.

Behind you, a few boys turned to look to take a good look at you.

And Ni-ki noticed.

Oh, they were definitely going to be a problem.

As the girls from earlier tried to distract him, laughing too loudly and clinging to his arm, Ni-ki wasn't paying attention. His eyes were still on you.

You had just rubbed your eyes tiredly, while waving small hellos to your fellow student council members. Your dress was hugging you beautifully perfect—elegant while also feeling effortlessly comfortable.

Your hair was down with soft waves and a small white bunny pin on the side, held back just enough. Your bangs framed your face gently, loose and natural. He thought you looked way too cute for someone who claimed to be tired.

His eyes dropped down to your lips. You had put a light gloss on your lips—subtle and pretty but also dangerous. He wondered what type of lipstick it was. Actually, maybe he didn't care. Maybe he would just wipe it off with his lips if given the chance. Those girls would for sure be jealous.

But they didn't matter.

He had long stopped being a playboy, the moment he actually laid eyes on you for the first time. It all started weeks ago in the infirmary. He was only there to skip class, claiming to be sick when in reality he just wanted air conditioning and a decent bed. He was about to fall asleep himself—until he noticed you.

You were all curled up on one of the beds, face slightly to the window so that warm sunlight hit your cheeks. You looked peaceful at first, and then your brows furrowed as the discomfort woke you. A heat pack pressed to your stomach, and you were hugging a pillow tightly. He wasn't expecting that.

The cold, powerful student council president fitted into the bed, looking so small, like a girl who just wanted to survive painful cramps in peace. That was the moment he realized there was more to you than just a sharp tongue and standing straight. When you did wake up, he was there, watching you.

"Can I help you?" you asked flatly, your eyes still narrowed as if you just woke up.

"Yeah," he said, already smirking. "Do you mind giving me a little kiss?"

You grimaced. "Are we deadass right now..."

You then stood up and walked away without second thought. And yet, you still lingered in his thoughts.

The very next day, you caught him smoking behind the school building with Jake and a few others. He figured he was done for—but Jake gave you those ridiculous puppy eyes and, surprisingly, you let them off with a warning. Strict, but not cruel.

He remembered how close you stood when you handed out the warning. Your cherry-sweet perfume hit him all at once. You avoided his gaze when he looked straight at you. He saw the way your fingers fidgeted at your side. Even then, he could tell: you weren't as cold as you pretended to be.

Later, his friends told him you were actually younger—by a full year. The first and youngest student council president their school had ever had. You earned that title by merit, not by a favor—organization, leadership, and grace under pressure.

The resentment that came from the assistant president—also one of Ni-ki's exes, the one that lasted all of one month—was inevitable. Actually, almost every relationship he ever had lasted a month. If not, even less time.

But it all stopped once he started seeing you from a distance. And realized something even worse—

You might be unattainable.

If someone good—really good—were to notice you, they could take your heart before he got the chance to do it. Someone with no bad boy reputation; who had no gossip flying around like second skin. A clean-cut man who liked cold girls with secret warmth who would treat you right. And never make you cry. Someone worthy of you.

But he also knew... you weren't cold. Not really. And he certainly was not going to let anyone else be the first to warm you up.Not without a fight.

('−ㅿ−')

It was already the evening, the softly lit glow of the sunset streaming through the windows as students hurried about with flyers, costumes, posters, decorations—the whole deal. Some students were juiced and rehearsing on the quad lawn. Others were in deeper planning meetings, but you had just ended yours with the council. Your arms were filled with files and event charts—everything neatly color-coded.

That was when it happened.

Yunah. Again.

She plowed into you on purpose right outside the council room, her shoulder hitting your shoulder harder than it needed to have . You twisted your heel a bit, and your knee smashed into the cold, hard, and rough concrete floor, scraping it hard against the tiles.

"Oop-sorry," she said with her make-believe sweet voice as she never even turned her head as she took off down the hallway.

You took a deep breath, moving your hair back and squeezing the files harder to your chest. "It's fine," you murmured to yourself, hoping to sound more convincingly steady than you felt.

You stood up, brushing the dust from your skirt, and limped forward—unaware of the thin trail of blood running down your knee. You had a job to do. The gym was the final stop on your daily rounds. After this, you could go back to your dorm, shower, and maybe nap before the late council online meeting tonight.

You pushed the gym doors open.

The air carried that rubber flooring odor mixed with sweat, pierced with metallic clinks of weight and the sounds of boys' voices. You had your clipboard in one hand, scanning the space quickly and efficiently. Everything in order. Equipment in appropriate locations. Towels where towels belong. Floors clear. Good.

And then you saw him. Ni-ki.

He was rocking a black tank and pants, hair slightly wet against his forehead. He was seated at a weights machine, forearms pumping with veins as he effortlessly lifted. You could see his biceps flex every time he pulled the weights, and your breath caught in your throat before you reignited and glanced away in a panic.

Stay focused, damn it.

You took a shaky step back, still limping without realizing you did, and flipped your clipboard to the gym report—

"Hey."

You blinked up in surprise. Ni-ki was suddenly standing before you, holding a towel against his neck, brow furrowed as he looked you over.

"What happened?" his voice now a lower pitch.

"What?" You looked up in confusion for a moment, before following his gaze. He wasn't looking at your face. He was looking at your knee.

Where blood was trailing slowly down your skin, now obvious against the pale background of your socks. You flinched slightly as he dropped to one knee, his hand resting gently on your injured one. The touch was light, but you still shuddered.

"Oh... it's nothing," you mumbled. "Someone just... bumped into me."

"Uh huh." His voice was dry, clearly unconvinced. He looked up at you for a second, something unreadable in his eyes. And then—without another word—he stood and called over his shoulder to the other boys, "I'm heading out. Later."

"Where are you—"

"Sit."

He motioned to the bench nearby. You blinked, unsure if you were even supposed to obey—but your legs were tired, and honestly, your knee stung.

So you sat.

You watched him silently, as he cleaned up the wound, and then unwrap the bandage with just as much caution as he used to dab away your blood, pressing it to your knee just right, running his thumb over the bandage to make sure that it was secure. He didn't say anything again until he stood back up, wiped his hands, then jogged over to the vending machine.

He was back in a moment, and dropped a cold chocolate milk into your hands.

"What's this for?"

"Sugar," he said, now sitting beside you, again not too close, but close enough that your knees nearly brushed.

"You looked like you could use it."

"I'm not a child," you countered, though you were already uncapping it.

"I know," he said, looking sideways to you. "You're the president. Cold, nonchalant and untouchable."

You raised your brow at him, but he wasn't finished.

"But you limp like a normal person," he added, biting back a smile.

You exhaled a short laugh despite yourself and took a sip.

Ni-ki leaned forward, arms resting on his knees as he looked ahead. He leaned back, elbow resting casually behind you on the bench, eyes glancing sideways as you sipped quietly on the chocolate milk he got you.

"Who pushed you?" he asked, voice steady, but there was a weight there, layered underneath. He didn't look at you—just stared at the gym wall across from him like your answer didn't matter.

You didn't say anything.You kept your eyes down on the page you held in your lap, fingers messing with the edge of it, pretending that the milk tasted more interesting than the buzzing tension between the two of you.

He made a small, humorless laugh. "Figured."

You glanced at him, brows drawing slightly together. "Yunah has always been looking at you like that," he said plainly, like it was something that he had noticed a million times before and filed away. "Especially when I'm around. Like this morning."

You blinked. "This morning?"

"Yeah, when I took your glasses and I held your waist."

You immediately looked away, the heat rushing up your neck as you let the memory wash over you—how close he had been, how your heart jumped and you pulled away very quickly and blushed.

"She saw the whole thing," he added, not sounding particularly concerned. "She didn't say anything though."

You paused, then mumbled, "Could've just been someone else who pushed me. Maybe it was a stranger."

Ni-ki shrugged, like he had already thought of it and shot it down. "Maybe. But I don't usually guess wrong. And Yunah... she's petty enough to push someone over less."

You took the last sip of your milk, and held the empty bottle in your lap for just a second, until Ni-ki took it from you, just brushing his fingers against yours as he did so. He stood up, walked to the bin, and tossed it without saying a word.

You stood up too, dusted off your dress and grabbed your clipboard, and walked off without saying goodbye.

You turned on your heel, and his voice came behind you, teasing."Not even a bye, prez?"

You didn't turn back, didn't answer.But he caught the way your hand went up for just a moment to scratch the back of your neck—anxious, a bit flustered—as you walked down the hallway and turned around the corner toward your office.

૮₍ ˃ ⤙ ˂ ₎ა

The library was quiet, the soft hum of the built-in café mingling with the distant sound of pages turning. Instead of locked in your student council office like usual, you chose to be on this rare break in a different spot—curled up by the corner window seat of the library, nursing a cold latte, and flipping through your notes for the upcoming autumn festival.

Honestly, you were juggling more than you should be. Between your responsibilities in student council and being part of a baking club—which let's be honest, insisted on running a full baking competition booth—you hardly had time to breathe.

It was a fun idea: visitors could taste different pastries and vote on the best one, provided the participants knew what they were doing. This wasn't a bake-off for beginner bakers. You already wrote of the safety list three times.

But for now, you just wanted your highlighters. You rifled through your bag, trying to dig out the familiar pack when your fingers stopped, heart sinking ever so slightly.

One of your plush keychains was gone.The little bunny with the dark red ribbon. Missing.

You paused for a moment, scanned your open bag again just in case, and then exhaled softly through your nose, disappointment creeping over your expression.

Your fingers clenched around the only charm that still hung from the zipper, and your teeth grazed your lip as your face dipped from its normally neutral expression.

It was subtle, but still—anyone who truly knew you would see it. You didn't show much in public. Stoic, organized, composed—always. But right now, you were unguarded in a way you rarely allowed.

Meanwhile, on the rear path near the library's back entrance, Ni-ki had been taking a quiet smoke break. The wind ruffled his black hoodie a little, and he was leaning against the railing with half-lidded eyes, letting his mind wander. That was when he noticed something odd in the grass.

A little, dirty, plush bunny, facedown.

He stared for a second, then bent down and flicked the ash from his fingers, and carefully lifted the bunny by the ribbon.

He recognized it right away.

Of course he did.

He'd seen it enough times hanging off your bag—cute, a little worn, something he figured you probably had for years. His lips twitched in a tiny smile, just barely there, as he tucked the bunny into his pocket and stubbed out his cigarette.

You had just come out of the library, clutching on to the last charm on your butchered bag, distractedly gazing at your feet.

You were perhaps hoping the bunny had dropped somewhere close and that no one had stepped on it or thrown it somewhere completely different. And then you heard it—the sound you had grown unfamiliar too. The sound of jangly chain jewelry.

You almost choked, eyes instinctively shifting without even turning. You knew who it was before you had turned.

Ni-ki, walking up the path toward you, the chrome hearts keychain on his belt swinging and clinking as it bumped against the metal chain clip on his pants. A few charms were hanging loose, glistening as they swayed in the briefest of sunlight exposure.

His heavy silver earrings twinkled from their usual spot, and the fake lip ring—one of the things that always made your stomach twist for reasons you refused to acknowledge—sat crooked against his lip and stuck out like a sore thumb.

His messy black hair fell over his eyes, bangs as low as always and unkempt around his forehead, as if he had just rolled out of bed without a thought. He never made it look intentional, and yet it was so infuriatingly good on him.

Your hand curled instinctively around your bag's strap, trying to act unaffected as he slowed to a stop in front of you.

He didn't say anything at first. Just held something out.

You blinked.

And there it was—your plush bunny, a little dirty now but still intact, dangling from his fingers by its dark red ribbon.

"You dropped this," he said, voice low, casual.

"Oh... thank you," you said, your fingers brushing against his as you got the stuffed bunny back. You couldn't even look at him—either too awkward or maybe just too closed off—before quickly re-attaching the charm onto the zipper of your backpack and sort of twisting away. You stood there for a second, awkward, not knowing what to do, and then made the choice to do what you always did when things felt strange.

You walked away.

The faint smell of smoke was still with him, curling around you along with the warm wisp of that familiar cologne of his, something sharp and clean, something spicy underneath. It wasn't unpleasant. In fact, it felt... familiar. Even comforting. You didn't recoil from that smell. Not the way most people did.

You grew up with it. Your parents smoked when you were little, and the smell was forever tied to memories of home, of quiet evenings, and cold winter nights. It didn't disgust you. It never had. He noticed. He caught the tiny change in your face, the nuance of bringing the smell into your body with no negative reaction. He didn't say anything. Just stood silently and watched, as he always did, as you walked away.

૮ – ﻌ–ა

It wasn't the last time he "coincidentally" ran into you.

You had your doubts about how accidental it really was.

Especially when it kept happening like this—in places you definitely wouldn't expect him. Like, for instance, the baking club room. Today was extra busy, obviously. You and your clubmates were trying out different cake flavors as you attempted to work your way through which flavor would be used at the festival's opening ceremony. The whole campus was abuzz about the festival, especially with some higher-profile guests likely to show up.

The club wasn't really that big, but was really close-knit. You weren't the leader—there was enough responsibility on your plate being student council president already—but you still pulled your weight, always listening to the instructions and never acting like you were above it. You liked it this way. Less pressure, more time to focus on the fun.

And today was fun.

You were dressed casually, in low-hanging sweatpants and a slightly oversized jersey top, one side slipping off your shoulder, the black strap of your bra visible in a way that was clearly intentional—it matched the design, and you liked the look. Your hair was pulled into two loose pigtails, bangs falling messily across your forehead, and your apron was already a little dusted with flour and sugar.

You stood at one of the mixing stations, wooden spoon in hand, stirring the thick, creamy mixture, wildly. Quickly, checking around to see if anyone was paying close attention - you dipped your finger in and popped it in your mouth—soft vanilla with a warm cinnamon background.

Your lips turned into a small smile, briefly so, it could've gone unnoticed. You quickly released it when you realized. You weren't alone. You added a pinch of cinnamon sugar anyway—quietly hoping—wishing, that your cake will receive more votes. That people would like it. And even if you didn't show it, you love when people like the thing you bake.

You spent time, figuring that flavour out, layering it warmth with some little surprise at the end. It mattered to you, more than anyone cared to know. You turned to help a clubmate ice another test batch, apron tied tight behind you.

And just outside the door, lingering just out of sight—was Ni-ki, with Jake and a few of their friends, having been roped into delivering something artwork nearby. But he'd stopped when he passed the glass window and caught a glimpse of you.

His gaze lingered.

The way you smiled to yourself—a real one, so rare it almost felt like a secret. The way your top slipped down slightly to give me a glimpse of that black strap. The way you licked the batter off your finger like you didn't even know that was distracting.The look on his face changed ever so slightly.Jake caught it right away.

"Bro," Jake grinned, shoving him with his elbow. "You're down so bad."

Ni-ki didn't say anything. He looked away with a blank expression and ignored the teasing as he shoved his hands in his pockets and looked ahead like he hadn't been caught.

After Ni-ki left the baking club hallway, he meandered through the main building with his usual lazy charm, side by side with his group of friends, and a handful of the girls from his class following closely behind him, still asking him questions about the course they were in—but let's be real, half of them were just using the questions to try and keep his attention for another second.

He hardly looked interested. Answering with some short, amused comments. His hands stuffed into his hoodie pocket, chain jewelry chiming softly as he walked, their silver glimmers reflecting from the hallway lights. After the end of class, he stepped outside to breathe, leaning a little and then stopping suddenly.

You were there.

Right on the edge of the main path with your clubmates. You were holding out your tray of neatly portioned cake samples to passing students. You were focused and professional—smiling only slightly, your usual guarded expression locked back on your face. Still, you had a rhythm. Offer a piece, introduce the flavor, remind them to vote at the club.

Jake stepped out of class and you caught him first, carefully holding the tray out toward him, quietly saying: "Try this one."

He took a bite, eyebrows raising. "Oh—yo, this is actually fire."

That was when Ni-ki walked up, that telltale sound of his pants chain dragging against metal making your ears twitch slightly before your gaze flicked in his direction. You immediately recognized the grey hoodie—sleeves bunched at his elbows, zipper half undone, showing a glimpse of his collarbone and toned chest.

Fuck.

He didn't even try to look good. He just was.

You swallowed hard, lips twitching with annoyance, and turned to leave when—

"You're just going to ignore me after giving Jake cake, huh? Damn," he called out behind you, his tone casual but still hinting at that smirk. "What a president you are."

You froze for a second, rolled your eyes slowly, then turned back and deadpanned. "Do you want to try it or not?"

He raised an eyebrow, stepping in a little closer. He still had his hands in his pockets. "Have you even tried your own cake?"

You gave him a confused look. "No. Except for the batter."

He smirked, that lazy smug smirk of his. "Try it, baby."

You exhaled sharply. "I told you to stop calling me that."

Jake snorted. "You two sound married."

Before you could snap back, Ni-ki moved casually and took the small plastic fork out from your hand and shoved a bite of your own cake in your mouth before you could stop him. "Mmh!" You choked, in shock, at how fast he'd gotten the fork around your lips.

He smirked wider. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he leaned in and dragged the same fork through the cream on the remaining cake sample and licked it clean with a hum of approval. "Damn. That's actually so good."

You were still flustered, wiping your lips when his eyes locked onto your mouth. There was whipped cream clinging to the corner. He didn't say anything for a few more seconds, and before you could wipe it away yourself, he discreetly used his thumb—almost teasingly—to brush it off gently.

"Sweet," he muttered quietly before licking off his own thumb with a satisfied expression on his face.

Your brain literally flat-lined for a second.Then you heard it—a voice that could ruin any moment.

"Ugh. Didn't think she was the one who baked it. Looks like someone's using her position for pity points," a girl's voice sneered from behind. She was clearly talking to her friend, but her eyes were on you.

One of Ni-ki's exes—not Yunah. Another one. Pick-me energy, rude smile, and only trying not to conceal the blame dripping off her every feature.

Ni-ki's whole face changed right away, jaw tensing—but he was still not reacting outwardly. Just standing there, silent. Like the calm before the storm. Pretending like neither of you heard it, still clear as day.

You muttered to yourself more than you were talking to him, "Why do you date such weird girls?"

His gaze darted back to you, the tension in his shoulders relaxing just a little as he tilted his head. "Aren't you a weirdo one, too?"

You scoffed, "Well, we're not dating. And we'll never date."

That amusement, sharp look returned to his face—one brow raised, his eyes seeming to dip for one impossibly small moment to your bare shoulder. The little curve of your collarbone showed under your loose jersey top. It wasn't scandalous, if anything it was trending. A lot of girls wore it. But you saw where his eyes traveled and the way they paused made your heart skip.

"Mhm," he said with a hint of a smirk, and his voice low. "Whatever you say, princess."

The word dripped off his tongue, a bit of tease and a bit of dare. Jake, still chewing on his second sample, muttered "This is better than Jungwon's K-dramas."

You rolled your eyes, spun around, and whipped away in a whirlwind—muttering curses under your breath—but not before hearing Ni-ki chuckle behind you.

Then the votes were tallied and the results posted on the club board.

You saw your name first again. You blinked at it for a second until the club members screamed and brought you in for a mini group hug. You had won. That cake would be served to our guests for tonight's festival.

A smile immediately stretched across your face as your club began preparing to haul the cake to the display area. The cake, embellished with whipped cream, fruit slices and nice touches, looked beautiful. You just gave them a few quick instructions about not tilting the tray or turning the garnishes around. It had to be perfect as it sat there until tonight.

By the time everything was settled and the club booth was set up, the grounds were starting to fill with energy. Students were dragging props out, hanging decorations, testing lights and microphone systems. Music faintly played in the background, greetings were being shouted from all over the campus, and the buzz was everywhere.

It was only 10 a.m. but the ambience was already wild— and it wouldn't be until 7 p.m. tonight before the real thing began.

Still, after baking the entire morning and walking in and out of the sun making sure every tiny thing was in place, you were parched.

You held your printed speech in one hand, eyes scanning it while your throat started to feel dry and rough. You glanced around the campus yard, seeing booths still half-open—no one seemed to be selling drinks yet.

Then, without warning, a warm hand pressed gently onto your shoulder.

You turned around.

Ni-ki stood there clad in a black tank top, silver chain at his collarbone, and hair still damp from the heat. His fingers were cold from touching your shoulder, but in his hand was a small chilled yogurt drink pack, the same kind you used to drink with breakfast while still trying to rush out the door.

He just held it out to you, saying nothing, eyes soft but unreadable.

You blinked at it then at him. "You looked like you were about to pass out," he said as simply as ever. "Take it. It's good for you in the morning. Probiotics and all that."

"...Thanks," you mumbled as you took it. The cold plastic felt so nice in your hand, and you didn't realize how badly you needed it until now.

You poked the straw in and sipped as he stood beside you, like it was totally normal. "You ditched your booth?" you asked, side-eyeing him.

"They'll survive without me," he said. "Besides, they're doing the foam thing right now. I'm not trying to get soap in my eyes this early."

"You mean you ditched your bros to stalk me?"

"I'm accompanying you," he corrected, pretending to sound offended. "Very different."

You shot him a look, but he only smiled and walked alongside you as you did your rounds. He didn't try to take over, didn't interrupt, just followed along—his hands in his pockets, his eyes darting between the booths and your checklist.

The assigned students was setting up a horror escape room, and someone from the art department was hanging huge photo booth banners and string lights. It actually looked kind of... magical. The warm colors, everything for fall. The music floating by.

You felt the excitement growing in your chest, but that familiar emptiness was also there—a quiet reminder that you didn't really have anyone to enjoy this with. Not really. Not like that. Most people didn't get too close to you. Some people were intimidated. Other people didn't bother.

You learned to manage. Ni-ki didn't seem to mind though. He wasn't talking much, but he matched your pace, sometimes handing his bottle of water to you without asking when he saw you squint from the sun. His presence was annoyingly... soothing. You hated how comfortable you were getting with it.

At one point, he tilted his head toward the large LED board being wheeled toward the main stage. "You nervous for the speech?"

You shrugged. "It's just a welcome speech. I've done worse."

"You practicing earlier was kinda cute."

You turned your head sharply. "What?"

He lazily shrugged again, pretending he was too invested in some balloon arch being taped together across the walkway. "Just saying. You get all serious and focused when you take charge. It's adorable."

You stared at him.

He blinked at you like what?

You turned away quickly, sipping the rest of your yogurt drink. "You're annoying."

He grinned at the way your ears turned a little red."Can't be that annoying. You didn't brush me off this time."

After making sure every booth was set and all details were arranged, you quickly ran back to your dorm around 5 p.m., like the rest of your group. The buzzing sensation in your chest was starting to get harder to ignore. You took a quick shower to wash the day away and let the steam take away some tension from your tight muscles.

The shower also allowed you to take time with your skincare routine. You brushed out your hair, curling just the ends, incorporating your straight bangs to fall just right across your forehead. You picked out the little dress you had been planning since the day you decided to host this festival. It was cute, not too much. And it was enough that you would be noticed faster than the guys with their decorated crops.

You sprayed perfume gently behind your ears, the floral scent subtle but sweet. A few pieces of jewelry shimmered softly on your neck and wrists. One last look in the mirror... and you nodded to yourself.

By 6:30 p.m., you were back on the festival grounds.

Everything looked different under the setting sky. Lights had turned on—golden, pink, soft blue—casting a warm glow on students from both your campus and others who were already lining up at the entrance. The atmosphere was buzzing with anticipation.

You inhaled deeply and checked in with each of the club presidents over your phone and some brief verbal check—in rounds to make sure everyone was settled. You held the speech card with shaky fingers although you had said that speech hundreds of times. You weren't afraid of the crowd, you simply didn't want to screw this up. Not after all that work.

Then the clock hit 7. The festival officially started.

From the stage, you saw faces—so many faces—and just off to the side you could see Ni-ki in the crowd wearing a loose dark jacket and black tee, slightly damp from the foam, laughing at something Jake said as they finished adjusting the drink booth setup.

You swallowed your nerves and stepped up.

Your voice warmed through the field, steady but bright. You welcomed the guests, thanked everyone for coming, and opened the festival. You even got a cheer. When the MC mentioned the winning cake, your name was said—along with the tray. Students actually clapped when they tasted it. You stood at the side, cheeks warm, heart full, pretending not to look for a certain someone's reaction.

Later, you returned to your stand beaming as students were now piling up for pastries and treats. You handed out cake slices and mini croissants, complemented peoples costumes and hair in passing, softly chuckling when someone recognized the fruit tart from your submission. You carefully packed one into a box, waved goodbye to your club members now arriving to take the next shift, and just let your feet go where they always went these days.

Ni-ki's booth.

You noticed Jake first, then Jungwon, both were busy pouring drinks or were busy chatting it up with the students that slipped in and out of the foam pit. There was laughter and chaos, but it was a fun chaos, the type that endears you to the moment, making you feel and think this was something you would want to remember.

You avoided the foam, walking up to the drink section instead, and delicately placed the box of tarts on the counter. "My treat," you said softly, smiling.

Jake blinked. "Wait—really?"

"Seriously?" Sunghoon ventured as he looked over his shoulder. "Are you actually treating us now?"

"Just shut up and take it," you said lightly again, your eyes darting Ni-ki, who seemed to pause mid shake with the drink blender.

They all exclaimed, "Thank you!" as they opened the box and saw the tart; their eyes widened as they cut into it with plastic forks and started to compete for the strawberries.

Ni-ki backed away from the counter and wiped his hands with a towel, heading straight for you and sliding into your space like it belonged to him. "Didn't think you'd actually come by," he said, his voice lower now, only meant for you.

"I said I'd roam freely," you said, "I just happened to look in here."

He raised an eyebrow. "While holding a box of fruit tart?"

You rolled your eyes, but a smile peeked through as you lightly leaned against the counter. He looked at you for a second—really looked. From your curled hair to the light shimmer on your cheekbones to the little details in your jewelry.

"You look..."he paused. Then leaned just a little closer. "Dangerously good."

You scoffed. "Are you working, or are you flirting?"

"Multitasking," he said plainly, giving you that infuriating soft smirk. "Wanna try one of our drinks? I'll make it special."

You raised an eyebrow. "Do you say this to every girl?"

"Is it bold of you to assume I have other girls?"

"Uh huh," you scoffed. "Wanna look at the line of girls behind me? I'm practically cutting the queue."

"Yeah, but they're obviously here to see the other guys," he chuckled as he nodded towards his friends.

You narrowed your eyes. You're not sure about that, as you caught sight of a girl by the foam pit sheepishly pointing to Ni-ki, and absolutely squealing to her friend. "I see one already squealing looking at you."

He just laughed, a low laugh, the kind of laugh that made something flutter in your chest—and walked away to grab you a drink. He didn't ask what you wanted. He just knew. A little sweet, a little refreshing—something cold and creamy to balance out the summer night heat.

He handed it to you with a grin before casually slipping his arm around your shoulder like it was second nature. His fingers played with the end of your curled hair, making your stomach twist in ways you hated admitting. The guys behind the booth were already yelling things like "Whipped!" and "Get a room!" as Ni-ki waved them off, dragging you gently away from the foam party.

"Why are you leaving your friends?" you asked, sipping the drink—and wow, it was good.

He shrugged, leading you into the crowd. "The student council president needed some time to enjoy with a hot guy like me."

You glared at him. "Your ego is insufferable."

"You still haven't denied it," he teased, his thumb briefly brushing your shoulder as he adjusted his arm around you again.

You really tried not to get flustered. But the way his cologne wrapped around you like a second skin, woody and warm, and the way he just effortlessly steered you through the crowd like he belonged beside you, it was too much.

He led you right to the food district. The lights here were golden and warm, and the stalls were bursting with colors and scents. You let him lead you to a takoyaki stall, and you could see that his eyes were sparkling with excitement.

"Alright, this one is non-negotiable," he said. "You have to try this."

"Why?" you asked, letting him handle the ordering.

"Because I'm Japanese," he said with pride, "and I'm making it my mission to teach you all the things that are tasty."

You blinked, your lip curling. "So you're essentially flexing your culture onto me?"

"Damn right," he smirked. "You need to know what actual good food is."

You and him moved from booth to booth trying mochi, karaage, yakisoba—him explaining each dish with that stupid twinkle in his eye, the way he seemed to be sharing part of himself with you, and you paying way too much attention for someone who swore to not fall into his trap.

People noticed—of course they did. Your usual cold expression had softened, and Ni-ki, the boy known for charming every girl that breathed near him, hadn't flirted with anyone else the entire month. Not once. Just talked politely when someone approached, but his attention always snapped right back to you. Boys who usually tried to talk to you looked away, realizing they didn't stand a chance when Ni-ki was practically glued to your side.

You pretended not to care.

But your fingers brushed his when he handed you another skewer, and your heart jumped. Just a little.

Then, he turned to you again with a glint in his eye.

"Wanna try the horror escape room next?"

You froze. "Like... right now?"

His smirk widened. "You're not scared, are you?"

"No," you lied immediately.

You couldn't understand why you agreed to it—perhaps it was how his eyes lit up with mischief, or how smug he looked when he said, "Scared? You?"

But here you stood, at the door of a horror escape room, regretting your whole life. Ni-ki handed the entrance tickets to the usher in one hand, and took your hand with the other—and just like that, he was pulling you inside. His jacket was draped loosely over your shoulders—warm, slightly big, the sleeves covering your hands because the moment you'd shivered earlier, he had taken it off without a word, and draped it around you, and now you were holding onto it like it was a lifeline.

As the door creaked shut behind you, darkness covered the room and creepy music began to play, like a reverberating echo. You shrunk your pace, stepping cautiously. Ni-ki turned around and grasped your hand like it was something he was used to.

"Come on," he said, his voice low and smooth. "I'll lead."

And lead he did. You mostly let him guide you, letting your body follow his—walking just behind him, peeking out from his side, your fingers now clutching his bare arm since the jacket had already claimed you. His skin was warm, and the muscle beneath was hard, flexing slightly each time he moved.

You almost jumped out of your skin when the first actor hopped out, wailing. You screamed. Very loudly. And you immediately threw yourself to Ni-ki's side, clutching his arm with both hands in a tight grip.

"You okay there?" he murmured, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. You nodded quickly, releasing him a little, but not much.

When there was finally a moment to breathe, he pointed with one of his long fingers to a dim hallway. "We should separate for the first part that's reasoned-"

"No." You started to shake your head so quickly you reminded him of a panicked puppy eyes wide, as if defiant to abandon him even the slightest.

He burst into quiet laughter, "You're like a scared little puppy." He chuckled, clearly enjoying his laughter at your expense. "Kinda cute though."

You scowled at him defiantly, but it probably looked like you were not even close to ready to cause any bodily harm to him being practically glued to his arm. He merely ruffled your hair with a smirk, and continued walking while you pressed against him the entire time.

Eventually, when you escaped, blinking into the hallway lights as you exited the room, you shoved him softly with your hand heel. "I am never doing that again. Ever."

He laughed, full-bodied and proud. "You were clinging to me like I was your boyfriend."

You rolled your eyes. "Shut up," you muttered.

But the extra warmth in your cheeks betrayed you. You barely got a second to breathe before he pulled at your wrist, tugging you along. "C'mon."

"To where?"

"The photobooth," he said, smiling. "Duh."

The tiny booth was only about big enough for the two of you—warm and faded with the weight of the last couple, barely lit by peeking neon hearts that flickered with the camera sensor. As soon as you crossed the threshold, Ni-ki plopped down onto the seat and pulled you into his lap like you barely weighed anything.

You squealed in surprise. "Ni-ki!"

He laughed loudly and freely and it really sounded like he loved the sound of it. His hands barely rested on your waist steadying you. "Relax, it's just a chair, and you're sitting on me. I'm fine with that."

Not able to connect with any words, you huffed but stayed put. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest against your back, and the slight breeze of his breath on your neck from how close he was. And his hand had moved a little to play with the hem of the jacket he had draped over you.

The camera blinked.

First photo: He reached up and squished your cheeks together, pulling the most dramatic heart-eyes face while your expression was frozen mid-annoyed-pout, lips squished and eyes wide in disbelief.

Second photo: He nudged you. "Flex your arms. C'mon."

"I don't have muscles," you muttered, but did a small awkward pose anyway.

Ni-ki laughed and put his arm behind you, flexing. The camera caught the ridiculous contrast between his sharp, defined muscle and your soft arm and the look of pure betrayal on your face.

"Wow," you muttered. "Thanks for embarrassing me in high def."

Third photo: you gave up and finally decided to just throw a peace sign with your lips twisted up into the faintest of smiles. Ni-ki did some random sign that didn't even look like anything—something between a thumbs up and finger guns—all while grinning like an idiot.

Fourth photo: You weren't prepared. You weren't even looking at the camera when you felt it—soft and sudden, a warm press of lips to your cheek. You turned your head sharply just as the flash went off, catching the exact moment that your eyes bulged open and mouth dropped in shock, a single hand reaching gingerly to your cheek in disbelief.

Ni-ki leaned back, victorious, completely unconcerned.

"You—! That's cheating!" you groaned, lightly slapping his chest.

He tilted his head, "You didn't say no."

After the photobooth, you were still in recovery mode from being surprised by that last photo—the press of his lips against your cheek, your heart still thumping. And as if all of that wasn't enough, Ni-ki went even a step further.

He pulled out his phone, and instantly inserted the strip of photos into the plastic case on the back, smoothing it down in pride. "There," he said proudly, holding it out towards you. "Now you do it."

You blinked. "No way."

"How come?" he smiled as he was reaching for your phone. "C'mon. Let's be matching."

"Ni-ki, it won't even—" you said, but he was already messing with your phone case. And even though it was clear that the case was not made for photos, he somehow manhandled the photo in there, bent in half and slightly crushed, until it was behind your phone just like his.

You looked at it trying to look annoyed. "You just ruined my aesthetic."

"I am your aesthetic," he smirked.

That was that, and together you walked back to the foam party.

The scene had changed drastically—the field was alive with glowing lights, music thumping through the air, and foam cascading from the machines like snowy clouds. There were students everywhere now, splashing around, slipping and sliding like kids at a water park.

As soon as you entered the suds, Ni-ki didn't waste any time—he scooped a handful of bubbles and threw it directly at you.

You shrieked, stumbling back. "Ni-ki!"

Of course, your hands retaliated, flinging a palm of foam into his chest. It splattered across his shirt and him only laughed, shaking his head like a wet puppy, sending suds flying.

He leaned in close and used a finger to dab just a bit of foam to your nose. "Boop."

You wiped it off with a glare and then used your hand to pointlessly run it through his hair, making it appear he just survived a soap hurricane. His friends were somewhere to the side losing it over the two of you—hollering half-teasing comments like

"Get a room!" and "We totally lost him to the council president!" as you both rolled around on the ground, chucked, and begged bubbles to go his way.

You were laughing so hard, you didn't even notice he was standing over you, still grinning, with foam sticking to his shirt. His chest was puffing a little bit as if he couldn't manage keeping up with his own grin, and then...

He leaned down.

Before you could react, Ni-ki took your face in his warm, slightly damp hands from all the foam. He leaned forward and kissed you before you even got the chance to blink.It wasn't rushed. It wasn't sloppy. But it was slow and deliberate, almost instinctual—like he couldn't help himself anymore.

Then, the ghost of his tongue ran across your bottom lip asking for entry, waiting. You froze. And then you let him in. The world melted away. The music, the foam, the teasing voices, all of it blurred until it was nothing and your lips moved against his. His hands stayed put, just holding you, almost afraid to let you go like you would disappear when he did.

He tasted like fruit punch and something sweet that you didn't know. Maybe it was just him.

Oh god, Ni-ki thought, heart racing as he kissed you deeper, the shy ones are always the boldest. He didn't even see the people watching or the foam that was still being thrown in the background. All that mattered was just you.

But then you pulled away.

Not because you wanted to—but because reality struck you like a cold gust of wind. Your eyes were looking around. Public. You were in public. Your heart dropped. Your reputation.

What if you were just another girl? What if you were just a girl that he was messing around with like they said—like all the rumors suggested? You pulled back quickly, a shaky breath leaving your body, Ni-ki looked at you blinking, his expression changing—then reaching out and brushed your cheek for the foam residue.

You swallowed. Because maybe you weren't sure if you were just another girl. Or maybe you were starting to hope that you weren't.

"Are you okay?" Ni-ki asked, voice softer than usual and assessingly scanning your face for any sign of sickness.

You slowly nodded yes, even though your heart was still pounding, and your lips still tingled from the kiss. The foam clung to your body like snowflakes, soaking into your clothes, coating your arms and bare legs.

You stood awkwardly, trying to brush it off when Jake tossed you a towel from the sidelines with a cheeky grin. "Here. You might wanna clean up before someone thinks you got into a war with a bubble machine."

You gave him a half-laugh before Ni-ki stepped closer, towel in hand, brushing the soap gently off your arms and shoulders. Then he crouched down, hands ghosting over your legs. "Sit," he said, glancing up at you with a small smile. "You'll slip."

You paused considerably, but finally sat on the wooden ledge of the booth, he looked so earnest, and you didn't want to disappoint. His fingers were soft as they wiped away the foam from your shins, just the tender kind of attention you would never have expected to come from a self-proclaimed playboy. His hoodie still draped your shoulders, still warm and slightly damp from you earlier, and your mind was racing.

And then he left—telling you he'd be right back. Just disappeared into the crowd.

You stared at the foam affect that covered the ground and your mind was racing. That kiss. Those eyes. His hands on your cheeks. His arms wrapped around you like you were some kind of trophy.

Sunghoon sat down beside you a moment later with Jake behind him and, then, Jungwon and Jay following. They were all smiling—like they'd just witnessed a rom-com scene play out in real time.

"What's with the serious face?" Sunghoon nudged your arm.

You hesitated. "...What if I'm just another girl to him?"

You could see their instant reactions. Jake snorted, "Oh please. You're the only girl on his mind right now."

"Yeah." Jungwon nodded. "You think he goes around making out with every girl in front of all of us?"

"He's been different. He barely smokes anymore, he keeps leaving parties early because you're not there... he doesn't even flirt around like he used to. It's weird." Jay leaned in, shaking his head with a grin.

"Weirdly wholesome," Jake chimed in.

Before you could respond, Ni-ki reappeared—holding two cones of ice cream, one already melting a little. Tucked into one of them was a folded piece of paper and a small flower, slightly crumpled but clearly picked with intention.

He walked straight over to you, holding it out with a sheepish grin. "It's not fancy or anything. But..."

You took the paper cone and opened the note.

Will you be my girlfriend?

Straight to the point. Direct. Just like him.

Your breath caught in your throat. "Ni-ki..."

Jake leaned over next to you, speaking in a whisper like it was some deep secret, "When he goes after something he wants, he makes a move before anyone else does."

You smiled then—your heart flipped, your pulse racing—and looked up at Ni-ki. "Yes," you breathed.

The minute the word left your mouth, his hands were right back on your cheeks, thumbs moving across your skin like he didn't even think about it and he kissed you again. It was a softer kiss this time, but no less full of meaning. God, this was the first time you had ever been with someone like this—someone so openly affectionate, someone who made you feel like you were the only girl in the world. Like you weren't being seen, but rather... chosen.

He pulled back, smirking at you with eyes full of mischief. "You're in for a long ride, princess."

Then, without warning, his lips pressed against the corner of your jaw, trailing lower to the curve of your neck. Your breath hitched—completely caught off guard by how intimate he was being, especially with everyone watching.

But for some reason you did not give a fuck.

908 notes · View notes

lisalamona · 4 months ago

Text

Lover Boy

. Summary: After years of stolen glances, unfortunate interruptions, and sneaking out of the palace, Telemachus finally musters the courage to confess to you, well… not without a little help, of course. . Pairing: Telemachus x gn! Reader . Warnings: None . Notes: This one had been rotting in the drafts for a while. You can all thank @selena-of-ithaca for inspiring me to finish it! I will probably be doing a second part of this closer to what the request originally was cause it left me thinking about some ideas I wanna explore Art taken from duvetbox's animatic of Legendary Stars devider made by @saradika-graphics, taken from this post

You can say what you will about love at first sight—that it's not real, that it's just an exaggeration poets use to get their point across. But for Telemachus, it was real. Way too real. He just didn't know it at the time.

The first time he saw you, he was just a boy, running from the suffocating walls of the palace. It had stopped feeling like a home—what it was supposed to be—and had become a den. He felt like a lone sheep trapped in a cave full of wolves, and there was no escape. He couldn't leave. He had duties, responsibilities. And most importantly, his mother needed him.

Ever since the suitors had stormed in, treating the palace and everyone inside it as if they were nothing, life had become unbearable. The halls were filled with laughter that wasn't joyful, voices that weren't kind. Every step he took had to be careful, every turn of a corner calculated, just to avoid crossing paths with them. It didn't matter that he was the prince, the heir to Ithaca's throne—his title held no weight with them.

He felt like he was drowning, even though he stood on solid ground.

So naturally, he went to the beach. Or at least, that's where he intended to go. Lost in his thoughts, his mind running rampant, he barely noticed where his feet were taking him. He was halfway down the docks when he collided with someone—hard. The impact sent both of you to the ground, and something clattered beside you.

"Are you alright?"

The voice reached him before he even opened his eyes. The blow had forced them shut, but when he finally blinked them open, the sight before him left him speechless.

At the time, he would've chalked it up to embarrassment. Maybe that was part of it. But looking back, he thought maybe—just maybe—he knew you were the one right then and there, even if he hadn't fully realized it yet.

"Uh... hello?" You waved a hand in front of his face. That snapped him out of his daze, but before he could speak, another voice cut through.

"Kid!"

Both of you turned in unison. A man stood at the edge of the docks—a gruff, towering figure with a bit of gray streaking through his hair. His arms, covered in calluses and old scars, looked like they belonged to someone who could crush a person with a single tap. But you knew better. You knew his heart was made of gold.

"What happened? Are you alright? I knew I shouldn't have let you hold the spears," the man grumbled, his deep voice thick with concern.

"Dad," you muttered, a hint of embarrassment creeping into your tone.

But he wasn't listening. He kept going, mumbling about how he should keep a better eye on you.

"Dad! I'm alright," you reassured him, then turned back to Telemachus—though at the time, you didn't know his name. "Are you?"

He nodded quickly, still a bit unsettled by the sheer presence of your father.

"See? Everything's fine." That seemed to calm the man, at least a little.

You rose from the ground, dusting yourself off before gathering the fallen spears. With one hand, you picked them up. With the other, you reached down and helped Telemachus to his feet.

Your father studied him with a keen eye. "What's your name, son?"

"Telemachus, sir." Anyone could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

Your father's brows lifted slightly. "The prince? What are you doing all the way out here?"

"I just wanted to take a stroll along the beach." Telemachus gestured toward the shore—a more desolate place, one few people ever ventured to.

"Oh, well, that's always a delight to see," your father said with a knowing smile. "Why don't you take [Name] with you? They love going there."

"Dad!"

Heat rushed to your face. That was all you could muster in your embarrassment.

"What?" Your father shrugged. "You could use a break. You need friends your age, anyway." He muttered the last part, but it was loud enough for Telemachus to hear—making your face burn even more.

That day was the first of many.

Over the next ten years, you and Telemachus built something unshakable—a bond carefully woven over time. And in those years, Telemachus came to a realization.

He liked you.

Really liked you.

He had always been hesitant to use the word love. He had never really seen it with his own eyes—not the kind poets spoke of. He had never met his father, and his mother had spent most of his life waiting, praying for Odysseus to return. He supposed the strength she carried was love, in its own way. But he had never seen it in action.

And the years had only made it harder. The suitors had grown more desperate, more dangerous, stripping away every ounce of his attention and confidence.

But then—after twenty long, agonizing years—his father came home.

Everything changed.

In the first few weeks, Telemachus watched his parents reunite. He saw the way they cherished each other, how they barely left each other's side. He saw love in the way they looked at one another, in the way his father reached for his mother's hand without thinking, in the way she smiled as if she had been holding her breath for two decades and could finally exhale.

And that's when he knew.

That's what he wanted.

He wanted to hold your hand, wanted to make you smile—not that he didn't already manage to do that. He wanted to wake up by your side, to trace soft, chaste kisses along your face. He wanted to look into your eyes and, without a single word, know that you both felt the same, that you loved each other.

The only problem was... he didn't know how.

And, gods, he was scared.

──────💗──────

Odysseus made his rounds through town, as he had made a habit of doing ever since returning home. He liked watching the people go about their day, seeing the town buzz with life. He took in every sound, every movement, every face. After spending so many years without proper human interaction, he had learned to appreciate the small things.

That, of course, didn't mean he didn't make time for his family. If anything, he dreaded the moments he had to spend away from them to tend to his duties. That was why, when his son volunteered to accompany him to the docks, he was ecstatic. His mind raced with possible conversation topics, excited at the rare opportunity to bond with Telemachus outside the walls of the palace.

But as they walked, it became increasingly clear that the conversation was more one-sided than he would have liked. Telemachus seemed distracted, his gaze scanning the crowd as if searching for something. Or someone.

Normally, Odysseus might have felt a twinge of disappointment at his son's lack of attention. But then he spotted you, helping your father unload the fishing boat. And then he noticed his son—staring directly at you, his hands fidgeting at his sides before he wiped them on his tunic, as if trying to get rid of sudden clamminess.

Oh. That explained it.

Odysseus' observation skills might have been rusty, but he wasn't stupid.

"Do you want to go talk to them?"

Telemachus nearly jumped out of his skin, his head snapping toward his father. "I— I already do talk to them! We're friends."

Odysseus raised an eyebrow with skepticism. "Friends?"

"Yes!" Telemachus insisted, a little too quickly. His cheeks, however, betrayed him as they flushed red.

"Then you wouldn't mind if I introduced myself?"

Telemachus gave him an incredulous look. "You're the king. They already know who you are!"

"Yes, well, I never personally introduced myself," Odysseus replied smoothly. "And any friend of my son's is a friend of mine."

And with that, he began walking toward you without waiting for a response.

"Father!" Telemachus whisper-shouted, but Odysseus—despite clearly hearing him—kept going, a determined pep in his step.

Panic surged through Telemachus. His father was about to make it so much worse. Desperately, he glanced around, looking for an escape. And then, without thinking, he ducked behind a stack of barrels, pressing himself against the wall in mortified defeat.

He wanted the earth to swallow him right there and then.

"Hello." Odysseus' voice snapped both you and your father to attention.

"Oh—hello, my king, what brings you to us?" your father said, immediately dropping what he was doing to give the king of Ithaca a respectful bow of his head. You quickly followed suit, though your own bow was a little sloppier in your haste.

Odysseus acknowledged both of you with a nod in return—once to your father, then once to you.

"I just wanted to meet my son's friend," he said casually. "Make up for lost time."

At the mention of Telemachus, your ears perked, and your gaze instinctively swept the area, searching for him. It was an unconscious reaction—but not one that went unnoticed by Odysseus.

"Is... is he here?" you asked, smoothing down some stray hairs without realizing it.

Odysseus' lips curled slightly in amusement, though his sharp eyes held something more calculating. He looked behind him, to where his son once stood. "He was. But he seems to have disappeared." His tone was light, but the glint in his eyes told you he knew exactly where his son had gone.

You huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Sounds like him."

"Mm." Odysseus crossed his arms, glancing at you with a thoughtful expression. Then, after a brief pause, he gestured toward the town. "Care for a walk?"

You hesitated, glancing toward your father for guidance. He met your uncertain gaze with an encouraging nod.

"Of course," you answered, finally releasing your grip on your work.

Odysseus extended a hand to help you out of the boat. His grip was firm but not overbearing, a steady reminder of the strength he carried. You accepted his help with a small word of thanks, and he nodded in acknowledgment.

As you stepped onto solid ground, Odysseus and your father exchanged brief goodbyes, a silent understanding passing between them. Then, without further delay, you and the king of Ithaca set off down the worn path.

"Tell me—how did you and my son meet?"

"Oh, uh—he ran into me," you said, remembering the day vividly. "Literally."

Odysseus chuckled, nodding as if that sounded exactly like something Telemachus would do. "And you've been friends ever since?"

You smiled. "More or less. He's easy to talk to."

That earned a raised brow from the king. "Is he?"

You tilted your head, sensing a hidden layer to his question. "Once he warms up to you, yes. He's thoughtful, kind. He listens—really listens. Not just to respond, but because he cares about what you're saying."

Odysseus hummed, rubbing his beard in thought. "And what do you think of him?"

You blinked, caught off guard by the directness of the question. "I—well, I think highly of him, of course. He's my friend."

"Just a friend?" Odysseus asked, watching you closely.

You felt warmth creeping up your neck. "I—yes?"

He chuckled at your hesitation, clearly enjoying this far too much. "Well, I suppose time will tell." Then, as if switching subjects entirely, he gestured toward the boat growing smaller behind you. "You work hard."

"I have to," you said, welcoming the shift in topic. "It's not easy work, but it keeps me moving."

Odysseus nodded approvingly. "A strong back and a strong mind—both good things to have." He studied you for a moment longer before adding, "Loyalty is important too. My son, he has to be careful about who he trusts." You could sense something else in his words, more than a father concerned for his son, something personal.

You met his gaze steadily. "I understand. And I'd never betray his trust."

The weight behind your words must have satisfied him because, for the first time, Odysseus' sharp scrutiny softened into something resembling approval. "Good."

Then, without another word, he turned his head slightly and called out, far too casually.

"You can come out now, son."

A muffled curse sounded from behind some abandoned barrels.

Your face lit up with laughter as Telemachus sheepishly emerged from his not so secret hiding spot, his face redder than a pomegranate.

Odysseus clapped a hand on his son's shoulder, grinning. "A prince shouldn't cower behind barrels, Telemachus. Stand tall."

Telemachus muttered something under his breath that you couldn't quite catch. You, however, were too busy giggling to care.

Odysseus gave you one last, knowing glance before stepping back. "I'll leave you two to it, then."

And just like that, he strode off, leaving Telemachus staring at you, utterly mortified.

──────💗──────

"He embarrassed me!"

"You embarrassed yourself."

Telemachus stared at his father in disbelief, then turned toward his mother, silently pleading for help.

Penelope and Odysseus sat side by side on a wooden bench, a stack of parchment spread across the table before them. Penelope had been signing documents, her focus divided between the ink stained sheets and the arms wrapped securely around her waist. Odysseus, ever at ease, rested his chin in the crook of her neck, perfectly content to hold her as she worked.

Penelope glanced up at her son, amusement flickering in her gaze. "Your father just wanted to help."

Telemachus groaned. Of course, he knew that, but did his father really have to do it like that? "I didn't need any help."

At that, Penelope and Odysseus exchanged a look—one of those unspoken conversations only long-married couples could have. A smirk tugged at Odysseus' lips, and Penelope barely suppressed a laugh.

Telemachus narrowed his eyes. "I mean it!"

"I already told you, sweetheart," Penelope said, her voice warm with patience. "You just need to ask them."

Telemachus hesitated. "But what if...?"

"The worst that can happen is them saying no." Odysseus chimed in, casual as ever.

Telemachus huffed. "No, the worst thing that can happen is my friendship with my best friend being destroyed because of my stupid heart!" He dramatically pounded his chest before flopping onto his parents' bed, face first, as if trying to bury his shame into the linens.

Odysseus exhaled through his nose. "You just need to go over there, stand your ground, and be confident."

Telemachus lifted his head just enough to shoot his father a deadpan look. "Be confident? Me?"

Odysseus shrugged. "It worked with your mother."

"No, it didn't."

The response came in stereo. Penelope's tone was amused and firm, while Telemachus' carried all the exasperation of someone who had grown up hearing his father's exaggerated tales one too many times.

Odysseus blinked. "What? Of course it did!"

Penelope gave him a knowing look. "No, I fell in love with you because of your intelligence and because you were so unapologetically you."

Odysseus crossed his arms. "...And my confidence and persistence too."

Penelope hummed, tilting her head. "Ehhh... the good looks did help."

"Hey!" Odysseus gasped in mock offense before playfully patting her waist and pressing a soft kiss to her neck.

Telemachus rolled his eyes. Of course, he loved his parents. Of course, he admired their relationship. But gods, was it frustrating to witness when he felt so incapable of achieving the same thing.

How was he supposed to be confident when confidence had never come naturally to him?

How was he supposed to just ask you when the very thought of it made his stomach twist itself into knots?

His whole life, he had watched his father's legendary feats unfold in the stories of others. Odysseus, the clever hero. Odysseus, the king of Ithaca. Odysseus, who could talk his way out of anything. He was larger than life, a master of words, a warrior, a man who could fight off monsters and trick the gods themselves.

And Telemachus?

Telemachus could barely keep his voice steady when he so much as thought about telling you how he felt.

It wasn't just rejection he feared—it was the aftermath. What if things changed? What if it became awkward between you? What if you started avoiding him? What if he lost you entirely?

He couldn't risk that.

But at the same time...

He wanted what his parents had. The quiet affection, the easy laughter, the deep-rooted love that had endured twenty years of separation.

He wanted you.

And yet—he felt stuck.

"That's why you should be yourself," Penelope's voice pulled him from his spiraling thoughts. "You've been friends for a while. They'll understand."

Telemachus sighed, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. "I can't be myself. Nobody wants that."

Odysseus snorted. "That's dramatic."

Penelope stood up and made her way to her son, gently touched his arm, her voice softer now. "Just try."

Telemachus swallowed, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Just try.

If only it were that easy.

──────💗──────

Telemachus couldn't get the interaction he had with you earlier that day out of his head. He had tried—tried so hard—to keep both his parents' advice in mind. He had finally gathered the confidence to tell you, rehearsing his words over and over, from the moment he woke up to the moment he finally said it.

Well... kind of said it.

You hadn't even heard him. And in that tiny, fleeting moment, all the courage he had painstakingly built crumbled into dust. When you looked at him with those oh so beautiful eyes and that perfect, heart melting smile, he panicked. The words he had prepared vanished like smoke, and before he knew it, he was scrambling to change the topic as fast as possible.

Now, as he replayed the disaster in his mind for what felt like the hundredth time, he decided it was both the smartest and most idiotic thing he had ever done. Smart—because he hadn't ruined your friendship. Stupid—because now he had to go through the agony of doing it all over again.

"You're distracted."

The sharp voice cut through his thoughts, making him flinch. His mentor, Athena, stood a few paces away, arms crossed, her piercing gaze locked onto him like a bird of prey. She had been watching his form as he attacked the training dummy, analyzing every movement, every hesitation.

Heat rushed to his face—not just from embarrassment, but because his mind had been so hopelessly wrapped around you. He swallowed thickly. "... It's [Name]," he admitted.

Athena let out a slow breath, attempting to mask both her amusement and her growing exasperation. She had seen this before—too many times, in fact. First with Odysseus, who had been equally lovesick, and now with his son, who spoke of you so fondly it was becoming predictable.

"Not again." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I am not Aphrodite. I can't help you."

But her words only sparked something in Telemachus. His eyes widened, a flicker of realization lighting them up, and then—

A grin.

"But you're Athena! Goddess of strategy!" He straightened, excitement practically radiating from him. "We can strategize this!"

Athena stared at him, expression flat.

"Please!" In a dramatic flourish, he dropped to his knees, hands clasped together in a desperate plea. "Every time I even think of them, my heart feels like it's going to burst through my ribs! Every time I look at them, I can barely think! I love them. I can't take it anymore!"

Athena sighed, looking up at the sky as if seeking divine patience. This was going to be a long conversation.

──────💗──────

The plan was simple. Or at least, Athena had made it sound simple.

Step one: Get you alone. Step two: Lead the conversation toward something sentimental. Step three: Casually, effortlessly, drop the confession like it was nothing.

Easy.

Except, now that Telemachus was actually there—walking beside you through the sun-dappled forest, the scent of pine and earth filling the air—his entire brain had turned to mush.

You walked ahead slightly, arms brushing away stray branches, sunlight catching in your hair just perfectly. You looked so at peace, humming softly to yourself, completely unaware of the internal war raging within him.

He needed to start the plan. Say something smooth. Something clever.

"So... uh." His voice cracked. He cleared his throat violently. "D-Do you like trees?"

You stopped mid step, turning to blink at him. "What?"

"Trees," he repeated, voice slightly strangled. "Do you... like them?"

A pause. Then, you burst into laughter. "Telemachus, we are literally in a forest."

He groaned internally. That was not part of the plan.

Desperate to recover, he tried again. "What I meant to say was... um, people... people are like trees!"

You raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Oh? And how's that?"

"Uh..." He hadn't actually thought that far ahead. "Well, some are really tall! And, uh, strong! Like... my father." He winced. Gods, this was a disaster.

You bit your lip, holding back another laugh. "Right. So, are you a tree too?"

"I—" He blushed slightly at the idea you might see him as someone strong. He was spiraling. "I think I might be a bush."

That was it. You doubled over, laughter spilling freely from your lips, and despite his humiliation, Telemachus felt his heart swell at the sound. He loved your laugh. He loved—

Wait. He was supposed to be confessing, not making an absolute fool of himself.

"Why are you so nervous?"

"Umm, it's just—" Telemachus' eyes darted rapidly, searching for something—anything—that could save him. His gaze landed on Athena, perched in the form of a huge white owl on a nearby branch, watching intently. He gave her a desperate, pleading look. She only responded with a subtle nod forward, directing his attention back to you.

"Are you alright?" you asked, concern laced in your voice. You reached out, gently taking his hand in yours, forcing him to meet your eyes. Gods, you loved his eyes—the way they turned into molten honey when the sunlight hit them just right. At that moment, you cursed your father in your mind. He had hyped you up to finally tell Telemachus how you felt, only for the day to end with him having some allergic reaction or whatever was happening to him.

Telemachus stared at you, momentarily forgetting how to breathe. The way the light bathed your features, making you seem almost ethereal—it was unfair. Before he could stop himself, the words slipped out.

"By the gods, you are beautiful."

"What?"

"What?" His eyes widened slightly as if he could pretend he hadn't just spoken.

You raised an eyebrow. "I heard you. I just wanted to know if I heard right."

"Oh."

A thick silence settled between you. The air felt heavy, charged with something unspoken.

You swallowed hard, deciding to bite the bullet. "...I think you're beautiful too." The words tumbled out before you could second-guess yourself. Your heart hammered in your chest, but you forced yourself to push forward. "I like you. I like you a lot, and it's totally fine if you don't feel the same, I just can't hold it in anymo—"

"I do too."

The response came without hesitation, so natural it almost startled you. He took a deep breath, scanning your face for a reaction—some sign that he wasn't making a mistake. He found it.

His fingers tightened slightly around yours. "You are the first thing I think about in the morning and the last thing I think about at night." His voice was steadier now, more certain. "I try to find excuses to talk to you, to be around you, to hear you laugh—even if it's just for a moment. And I know I should have said something sooner, but I was terrified that if I did, I'd lose you."

The world around you blurred. The whispering leaves, the distant crash of waves against the shore, the rustling of Athena's wings—it all faded into the background.

"You won't lose me." you promised, squeezing his hand.

Telemachus let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His free hand hesitantly reached up, brushing against your cheek as if testing whether this moment was real.

"Then, can I—" He stopped himself, but the question lingered in the air.

You smiled. "You can."

And with that, he closed the distance, pressing his lips softly against yours.

BONUS:

"Would you be mad if I let go of your hand?" "Why? What's wrong?" "It's really sweaty"

#epic the musical x reader #epic x reader #greek mythology x reader #telemachus x reader

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studioeisa · 7 months ago

Text

is it casual now? (teaser) 🫀 seungcheol x reader.

★ seungcheol x makeup artist!f!reader. ★ teaser word count: ~8,000 ★ genre/warnings: mdni. 18+ content. situationship/friends with benefits, light angst, use of pet name ('love'). soft dom!seungcheol, making out, biting/marking, protected sex. let me know if i missed anything! ★ footnotes: this has been on my backburner for months. it's admittedly a full-blown story in need of hard editing, and so i'm posting this in hopes of bullying myself into working on the whole thing. should it come down to it, though, i like to think this can stand on its own. enjoy. <3

Seungcheol has been in the industry long enough to know that everybody had vices.

Trainees, rookies, veterans. It didn't matter. There were dangerous, risky vices. Alcohol, drugs, smoking. There was dating, too, of course. Dating fans, dating fellow idols.

Seungcheol didn't do drugs. He smoked socially, but he would rather not. And he drank, sure, but never to an unhealthy amount. Dating, however—

Did it really count when there was only really ever one person he treated like a vice?

You've been in his life since the group debuted. Nine years, give or take. And then, at one point, he just... tried something with you. And it clicked, fell into place, and now you've been sneaking around for the better half of three years. It's the one place Seungcheol feels like he can breathe, can get away. But it's also the biggest secret he's kept.

You're his makeup artist, after all.

When the two of you started off, you both insisted on nothing serious. To 'keep it casual'.

That worked perfectly for Seungcheol. He likes to think it's still working for him, as he raps at the door of your apartment and waits for you to open up. His wristwatch says that it's midnight, but it doesn't matter. He knocks a little louder, growing a touch impatient.

You open the door, and you're greeted with Seungcheol looking reproachful. "Yah," he chides. "Why haven't you been answering my texts?"

When you rub your eyes with the back of your hands and look over your shoulder to glimpse at your wall clock, Seungcheol almost feels apologetic. Almost. “Cheol,” you say exasperatedly, slowly. “It’s the middle of the night.”

"So you were sleeping then, hmm?" Seungcheol says. The corner of his lips tilt up, just slightly. He leans against the doorframe, taking a brief amount of time to glance you over. As he does, a small wave of tiredness finally washes over him— just how late had he kept himself up working on new music? "I sent you texts hours ago."

"You didn't even read them." He reaches up, tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. He sighs, the sound almost exaggerated. "How cruel of you."

You let out a low hum at Seungcheol’s fingers brushing against your skin. “Mmm, I fell asleep with my phone in my hand,” you admit, the words coming out more like a soft sigh than anything else.

You seem to finally drag yourself out of your sleepy state to give Seungcheol a once-over. He knows it shows all over— the exhaustion in his eyes, his stance. He’s tired, and you can tell. You’ve always been able to tell.

You step aside a bit and he takes that as his cue. Seungcheol moves past you, a small hum in the back of his throat. He toes off his shoes and shuts the door behind him with a soft click. In spite of himself, the moment he's inside, he reaches for you.

One arm is loosely slung over your shoulders, pulling you in close. He rests his chin on your shoulder, the tip of his nose against your neck.

"You fell asleep..." he gripes. "Do you know how many texts I sent you? I sent five.”

“Five”” you repeat as you bear Seungcheol’s weight. Your hand instinctively raises to stroke the base of his hair behind his neck, and he thinks he could melt then and there— your soothing touch, your light tone. “Oh, how ever will you live?”

Seungcheol huffs into the crook of your neck. The feel of your fingers in his hair does wonders to combat the tired, stressed part of himself. Slowly, his shoulders relax, and he sighs, the sound long and deep.

"Don't get snarky with me," he mutters. But there's no bite to it at all, just a quiet sense of contentment in his voice. "You could've at the very least read the messages." He moves, presses a kiss to your neck. "Would've taken ten seconds."

“I was asleep,” you protest, but— whether or not you notice— your head is tilting around a bit to press a lingering kiss on to the side of his face.Seungcheol's stomach flutters. You're sweet like that. Always have been, always will be. He hums under his breath at the kiss, his hand that's on your shoulder moves up to cup your cheek.

“That’s my penance,” you say drowsily.

"One kiss isn't nearly enough," he tells you.

He pulls back from your shoulder to look at you, now. The eye contact, the way he regards you, has a more focused weight. He takes a moment to look you over again— hair mussed, face still flushed faintly from sleep. "Two,” he says in a tone that brokers no argument.

“Greedy,” you mumble, but both of you know it doesn’t matter.

Not when your free hand finds purchase at his side and you use your fingers in his hair to pull him down so you don't have to stand on your tiptoes. Not when you press your lips together into a kiss that's soft and sweet, almost sleepy.

All it takes is the sound of your voice for Seungcheol to be pulled in— when you tug at his hair, he follows, his chest against yours. He bends down, his own hands coming up to the sides of your face.

He melts against your mouth, his eyes closing in an instant. But it’s done as quickly as it started. You pull away, your face still inches away from Seungcheol’s, as you smilingly mumble to him, “There. Two kisses.”

His eyes open again once you pull away, his grip on your face tightening just slightly. "Three," he mutters back, and then he leans back in.

You hum against his mouth, the sound breaking free from the back of your throat. You’re both so tired from your respective work and it shows in the kiss. No heat, no fire. Your tongue swiping over his lip makes Seungcheol hum, quiet and low in his throat. He's usually so used to being the one who takes control, making the first move, but here with you, in the early hours of the morning— there's something else to it.

He pulls you closer against him, his hands moving down to your hips. Against your mouth, he murmurs, "Four," before his tongue slips in, just to get a taste. Just to linger, just to savor, but not take over.

“Cheol,” you huff, though your reprimand is tempered by the way Seungcheol is intent on keeping the kiss going. “You’re— mmph— being greedy—”

"Five—" he sighs against your mouth. "Let me be greedy a second more."

One of his hands moves to the back of your head, fingers tangling up in your hair. This is what he likes, this is what he always comes to you for. Something that's simple. This, he can deal with. This, he can handle.

It’s never a second more with Seungcheol. He’s always out the door when he can go, when he has to. He’s never been a glutton for time, and so it’s enough for you to sense that something is wrong.

You break away from him.

Seungcheol has to resist a whine when you pull back, his eyes fluttering open in a daze. Your hand has moved to his face and you’re looking up at him with a small frown and a quiet query. “Long week?”

He lets your question hang in the air for a moment, the hand in your hair loosening its grip, fingers just idly combing through the strands.

He glances at your face— the furrow of your brow, the hint of concern in your eyes— and it makes him sigh. He turns his head to press a soft, quick kiss to your palm.

"Long year," he corrects.

You look like you want to say more. Seungcheol almost begs you not to. This— whatever the two of you have— it’s an outlet that won’t break him, won't ruin him, won't tarnish him or the group's name. He just wants— he needs—

You know exactly what he needs, even if he doesn’t always know himself. “How do you want your fifth kiss?” you ask instead of commenting on his obvious fatigue.

Your question makes Seungcheol's head empty out in an instant.

It takes him a moment to think, to consider. His mind, hazy and tired as it is, struggles to come up with an adequate answer. All he knows is that he's comfortable, that he's tired, that you're here. And that's all he really needs, in the end.

He lets his hand fall from your hair, to the nape of your neck. "... Soft," he murmurs. "Soft and easy."

You’re back up on your tiptoes to give him what he asked for. A sweet, slow press of your lips against his. It’s a kiss that lovers give each other, even though you’re the furthest from that.

It's easy, easy, easy for him to fall into the kiss just like that, a shudder running down his spine when your tongue doesn't invade him. It's sweet, it's chaste, it's simple. It's exactly the kind of kiss he needs after a week of work.

His hand on your neck moves to your cheek, his thumb brushing over the skin there. He breaks away for a mere second, a fraction of a beat, to catch his own breath, but he kisses you right back after.

"Six," he whispers desperately. "Again."

This time, you laugh against his mouth— a slightly muffled sound, not any less amused— but you give in, still. When you separate for air again, one of your hands rests on his chest to keep him away. “You have to let me breathe, Cheol,” you huff.

Seungcheol has to resist groaning outright when your palm on his chest keeps him from coming in for another kiss. You're adorable like this, in the middle of the night, with sleep in your eyes and annoyance in your voice.

He knows he's being needy, taking advantage, but at the same time? It's all he seems to be able to do. Greedy, he hears you call him, and it's true.

"I'll let you breathe when I get my seventh kiss, then," he grumbles.

He can see the annoyance blooming on your expression, but he’s saved by one thing and one thing alone: The fact that you can get pretty greedy sometimes, too, especially when Seungcheol was involved.

"Fine," you say haughtily, feigning annoyance. "Just one more kiss."

Seungcheol's eyes glimmer with something akin to mischief. His hands move to your face again, his own lips curving up in a smirk. You give him an inch, he wants a mile. It's his style. "One more kiss. That I can work with."

He brushes a thumb over your cheek again, his grip in your hair loosening only to brush some stray strands away from your face. "Only fair that I get to pick the way, then," he says, his tone low.

He's going to make the most of this opportunity, and you're letting him.

His tongue darts out briefly to lick over his bottom lip. "Open your mouth."

When you let out a noncommittal hom and oblige, parting your lips, he knows he’s gone. Seeing the obedience in your face makes Seungcheol's stomach do a little bit of an excited flip. You're like this, this, even when you're tired, when you're barely awake.

It's a little addicting.

"Good," he says softly. It's all the warning you get before he's got his mouth on yours again.

He kisses you— devours you, his tongue parting your lips, sliding into your mouth, taking. The kiss is almost bruising and seems to throw you off balance, but you quickly recover by pressing flush against Seungcheol and holding the sides of his arms. If he were a better person, Seungcheol would let this be the last one. Would let this kiss end and call it a night.

But then the smallest of sounds escape you. A whimper, a soft noise that only makes all sense fly right out of Seungcheol's head. It's not fair, he thinks, that you still have a hold on him even in the middle of the night.

All it makes him do is pull you closer— press you up against the wall with his entire body, his hands still gripping your face as he kisses you deep. Harder than he usually would, rougher than he normally did.

He swallows the sound, his tongue still in your mouth.

Your fingernails are pressing into his biceps now. Your tongue is sinking into his lower lip; not quite biting, but enough to drag his focus away for a moment. "Seung," you sigh, and it’s like music to his goddamn ears.

He was Choi or Seungcheol when he was in your makeup chair. Cheol, when it was just the two of you. But Seung was something different entirely.

A small moan, low and quiet, gets caught in Seungcheol's throat when you bite into his lip, when you whine out his name like that. He knows what it means when you call him like that— knows what he's in for.

He relishes in it. In moments like these when he gets to be like this. When he doesn't have to be responsible, when he doesn't have to be a leader. He gets to be just Seung.

There isn't a single part of his body that's not on fire right now, not when he's got you pinned against the wall, not when you're all satin and soft against him. His grip on your face tightens, and now his lips are no longer on your mouth, but on your jaw, moving down to your neck, your throat.

A quiet, needy little ah falls out your lips when he nips at that spot on your pulse point, and there, there is exactly when he knows that he's got you exactly where he wants you. Pinned by his body, shaking and shivering like he's touching you for the first time.

If he was feeling a little less riled up, a little less needy, he'd keep up the teasing. But he can't, not now. His hands move from your face to your hips, moving under the satin of your pajamas. It's not enough, never enough.

Every sound that leaves your mouth, every little please, just, already sets a fire in his brain. Every part of his mind turns to static, white noise, as he keeps his lips on your throat, your neck, biting and nipping at your skin.

“Seung,” you hiss, your hands flying to his shoulders as you press your back on to the entryway wall, willing yourself not to crumple. “I’m going to get a noise complaint again—”

“I'll pay the fine,” he murmurs against your skin, his lips against your collarbone now, his hands still on your hips. His brain is starting to grow fuzzy, his thoughts less coherent, but this was the goal.

To get you like this. Soft and shaking and desperate. To make you his for the night, for just a little while. To hold some sort of control over something in his life.

“You can't just keep paying for— ah— the fines,” you’re babbling. “They're going— t-to kick me— Seung, fuck!"

Whatever you’re trying to say dies out when Seungcheol nips at your warm skin. The rational part of him, somewhere deep, deep inside, knows that you're right. He can't keep paying your fines for complaints of loud music and loud sex.

The part of him that's currently working on painting a bruise on your collarbone doesn't seem to care all that much.

"I'll pay," he repeats, between leaving a few more marks on your skin for good measure. "As many times as I have to—"

“Jesus Christ,” you cuss, your chest heaving as Seungcheol’s hand moves higher and higher up your shirt. “My neighbors are so fucking sick of me, and it’s all your fault.”

“My fault?” Even through the haze in his head, Seungcheol can't help the low scoff that he lets out. He wants to say that he couldn't care less about your neighbors— wants to say that your pretty mouth makes up for the noise, but something else catches his attention. The brush of his fingers on bare skin.

His eyes go wide, his brain suddenly clearing.

"You're not wearing anything underneath your pajamas," he deadpans, his voice coming out in a low drawl.

Of course, that adds up. You hadn’t been expecting Seungcheol, after all, so he can’t blame you for foregoing the underclothes. Still, it only stokes the growing flame in the base of his stomach. Especially when you move your head back against the wall so you’re looking right up at Seungcheol, the ghost of a smirk on your face.

“Wanna check for yourself?” you taunt.

A low groan falls out of Seungcheol's mouth as soon as you ask that. Like clockwork, his hands go to the hem of your shirt, pulling the fabric up slightly. Just a little bit, just to see if you're really not wearing anything beneath.

"You always like to tease," he says, his voice low. That hint of a smirk on your face is only serving to drive him that much crazier. "Go on, then. Show me, since you want to act all cocky."

You give him half an eye roll that’s more affectionate than anything else before reaching over to the back of your pajama collar. You pull the top over your head in one deft, swift movement. Seungcheol's eyes go wide for just a moment, taking in the sight of you, undressed, in front of him. It never stops shocking him, never stops making his heart thump a little harder, his breath coming out a little more labored.

“Happy?” you half-joke, your voice low.

He looks at you, up and down, before his eyes go back to your face. His hands move from your hips to your waist, fingers tracing over the sides of your chest as he shakes his head.

"Not yet," he says. "But I will be."

His hands keep tracing over your skin, his touch light— almost feathery, as he keeps his eyes fixed on your face. There's something about seeing you so exposed like this that's driving him absolutely insane, something about you being entirely at his mercy that's making his eyes grow dark.

He leans in, bringing his lips just past your ear. "Turn around," he murmurs, almost like a command.

He sees how you swallow hard, how you take in the familiar darkness in Seungcheol’s gaze. You know him, have known him for years, and that comes with trust. Unflinchingly, you twist around in his arms to press your chest against the wall.

He has you practically trapped, all against his chest and the wall. His eyes look at you up and down, taking in your bare shoulders and back, the way you've submitted to him so perfectly.

His hands go to your hips again, and his eyes look over your back, following the line of your bare spine. "What do you say we find a use for this wall besides me just pushing you up against it," he murmurs. "Hm?"

“Yes, please,” you whimper, and as soon as you agree, Seungcheol's hands tighten on your hips, his grip almost bruising as he pulls you a little closer to him. You're not going anywhere, not when he's got you like this.

He leans in, his body practically pressing up against your back, his chest against your skin. He bites down on your shoulder, pulling a strangled whine out from somewhere deep in your throat. "You look so goddamn pretty like this, love," he murmurs against your skin.

His hands move from your hips to your chest, tracing the skin there before he brings them up to your throat. He presses his fingers against your pulse point, feeling the thump thump thump of your heartbeat.

He can feel your heart thrumming against his hand, can practically hear you shaking. It's driving him absolutely insane— you, underneath him, trembling for him. The knowledge that he's got you like this, the fact that you're letting him take control, letting him do whatever he wants.

He moves his mouth to that spot on your neck again, the skin that's so sensitive that it makes you whimper and shiver. He always finds it so easy to tease those sounds out of you, and always relishes in doing it.

His hands stay at your neck, his fingers still pressed against your pulse point. This had always been one of Seungcheol's little habits— a single finger on your pulse point, as if he liked seeing which actions would make your heart rate spike, which words would have it hammering.

Seungcheol presses his lips on your skin again. "You're so loud."

He marvels at the way you ball your hands into fists, the way you shake all over with poorly concealed want and need as he keeps nipping and marking. "‘M not," you gasp, lurching forward against the wall. "‘M perfectly— hng!"

Everything is working in his favor.

You're shaking, and your heart is racing, and every noise you make is just more fodder for him. God, he loves it. Loves being the one to make you absolutely tremble and shiver like this. Loves the fact that he's the only one to make you feel like this.

"You're mine," he says again, bringing his mouth closer to your ear. He bites the shell of it, hard, before letting out a low hum.

This is his favorite place in the entire world— right against your back, feeling your body heat against his chest, his tongue running over your skin. He loves how reactive you are to him, how sensitive you are, how your body just melts under his touch.

"Say it," he mutters against your skin. "Who's in control?"

There it is. The million won question.

The whole reason you started these rendezvouses in the first place. He had been spinning out of control, and you had been lonely, and you clicked into place like magnets.

You give in, like you always do. The words are a soft whimper, almost a shout in your otherwise empty apartment. "You. You're in control, Seung."

That's all he wants to hear.

He digs his fingers into your jaw and wrenches your head so it's turned to look at him, his lips inches from yours. Even if there's a little pain, nothing in him is stopping. "Good," he mutters, his breath hot against your lips. "Good girl."

The kiss that follows is absolutely messy, the kind of kiss where it's just tongue and teeth and raw need. It's worlds different from the soft and easy kisses that Seungcheol asked for earlier, when he first came in complaining about five unanswered texts.

"Seung," you groan as you pull away for air. "Please—"

When you moan his name, it's like something snaps.

He growls low, his fingers slipping into the waistband of your shorts, gripping the fabric hard enough that there's a very real chance of them ripping. "Please what?" he mumbles against your neck. "You need to tell me what you need, love. Use your words."

"I hate you," you whine, and Seungcheol nearly smiles. He knows you’re not fond of begging, but he needs to hear it from you. At least, he wants to.

"You know what I—" you’re saying, but dammit, his control is already razor thin as is. He rips off the last fabric of clothing on you until you’re completely bare, pressed entirely up between the wall and him.

Somehow, your mind still has some shrivel of coherence to complain, "I liked this set, asshole!"

He grins against your skin at your words, chuckling at your whine, at the way you're just reacting to him. You can act annoyed, you can act like you don't need him, but he knows. "I'll buy you a new one," he hums, finally letting go of your shorts and letting them fall to the floor in tatters. "One for me to rip to shreds all over again."

That thought alone makes his blood sing.

It takes you a great effort to turn around, but somehow you manage. Seungcheol is still fully clothed and so your bare chest presses against the front of his shirt. The sight of you, naked, his hands at your hips, pressed right up against him, against his chest like this— he's gone.

And then you’re asking him, low and sweet as he has you caged in, "Where are you going to fuck me tonight, Seung?"

He can't even manage a word for a moment, his hands holding you so tight that he's definitely going to leave marks on your skin, his eyes fixed on your face.

He swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry at the question. "You want me to say it out loud, hm?"

You go to steal the upper hand for a minute or so, and you do it so effectively. Your hand rises almost lazily to his neck, your finger instinctively finding his pulse point. He feels his heart rate speed up as he watches, just watches, you do it. You stand on your tiptoes to raise your lips directly to his ear.

All he can feel is the thunder of his heart racing against your hand. You seem to notice it, too, if the smile on your face is any indication.

"How about you just show me instead?" you say, and he’s convinced he’ll pass out then and there.

"You're a brat," he mutters through gritted teeth, his hand moving up from your hips and up your spine. "A brat who needs to be taught a lesson."

He takes a shuddering breath, almost completely lost in your little game, before he snaps back to himself. Seungcheol's hand leaves your hip and goes to your hand, gripping your wrist hard. "On the sofa," he says, and it’s nothing short of a command.

He practically drags you on to the piece of furniture, watching intently as you fall back with a small oomph. Seungcheol stands on the edge of the couch as you prop yourself up by the elbows to watch him right back.

The sight of you underneath him— your hair splayed against the cushions, your eyes half-lidded and fixed on him? It's absolutely perfect. It's the kind of thing that he wants to keep in his mind forever, the sight he wants to always be able to remember.

He lets out a noise under his breath as he undoes the button of his jeans, the sound of the zipper going down obscenely loud in the quiet room. "Gorgeous,” he breathes.

He gets his jeans undone and kicked off, his shirt following them not long after, and then he's on top of you, caging you in, his hands either side of your head, staring down at you.

The look in his eyes isn't something he really gets to show often— that raw need, that want, how desperate he is for you. He wants you, God, he wants you so badly, and you're letting him have you.

He dips his head to your neck, his lips against your skin, his breath hot against your pulse point, still absolutely obsessed with that spot. His hands find your wrists, pinning them back against the couch, while his knee finds its way between your thighs, pressing up against you.

You arch and squirm underneath him, visibly distressed with the facsimile of friction that you’re getting from his knee. “Seung,” you pant, grinding your dripping core against his knee. It sends a jolt of electricity through him. “Please— don’t wanna wait any more—”

“Where’s all that snark now, hm?” he teases, his teeth running over the skin on your neck. But he’s not any better off, his own self-control slipping through his very fingers as his hips grind down against you desperately.

"Been driving me insane, love," he whispers, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the line of your neck. "Been dreaming about this for days. Missing you—”

A low keen escapes you, and he can only echo it as you tug at the last piece of material separating you. “Can we get this off already, please?” you huff as you hook your fingers at the waistband of his boxer shorts.

He groans against your skin, his teeth finally letting go when he lifts his head to look down at you, the expression on his face looking like he's fighting for control. "God, yes," he groans, lifting his hips just enough for you to tug them off him.

He kicks them off once you’ve yanked them down, and his hand— which has instinctively gravitated to your pulse point— feels how the beat absolutely skyrockets. One of your arms goes around his shoulder and the other, surprisingly, clutches his jaw.

You’re looking right at him as you say, "Fast and hard, Seung."

"Yeah?" he says, just the slightest hint of a surprise in his voice. "You want me to be rough with you, love?"

Seungcheol was usually a sweet lover. He liked taking his time, liked being gentle and responsible even in bed.

But there were particularly rough weeks, terrible days, where he just needed a means to an end. Where the sex was an outlet, where the best thing you could be for him was his.

He waits for your permission, because he still always remembers to ask no matter how far deep you’re in. The agreement comes in the form of the best three words.

"Ruin me, Seung."

You know him too well. You know how he works, you know how he thinks, and you know him better than anyone.

He groans in response to your words, his head dipping down to drag his teeth gently over your collarbone. He's trying to hang on to his control, he is, but it's a losing effort.

"I will, love." His breath is hot against your skin, his hands finding your hips. "Just give me a minute—"

He shifts, just for a moment, to find the condom in his jean pocket. He goes through the motions until he's back on top of you again, one hand coming up to grip your hip again, the other coming up to rest against your throat. He looks down at you, his eyes almost glowing.

"You trust me?" he mutters. His hand at your hip tightens; his hand at your throat barely clenches around your pulse point, his eyes never leaving yours.

You can feel it, see it. The way the little threads are beginning to unravel and fray. The way this was no longer Seungcheol of SEVENTEEN; not the leader, not the idol. This was something different entirely, someone else completely.

"I do," you whisper back, your eyes so full of adoration for him that he has to bite back the urge to scream. "I trust you, Seungcheol."

His full name is what really does it for him, because then he's pushing in, and you’re gasping, whimpering, trying to adjust around him and the fact that you’re practically clenching him on the get-go. Seungcheol eases in, nice and slow, because you’re too tightly coiled for him to do more than carefully bottom out. You’re both heaving, your breaths coming out as gasps; your own breaths are sharp, harsh, because Seungcheol is still choking you a little.

His head dips down to your shoulder because he needs something to hold on to, anything, while his mind spins. His head is dizzy feeling you like this, feeling you around him so tightly. He's trembling, his thighs shaking, but he's holding himself back as long as he can.

When Seungcheol gets as far in as he can possibly get, you let out twin groans. He’s completely sheathed inside of you and you’re fluttering around him in a way that’s dangerous.

“Y’can move, Seung,” you reassure him after a moment, the words coming out strained with desire. “As fast and hard as you want.”

You sound strangled, just like he feels, and it's taking him a mammoth amount of control to hold himself back. He groans against your shoulder at the sound of your voice, the words you say. He wants to move, to thrust, but he's trying to have some semblance of composure.

"Love," he says, his voice wrecked. "I—"

His voice breaks. It breaks, because there is only so much he can take, and he's beyond that point now. There's a tremor in his thighs, his hands clenching in the cushion below you.

You drag him right back down, with the sound that you let out that’s halfway a whine and a sigh. One of your hands goes to rest in the space between Seungcheol’s shoulder blades, as if to steady the two of you.

Your voice is surprisingly firm when you speak. "Let go," you command. And then, softer, "I need you."

Your words, your voice— it's in complete conflict with the situation you're currently in. And yet, it works. He lets out a sound, one that's somewhere between a growl and a whimper, his breath hot against your skin. And then he's moving and he's holding nothing back.

He's hard, brutal, and he's taking. His teeth on your shoulder; his breath against your neck; his nails digging into you.

It's a relentless, dizzying pace. Seungcheol bullies into your weeping cunt, fast and hard, and it draws out the most obscene sounds from you. Gasps, whines, an occasional scream when he hits a particularly sensitive spot. What has him seeing stars is the fact that you can't seem to settle on a name to moan. "Seung— Seungcheol— Cheol—"

Yes, you're saying, yes.

Seungcheol loses himself, utterly and completely, in you. You're on the edge, he can hear it; he can feel it, and God, he wants to hear you say his name. Every single one of them.

It almost sounds like a mantra, your voice, as he takes and takes and takes, his breathing harsh, ragged.

You go through all of the names you have for him, breathless and wrecked, until you can't even say anything because his hips are snapping into you with a ferocity that's rare but not unwelcome. Your pornographic moans reverberate in your otherwise empty apartment, and Seungcheol thinks he might go insane.

"'M close," you choke out. "Cheollie, baby, I'm— ah, fuck— Seung—"

His breath catches at your words, his eyes closing for a moment as he groans. You, you, in all your perfect, glorious, undone state. It’s a sight he wishes he could capture, freeze in time.

He lets out a whimper, his words almost slurred when he responds. "Love— I—"

He's never been this rough, never this intense. You're the only one, the only person he's ever let himself go like this with. The only person who he's ever let see everything, take everything.

He's on the edge, he's there, he's—

"C'mon," he whines, his voice barely above a whisper, his hand clenching hard around your hip. "With me, love, please."

It's a miracle that you can even nod, can even find your voice as Seungcheol keeps on going with his erratic, stuttering thrusts. "With you," you gasp.

He snaps into you, then, and you arch up with a scream of his name. There’s the familiar white-hot flash of pleasure; the impossibly tight clench of your walls around him.

He stays buried in you for several long moments, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his ears. He has never felt so utterly spent in his entire life, never been so completely, utterly drained of energy. He's weak against you. He’s weak because of you.

"God," he finally manages to mutter.

He lifts his head, just enough to be able to look at you, but he can't even muster a grin. He's spent and he knows you know that.

His hand comes up slightly, to brush the hair off of your forehead. "I think..." he says, his voice thick and hoarse, "I think I ruined you, love."

You let out a breathless laugh, one that you have to push out of your heaving chest. "You—" you try to say, but the words don't form, not at first. You take a few moments to take in some air, to gulp past the lump in your throat. "You're a fool."

His lips twitch into a tired but genuine smile at the sound of your laugh. It’s a soft sound that he's always thought sounds beautiful, especially coming from you.

A hoarse, broken laugh of his own escapes; his hand coming up to rest at your jawline, his thumb gently tracing over the warm skin there. He's still catching his breath, but he's slowly gathering himself.

"Am I a fool?" he asks quietly, leaning his forehead against yours. "What does that make you, then?"

You’re a fool, too, he thinks to himself. For letting me have this.

Instead of answering him, you press a small kiss to the corner of his mouth. It’s the only answer he’s going to get from you for now, it seems.

He lets out a soft huff, moving his head back just slightly, his eyes closing. "You're beautiful, you know that?" he says quietly, his voice still rough with fatigue.

"Every time," you respond. Your own voice is strained, almost tired, but there's a hint of amused exasperation. "You say that every time, Cheol."

His eyes opened once again to look at you.

"Because it's true," he says simply, his voice soft and sincere, the hand resting at your jaw moving to brush your hair back from your face. "It's always true, love."

He lets out a soft sigh, his eyes tracing over your face, taking in every inch of you. His eyes pause at your lips for a moment, his tongue gently wetting his own, his gaze finally moving back up to meet your eyes.

You thread your shaking fingers through the back of his hair and answer his unspoken question. "Kiss me soft and easy, Cheol," you whisper.

The moment the words leave your mouth, he's in action.

He leans forward without a second thought, the hand not buried in your hair going to rest on your hip, his lips meeting yours in a soft, gentle kiss.

There's no heat in it, no want or need. Just a soft press of his lips against yours, gentle and slow.

It's languid and unhurried. Like there's nowhere either of you have to be after this. For a moment, you can pretend that this is normal— that Seungcheol will not have to leave, and that you’ll not have to change into new pajamas because he'd broken yours, and that you can be... well, something, anything aside from what you are now.

But it's wishful thinking, you both know, so all Seungcheol can do is kiss you. He lets out a soft sound, almost a sigh, as his tongue slides into your mouth, his hand on your hip tightening slightly. His other hand is in your hair still, his fingers gently tracing over your scalp, his body almost melting against yours.

He will have to leave. He always does. But for now, he's here, with you, and you feel perfect, and—

Five minutes, he bargains. Five more minutes.

And then things end, not really by your own accord.

The sharp, shrill sound of Seungcheol's phone ringing breaks through your haze. You pull away, a bit jolted at the foreign sound— at something other than your words, your breathing, reverberating in the room. It takes you a beat too long to realize someone is calling him— his phone in his discarded jeans— in the godawful middle of the night.

He lets out a loud groan, the sound tired and drawn out, and he can't help but rest his forehead against your shoulder once again, letting out a resigned sigh.

"God, save me," he mutters, his voice rough. "What time is it?"

You chuckle lightly. "Go on," you urge softly, not because you want to but because you have to. "Answer."

Seungcheol lets out another loud, drawn out sigh, his shoulders slumping in obvious defeat. He reluctantly lifts his head from your shoulder with a grumble, but he can't quite stop himself from pressing a kiss to your cheek just before he shifts up and off of the couch.

Once he’s reached down to grab his phone from where it's stuffed in the pocket of his jeans, he answers without looking at the caller ID. "Yeah?"

"Hyung!"

It's Soonyoung— of course it's Soonyoung— calling.

"Are you still at the company?" the younger member asks. "I think I forgot my headset in one of the practice rooms, and Minghao said you didn't go home with them."

"It's midnight, Soonyoung."

You shit over on the couch, careful not to make any sound. Not to give Soonyoung any suspicion that Seungcheol might be somewhere where he shouldn't be. You press a small, reassuring kiss to Seungcheol's hip as Soonyoung goes on to whine, "Yeah, yeah, I know. But it's the expensive headset, hyung. If you're still there, could you check? Please?"

Seungcheol lets out a huff— a mixture of resigned affection and irritation— at the feeling of your lips against his skin. He can feel the exhaustion deep within his bones now, and all he wants to do is go back to snuggling into you for the night.

But he can't say no to Soonyoung, especially not at this time of night.

"Fine," he grumbles, letting out a huff. "Which practice room?"

You can hear the moment Soonyoung practically brightens with triumph.

"Third floor!" he says happily, and you bury your face into Seungcheol's side to keep yourself from laughing. "You're the best, hyung! I'll buy you a meal tomorrow for the trouble!"

He reaches down with the hand not holding his phone, pressing his palm to the top of your head, pushing lightly down. A warning of don't laugh. "Just be thankful I'm your hyung, kid," Seungcheol grouses.

Soonyoung ends the call soon enough, saying some things about sending Seungcheol a photo of his headset so he knows exactly which one is missing. When it's back to just the two of you again, you tilt your head up to look at Seungcheol.

"You're really going back for it tonight?" you ask, even though you already know the answer.

The corner of his lip twitches into a half smile at the way you look up at him. His eyes takein the sight of you— his hand on the back of your head, his fingers gently twisting strands of your hair.

"Of course I am," he sighs. "I can't say no to him, love."

You shift upward so you can sit side by side with Seungcheol. Both of you have yet to put on any clothes, but you’ve at least gathered your bearings enough to form coherent words now.

"You can't say 'no' to any of them," you tease as you press a gentle kiss to his cheek. There's an almost blinding affection in your tone as you say, "You and your goddamn boys."

Seungcheol reaches out, wrapping an arm around your waist to tug you closer to him. Briefly, he presses his lips against your hair. His eyes are almost tender as he speaks.

"They're my boys," he says, his voice soft.

You let the words hang there for just a moment. It’s an admission, one that both of you have known for the longest time, but it's also a reminder. It’s the reason why you and Seungcheol can never be more than this—because he has his boys, and he would never do anything to jeopardize them.

You press your face against the column of his neck for just one more precious moment. You’ve never been selfish about Seungcheol, but there were nights when you thought about it. Just… thought about it.

The thought never wins.

"Let’s clean up, get dressed," you whisper into his skin. "So you can head to the company sooner."

He lets out a soft, almost painful exhale. He knows what you're thinking, what you're feeling; he's thought about it himself, as well. He hates having to leave you, hates having to say that he has to leave you. But his boys are his boys, and one day all this will be over, and then...

He can't think about it right now, though.

Instead, he nods, pressing a light kiss to your temple. "Yeah."

It takes about ten minutes or so for you both to gather everything together. Seungcheol still looks tired, though for different reasons now. He’s essentially traded one exhaustion for another.

As he puts on the shoes he left in your entryway, you lean against your doorway with your arms crossed over your chest. "I’ll be holding you accountable for my pajama set," you warn him. "And for tomorrow’s noise complaint."

"Yeah, yeah," he huffs, taking a step toward you. "Don't worry, I haven't forgotten."

His face softens as he reaches you, his hands coming up to grab your elbows, gently pulling you closer to him. "Sorry," he says. "Again."

"You’re not sorry, " you sigh pointedly, more out of spite than anything. It’s the truth—he’s not really that apologetic about losing control every now and then, about your neighbors knowing you’re being pulled close every so often.

When you bury your face into his chest, he lets out a low, gruff chuckle, his chin resting gently against the top of your head. His arms wrap around you, holding you tightly against him, just like every single time before.

"You’re right," he murmurs. A quiet, affectionate admission. “Not sorry. Not even a little.”

He holds you there against him, his eyes fluttering shut as he allows himself just a few more moments before he has to leave. You both stay there, allowing yourselves that moment, until the tension in Seungcheol’s shoulders fades and your annoyance at your torn pajamas ebbs. It could’ve been five minutes, maybe less, but then Seungcheol’s phone pings with a text—surely Soonyoung asking if he’s found his headset.

You’re the one who takes the step back, putting some distance between you. "Drive safe," you tell Seungcheol. "Text me when you’re there."

Resigned. That’s the only way to describe the smile that tugs at his lips. "Yeah," he says. "I will."

True to his word, Seungcheol does indeed send you a text about an hour or so after he'd arrived at the company, informing you that he was there and had found Soonyoung’s headset.

He's still exhausted, and all he wants is to be back. Back inside of you, back with you. But he can't do any of that. At least, not right now. Not at this point.

I miss you already, is the only other thing he adds to his text.

Your text comes in only moments later, like you had been waiting by your phone.

you're a fool. head home. take care.

A soft sigh escapes him the moment he reads your text, his eyes flickering over the words you'd typed, the harshness of it. It's another layer of protection for the both of you, but it's still not easy to read.

He's about to respond with something snarky, some light-hearted joke to tease you a bit, but he stops himself at the last moment. He knows that you're right.

He needs to head home. He needs to take care.

And he’s an absolute goddamn fool, in more ways than one.

#seungcheol x reader #choi seungcheol x reader #scoups x reader #seungcheol smut #scoups smut #seungcheol imagines #scoups imagines #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #svt smut #seventeen smut #( am i happy with this ? not ... entirely! but it's here! LOL )#( i think i've mentioned once before that i'm not very good at smut so this was dizzying )#( but it's also The longest svt fic i have in my drafts. i just cant be assed [yet] to beta it )#( anyway.... enjoy [???] <3 )#(💎) page: svt #(🥡) notebook

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gf2bellamy · 3 months ago

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hi lovely !!

im back again :)

i was thinking about one where the reader is from england (again totally not projecting, just like with the head scratches one.. hah…) ANYWAY. where the team are constantly making fun of her (but in a friendly way of course) for her accent but spence always takes it seriously so he sticks up for her randomly and everyone is all “huh??” and then something happens idk.. i didnt think it through too carefully my bad :( probably just garcia and morgan being teasing bitches and rossi and hotch looking at each other like “yeah i see what’s going on here”

- 🐚

accent — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader has an accent ( not specified which one ) , teasing from the team a/n: i got so many requests like this ( all different accents ) so i didn't specify which one it is and i hope that's okay <333 also so sorry this took so long !! <3333

You closed your eyes the second the word left your mouth, bracing yourself for what was coming.

It took approximately 0.2 seconds.

“Ohhhh, sweetness,” Garcia gasped dramatically, one manicured hand flying to her chest.

Laughter erupted from the other side of the BAU’s roundtable, loud and unapologetic. JJ covered her mouth, trying to muffle her amusement, but Derek had no such reservations. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, a slow smirk stretching across his face as he repeated your words in an exaggerated version of your accent.

"Say it again," he teased, chuckling. "C'mon, one more time for me."

You sighed, sinking further into your chair.

JJ, still giggling, gave you a sympathetic look. “It’s just adorable, that’s all.”

"Yeah, well, I'm glad my adorable accent is so entertaining." You rolled your eyes, trying not to take it personally. It wasn't the first time this had happened—people always seemed to get a kick out of your accent.

Derek nudged your shoulder playfully. "Aw, don’t be like that. It’s a compliment!"

Before you could think of a retort, a voice cut through the laughter.

"I don’t see what’s so funny about it."

The teasing died down almost immediately.

Spencer.

You turned to look at him, surprised to see the slight crease in his brow and the way his lips pressed together in mild disapproval. His eyes flickered between everyone at the table, his fingers drumming against the table in that fidgety way of his.

"There’s actually a fascinating study about linguistic variation and how accents are shaped by geographical and social factors," he continued, adjusting his sweater sleeve. "It’s not just about pronunciation—it’s about identity and -"

Derek held his hands up in surrender, a grin still tugging at his lips. "Alright, alright, genius, we get it."

Spencer didn’t back down. His gaze softened slightly when he looked at you. "Personally, I think accents are… charming.They tell a story about where a person comes from." He hesitated for a beat before adding, "And I happen to really like yours."

Your heart did an embarrassing little flip at that.

JJ gave you a knowing look, her amusement now directed elsewhere, but for once, you didn’t mind.

Rossi, sitting across from you, took a sip of his coffee and side-eyed Hotch. He didn’t say a word, but the look between them was obvious.

Hotch exhaled through his nose.

Derek let out a low whistle. "Man, you’re smooth when you wanna be."

Spencer blinked. "I wasn’t—" He paused, suddenly realizing how his words sounded, and a flush crept up his neck. "I was just stating a fact."

"Right," Derek drawled, winking at you.

You bit your lip, hiding a smile, before turning back to Spencer. "Thanks," you said softly.

His lips quirked up in a shy, lopsided smile. "Anytime."

And just like that, the teasing didn’t seem so bad anymore.

#spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x you #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #🐚 anon

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creature-wizard · 7 months ago

Text

Some ways to recognize AI generated images (other than counting the fingers!)

Hey folks! Since a lot of people out there are still getting taken in by AI images, I thought I'd do a post to help you spot some common tells in AI generated imagery. (All of these images come from Pixabay.) Since this turned out to be a really long post, I've put the rest of it under the cut.

Unnatural shininess and smoothness

AI generated images frequently have an unnatural smoothness to them. Here's a really obvious example:

These are supposed to be blueberries, but they're way too shiny. They look more like glass than actual fruit!

Here's an example that's a little less obvious:

At first glance, it's easy to miss that this is a procedurally generated image. But if you take a moment and look close, you can see an unnatural smoothness to this image. Compare with this real photograph below:

The real photo has a slight graininess to it, plus the berries themselves display more texture.

Here are more images displaying unnatural smoothness:

Exaggerated facial and body proportions

If a person or animal in an image that appears to be a photograph has cartoonish or caricaturish proportions, that's a sign the image is AI generated.

First, we'll start with a really obvious example. While I don't think the person who had this generated meant for it to be taken as photorealistic, it's still a good example of exaggerated proportions.

Now here's the less obvious example:

If you just glanced at this image, you might think this was a real child. But if you look for a moment longer, you'll notice that her head is slightly too big for her body proportions, and her eyes are slightly too big and round. (And of course, her toes are messed up.)

For comparison, here's a real child:

The real child's head is smaller, and the eyes don't have that cartoony look.

Here's an image of a baby that could pass as real at first glance... until you realize the eyes are too big and round, and it's making Dreamworks face! (Also, the brows and lashes are unnaturally smooth and the skin looks plasticky!)

For comparison, here's a real baby:

Melty-looking detailwork

AI images that are supposed to depict fantasy, divine, and historical figures often feature an extreme level of detailing. But if you look close, you'll see that this detailwork is usually a mess.

Here's a very obvious example:

If you look at her tiara, you can see that the center gem is actually floating above the rest, which is a dead giveaway that this is procedurally generated. Also, her tiara lacks symmetry and evenness where it should have it.

Here's another example:

Again, this is clearly a piece that should have symmetry in the metalwork, but has that uneven melty look so common in AI imagery.

And a less obvious example:

This one isn't as extreme as the others, but if you're familiar with the way AI "melts" details, you can recognize its work. (Also, her right earring is lower than it should be, and where her face is clearly meant to imitate an oil painting, her dress looks like a watercolor painting!)

Meanwhile, here's a real photograph of a tiara:

I'd also like to emphasize here that asymmetry on its own doesn't indicate AI! Many people create asymmetrical designs on purpose. The thing to really watch out for is melty-looking shapes and unevenness in things that shouldn't look melty or uneven.

Unnatural crispness and detail

AI image generators often lean toward high-contrast tones, which frequently makes images look unnaturally crisp. Here's a really obvious example:

Let's compare with a real photo of the Sphinx!

Quite a bit of difference, huh?

This faux Greek statue might be a bit harder:

This appears to depict a Greek-styled statue, but - look at the face! The crispness in the light and shadows gives this away as AI generated. (There's also no staining on the face, even though we see it on the next.)

For comparison, a real statue:

This has turned into a huge post, so I'm gonna call this good for now. Not each and every AI generated image will have these tells, but you'll be able to recognize a lot more AI generated images if you keep them in mind. If you'd like to get even better at recognizing AI generated images, you might go to the website I got them from - Pixabay - and search for "AI generated." Load the pictures at higher resolutions, pay attention to the details, and compare them with human-mage images. While you'll find that many AI generated images are very hard to distinguish from human-made ones, you'll start picking up on more of AI's idiosyncracies.

#ai imagery #ai art #recognizing ai images #recognizing ai art #critical thinking #anti ai #image heavy #discernment #recognizing ai

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uzurakis · 1 year ago

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can u do how jjk boys (include megumi PLEASE) would react to you getting all pretty and dolled up to go out (and u just look soooooooooo good)

TOO PRETTY TO BE TRUE!

featuring: fushiguro megumi. gojo satoru. geto suguru. nanami kento. itadori yuuji.

n. your wish is my command nonnie, and ya don’t need to say megs cause i’ll ALWAYS include him in every shit that i write (he comes in one package okay) and.. I WENT OVERBOARD WRITING THIS HELPLEP i usually limit to 4 charas every post but yours made my creative space going and I HAD TO DO 5.. so thank you for that. i looooveee the idea mwah mwah i hope the writing makes justice for your cute hc <3

FUSHIGURO MEGUMI. you were running late; a girl's usual problem before a date. your hands fumbled with the clasp of your earrings, and shit, you cursed softly under your breath. outside, you knew your boyfriend was waiting patiently, or so you hoped. the idea of keeping him waiting made you anxious, but you wanted everything to be perfect.

just as you finished adjusting your hair, you heard the front door creak open. fushiguro’s soft footsteps echoed through the hallway, and you felt a twinge of panic. he never liked to intrude, but his curiosity had gotten the best of him. "hey, what’s taking so long?" you heard him mutter.

you turned around just as he reached the doorway to your room. his eyes widened, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. fushiguro's usual stoic expression melted into one of pure surprise. his cheeks turned a delicate shade of pink, and his mouth opened slightly, but no words came out.

"is everything okay?" you asked, trying to keep your voice steady despite the sudden flutter in your chest.

megumi blinked, finally finding his voice. "a-ah, yeah, everything’s fine," his eyes remained locked on the ground while he stammered. how in the hell did this place get so hot? he thought to himself as he fiddled with his shirt collar.

"you look… um, really pretty."

"no, i mean, don't get me wrong though! you're al-"

you blushed at his earnestness, but you also smiled. "you too, gumi."

the guy scratched the back of his neck awkwardly but managed a small smile in return. "sorry i kinda barged in,” gently, he reached his hand to you and said, “next time, take all the time you need. i’ll wait.”

GOJO SATORU. "well, well, look at you," someone called out, sauntering over with an exaggerated attitude. "you really went all out for our little date, huh?"

you couldn't help but smile as you rolled your eyes. "aand you didn't even bother to dress up," you teased back, gesturing to his usual attire. “so lame for the gojo satoru, boo-hoo.”

"why would i need to dress up when i have the most gorgeous person in the world right here?" the guy stepped closer, taking your hand and spinning you around playfully. "you look soo good, i kind of want to take you home right now. can’t have everyone else stealing glances at my date."

a giggle managed to escape your lips, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks. "you're ridiculous, toru," shaking your head at him.

then he leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, one that could captivate a soul. "but seriously, you look amazing. i'm the luckiest guy here."

you swatted at his arm playfully, but your heart swelled from his words. "alright, mr. smooth talker, where are we going?"

gojo straightened up, still holding your hand. "anywhere you want, as long as i get to show you off. but maybe we’ll head home a bit early, just in case," and of course, he didn’t forget to wink.

ITADORI YUUJI. a knock on your door sent a jolt of excitement through you. you had taken extra time to get ready for your date with itadori tonight in the hopes of surprising him. he was standing there with an enormous smile on his face as you opened the door.

“bless me!” his pink eyes widened with admiration. “you look beautiful as always, baby.”

your cheeks heated beneath his surprising compliment. "nah, baby, that’s too much."

his enthusiasm contagious, he practically bounced on his toes. “i’m serious! you’re soo pretty that i might die from your prettiness—is that an actual word—but look at me, i'm serious!”

as you stepped outside, itadori kept showering you with compliments. "that outfit is perfect on you. and your hair! you’re always cute, but.. you really shine tonight."

“you’re too sweet, yuu,”

"i mean it! you deserve to hear it every day baby!”

NANAMI KENTO. you were putting the finishing touches on your makeup when you heard a firm knock at the door. taking a deep breath, you walked over and opened it to find nanami standing there, his usual composed demeanor softened by a warm smile.

his eyes swept over you, taking in every detail. "you look beautiful, sweetheart." he said simply, sincere and direct. the compliment made your heart skip a beat.

"thank you, kento," goddamn, a gentleman is always a gentleman.

he stepped closer, his gaze never leaving yours. "i appreciate the effort you put into this. it means a lot to me." his smile widened just a fraction, but the warmth in his eyes spoke more than his words could.

you smiled back, touched by his straightforwardness. "it’s because i’m excited to spend time with you."

nanami nodded, offering his hand. "shall we go?"

you sensed serenity and joy as soon as you held his hand. "i’m glad you liked it," you said softly as you both made your way down the street.

GETO SUGURU. “fucking hell, you look so pretty,” he swore under his breath, emerald orbs wide as he took in your appearance. “too pretty to be true.”

“hmm, you think so, suguru?” a little teasing might not hurt, right? his usually calm and composed expression shifting to one of pure astonishment the moment he saw you. and there it is again, his usual up-to-no-good grin.

he stepped closer, his gaze intense and cocky with that smile of his. “oh, you’re mine,” he declared, voice firm yet filled with a protective tenderness. “definitely mine.”

your heart skipped a beat at his sudden possessiveness, yet you couldn't help but feel a rush of delight at his words. “i’m yours,” you confirmed softly, tippy toeing to peck his cheeks.

he pulled your waist gently into his hook, grip both protective and warm. “i just… i don’t want anyone else looking at you like this,” the words were murmured, his lips brushing against your hair. “you’re too beautiful.”

you leaned into him, feeling safe and cherished in his embrace. “i only want you to look at me like this, suguru.”

he smiled, a rare and genuine expression that lit up his face. “good. because i’m not letting you go.” he pulled back slightly to look into your eyes. “let’s go, princess."

@uzurakis

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hivemuthur · 1 month ago

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Hello, I am here to be freaky and gross, buuut... since we had Viktor keeping reader's underwear... what if we had reader keep something of Viktor's? Like a garment or a pen... perhaps using it for comfort and... other activities... (you know what I mean.)

And of course Viktor finds out one way or another and things get even freakier.

Hi Anon! Reader keeping something of Viktor's? ✅ Using it for... something? ✅ Viktor finding out and things get freakier? ✅ Here's your fic!

I Think That He Knows

viktorxfem!reader��explicit! freaky Reader, but Viktor keeps up. Some disgusting yearning, mutual pining, scent kink, clothing theft, a little bit of soft-dom Viktor, grinding, underwear smelling :v I've set this during the last year of uni.

word count: 4K

author’s note: Okay, in an unexpected turn of events we have a sniffer Reader, sexting will come though, I promise! I dedicate this to @crimsonlegend, the official president of cravat appreciation club :v This was brainstormed with @rennethen, my beloved wife! I would bathe in this man's sweat and I'm not even exaggerating.

—

Eyelids heavy enough that no match could keep them open, you sink into the chair, chin cradled in your hand as your gaze idly follows the movement of Viktor’s pen through the tight crack of light. The hour is late enough that the library should have emptied, yet neither of you moves to leave.

It’s a constant battle of wits—tonight’s opponents: your endurance versus the unbearable longing. An ouroboros of torment, where the more endurance you have, the better you can perform restraint—but once it slips and gives way to that slow, dreamy state of mind, the longing overtakes, unguarded. Soon, your eyes slip—up, up his hand to his elbow, tracing the line of his arm, all the way to the ultimate bane of your existence: his neck.

Your absolute woe—the space on Viktor’s body seemingly crafted for your whiffling nose, or your lips, or perhaps even your fingers, if you dared be so bold. His cravat is loosened. The collar of his shirt gapes at the throat. You can see the little notch where his neck meets his shoulder. The tendons shift when he swallows. His pulse flutters visibly under pale skin, and your eyes—traitorous things—keep returning to it.

He stays focused, scribbling something in the margin of a notebook, lips pursed, jaw working as he thinks. All the while, you are being siren-called by that sliver of skin. The curl at his nape is slightly damp. A wisp clings to him, more memory than hair.

You almost gasp when his fingers creep into the periphery of your vision—curling around the knot and pulling, unspooling the fabric. His collar gapes further. You’re nearly cross-eyed trying not to look. His voice comes soft, distracted, like steam easing from a kettle:

“I think I’m missing something… are you still with me?”

“Huh?” You jerk upright a little too fast, the sound catching in your throat. Heat flares up your neck as you scramble to recover. “Yes, yes. Just… tired.”

He hums, unconvinced but not unkind. Rolling the cravat in his hands, he flattens it with absent fingers before placing it neatly on the table between you. “Will you endure a little bit longer, or would you like to wrap up?”

“I will do my best.”

“Alright then.” He pushes himself up from the chair, movements careful. The rustle of paper and creak of wood. He pauses to stretch—his shirt pulling just enough to make your eyes follow—and then gestures vaguely over his shoulder as he turns. “Give me a minute.”

You stay frozen. A statue of want, carved from hunger and too many nights of watching that cravat loosen thread by thread. His absence leaves the table hollow. The shape of him lingers, ghost-heavy.

Your gaze trails after him, stalking the shift of his shoulders until the shelves consume him. He turns into the mechanical engineering section and vanishes behind cracked leather spines and oil-scented paper. The click of his cane follows—a metronome ticking down the seconds of your resolve.

This is the real trial. Not exams. Not thesis deadlines or sleepless nights with textbooks and too-little coffee. No—this. The simple distance of a metre and the war of what’s yours to want and what’s not yours to take.

Your fingers twitch in your lap, then still. Again, they twitch. Then rise—hesitating over the cloth like it’s a wound that bleeds heat and memory. The cravat lies there, spent and spiralled, soft silk. It smells like him, you know it does. Like soap and starched linen and something warm beneath it all—him. His skin. His neck.

You imagine pressing your face into it. Just once. Just once. Just for a second, a breath, to inhale and be full of him.

You imagine more. The cloth curled in your fist under covers. You imagine sighing into it, open-mouthed and shameless, tongue thick with the ghost of him, hips rolling to the memory of his voice in your ear saying your name.

The cane clicks again—closer now and time snaps tight around you. Without another thought, you move—one decisive sweep. The garment disappears into your bag and your hand falls flat on top of it. Palm burning, heart frantic.

When he returns, he finds you exactly where he left you—almost.

The rest of the evening blurs—notes skimmed, pages turned without reading, the crackle of a candle nearing its stub the only measure of time. Viktor offers you a few more questions, a few more thoughts, but even those seem fainter, abstract, like echoes bouncing off stone. Finally, after one too many silences and a glance that lingers too long on your face, he exhales and concedes. “I suppose it’s late. Let’s get back?”

You nod, heart clanging like a bell in your chest. Is he truly tired, or has he noticed something? Are your cheeks so hot he can feel it radiating from you like nuclear fallout?

The two of you walk in tandem through the dim corridors, footsteps soft and wordless, until the path forks between dormitories. He gives a nod, a small smile, and vanishes around the corner.

As soon as he’s out of sight, your pace doubles. You shoulder the door to your room open, hand already plunging into your bag, rifling down until your fingers brush fabric. It’s there. Still warm. Still real.

Too late for regrets. The door clicks shut behind you. You lean against it, breath hissing from your lungs in one long, trembling sigh.

The cravat comes out soft between your fingers, its fabric catching faint on your skin. You bring it up slowly, hesitant but past saving. It smells—oh, it smells like Viktor. Like clean skin and warmth, the base note of him after hours, worn into the fabric. You press your nose into it, mouth open, breath ragged, and draw the scent in deep. Indulgent. Shameless. Almost a relief, this closeness, like you’ve peeled the ache from your ribs and pressed it into your palms.

Your thighs shift. Heat pulses low and heavy. One hand remains clutched in the silk, the other—well, it moves without orders. Trails down the slope of your stomach, dips between your legs. The contact is electric, almost too much at once, overwhelming. You lean back against the door, knees soft, head tilted. The moan tears itself from your throat without warning, his name catching on it like a hook. “Viktor.”

And that’s when it happens. The knock—sharp, unmistakable—lands like a stone on water.

You jolt, tear your hand away, nearly drop the evidence of your crime of passion. As if burned. As if caught. As if the door is suddenly too thin to contain the guilt blooming in your chest.

Ruling out the impossible you shove the cravat down your vest pocket, clumsy, almost uncaring, though you care greatly. Wipe your forehead, your mouth. One deep breath. You creak the door open.

The impossible stares you in the face. Viktor stands there, hand hung in mid-air, as if about to knock again. He is flushed. Not winded—flushed. Lips parted, eyes sharp with something that has no place in polite friendship. Cheeks dusted pink like the ink spill of an unread letter. He sees you.

And your face, gods, your face—you feel the heat claw up your skin like it’s trying to drag you down. Because he knows. Somehow, he knows.

"Forgive the late hour," he begins, voice rough, not quite steady. "But have you seen—"

Then he stops. His gaze dips. There, traitorous and proud, a white tongue of silk peeks from your vest pocket like it was never meant to hide. Viktor’s eyes glaze over. He takes one step forward, measured. Then, oh—reaches.

You flinch, try to cover your face, fingers fumbling for shame. But he is faster. Cane propped aside, his hand swallows your wrist, gentle but unwavering, and peels you open like folded paper. He plucks your right hand from your face, not missing a beat. You brace for a reckoning. An autopsy of your sins right here, at the threshold of your room.

But he has mercy—he steps inside and swings the door shut with a quiet kick. Then he lifts your hand to his face—and inhales. A low sound slips from him, all breath and gravity, like it costs him something. His lashes flutter shut.

“I heard you,” he whispers, tracing your fingers with his lips, and you wince—try to flinch away, but he won’t let you. “But I didn’t think it possible.”

He stands so close now you can feel the shift of his breath. One hand holds the forsaken cravat, already creased and warm from your grip. The other still wraps around your palm—evidence of everything you were doing just seconds before he knocked. He lifts the fabric slowly, brushing it along your cheek. You lean into it without meaning to, a quiet sigh escaping as your eyes flutter closed.

“W-what?” you whisper.

“Do you like me?” he asks then, soft but direct, as if the answer will change something vital in him.

You open your eyes, startled. “Viktor—”

“Don’t be ashamed,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his voice low and coaxing. “I like you. But I could never figure it out. You’re so private.” His thumb brushes over your knuckles.

You laugh, dry and breathy. “Oh, that’s because I’ve been working very hard for you not to notice.”

“Why?” he breathes. His brow knits, vulnerable in a way that’s rare for him, and utterly real. “I like you too.”

You hesitate, heart thudding. “Well, we’re friends. Have been for five years. It’s not something you throw away on a whim.”

He lifts the cravat, trails it down the line of your jaw like a ribbon threading through skin, voice quieting. “Where is the whim in here?” he whispers, and finally—he brushes his nose against yours. An inch left. Maybe less.

He leans in—and you panic, not out of doubt, but because of the sheer weight of this moment, this nearness you’ve longed for so painfully. One hand shoots up and covers his mouth.

“Are you sure?” you whisper, eyes wide, your palm trembling against his lips.

Viktor’s gaze softens. He doesn’t answer at first. Instead, he reaches up, gently takes your hand from his face, and brings it to rest against his neck—right there, at the hollow you’ve obsessed over in silence. His skin is warm, his pulse skipping hard under your fingers.

Then he gives it another try and this time there is no barrier. It’s slow lips at first—startled, searching. But it catches like flame to dry grass, all dry mouths and barely restrained hunger. You breathe through your noses, his hand rising to cup the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. His lips press and pull, not sloppy, but wanting. The kind of kiss that knows it will be followed by more. The kind that curls your toes and sends your thoughts skittering from your head like marbles spilled on a floor.

You sigh into him. His arm wraps around your waist and pulls you closer, until your bodies meet fully, chest to chest, heat and want shared through nothing more than breath and fabric and need.

When you part, it’s only because you have to. Both of you gasping, mouths red, eyes glassy. “Do you like me?” he asks again, quieter now. Barely more than a whisper. And it just snaps.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes. gods, yes—I like you.” The words tumble out as your hands clutch his shirt, tugging him back in. You pepper his face with kisses—his cheeks, his jaw, his mouth again. “And you smell so nice,” you add, laughing wetly, a little breathless.

His answering laugh is quiet, and full of something so tender it makes your knees weak. “You smell nice too,” he murmurs, voice husky with heat and something else—relief, maybe. Or disbelief that this is real.

You don’t make it to the bed, neither of you suggests it. Your mouths mould together again somewhere between the doorway and the reading chair by the window, knocking into each other with the gracelessness of hunger. Kisses stretch long and deep, tongues pulling sighs loose and slackening your limbs. Hands fumble at shirt hems, tugging clumsily, not knowing when to part, unwilling to. You trip together, Viktor stumbling slightly as you both move, and you press your mouths hard to stifle the laugh.

And then—there. That holy place. You find it, finally. The space between his shoulder and throat, right where skin softens and heat pools and scent gathers, strong and damp and him. You nose in with a ragged breath, lips parted, tongue brushing salt. A tremor shudders through him and his arms tighten around your waist.

He peels your shirt up and over your head. You return the favour, dragging fabric over his arms, slow so you can watch the flex, the planes of him bared inch by inch. His skin is flushed pink, his chest dusted faintly with hair. His mouth finds your neck in kind, and when he sucks there, teeth scraping just enough, your spine arches like it’s seeking higher ground.

Your hands drift south, undoing the button of his trousers with ungodly urgency. But he pulls back, breath catching, one finger lifting. “This first,” he murmurs, glancing toward his leg.

You freeze, chest hitching, face blooming with heat. “Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t be.” He smiles, quiet and sure, and bends to unbuckle the brace. It drops to the floor with a dull clink of metal and leather, and he steps out of it, free, all yours.

After that, it’s a shared undressing, wordless. Fingers hooked into waistbands, trousers pushed down thighs, underwear peeled away like sunburnt skin, like secrets.

When you both stand bare, the moment stills—his cock rests flushed against his thigh, undeniably lovely. Reddish and full, curved slightly, veined with that same lattice of want you’ve traced in his throat, his hands, the backs of his knees.

Your fingers follow the sharp cut of his hips—those v-lines taut with restraint—and he groans, low and sharp, when your hands reach back and cup his ass. Clothes scatter underfoot, forgotten, as he lowers into the chair and pulls you into his lap, one hand guiding you with a desperate grace.

With thighs spread to straddle him, knees bracketing his hips, you’re both breathless already, mouths swollen from kissing, your hands tangled in the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. Viktor sits back, spine curved into the hollow of the chair, eyes half-lidded and dark, so dark you wonder how you’ve ever looked away from him.

When your centre settles against his, it’s not quite contact. Just the barest brush—heat meeting heat, wet meeting hard flesh. His cock flexes beneath you, the slick of your lust catching on the head as it nudges forward, cradled against the seam of you.

The chair creaks, and your breath shakes. You rock once, slow. Not even pressure—just presence. The glancing slide of him through your lips, not entering yet. And the sensation is so maddening it borders holy. A private heat, the flushed ache of your cunt meeting his cock like they’ve been aching for it across lifetimes.

Viktor’s hands tighten on your hips, and he groans low. Then, wordlessly, he reaches past you—down to the crumpled heap of his trousers on the floor, fingers searching. You pause, watching him, throat tight with wonder.

When he lifts the pale cloth, it dangles from his hand with a subtle weight—his boxers. “Let’s see,” he says, voice cracked with heat, “if you like how all of me smells.”

He moves slowly, delicately. Draws them up from your shoulder, grazing your collarbone. Trails them up your throat, letting the cloth whisper over your skin. And then he cups your cheek with them, brushing the edge under your nose. And oh—he was right.

It hits you all at once, that scent: Viktor, concentrated. The sharpness of his soap, yes, but buried beneath that something else—warmth, salt, the tang of skin, and beneath it all the soft rot of a body worked hard and yearned for even harder. A hint of sweetness where the fabric kissed the crease of his thigh. You inhale open-mouthed, greedy, shameless.

Your lashes flutter. Head tips back, eyes roll. It is like the cloth itself could render you undone, this second-hand closeness so intimate it borders obscene. A gasping little sound slips out of you—almost a sob for how much you want him.

Viktor watches you with eyes so dark they’ve swallowed the light whole. “Such a filthy girl,” he says, and the phrase drips from his tongue like honey, like he’s discovered a rare fruit he plans to eat with his fingers.

You exhale, laugh breathlessly, unsure if you’re laughing at yourself or at how good it feels to be seen like this. To be held in the soft mouth of his attention and not spat out.

He tucks the cloth beneath your chin, leans in close, and presses his lips to your jaw—open-mouthed, awed.

Your fingers curl around his wrist, knuckles white with want, pinning his hand to your cheek as you press the worn cotton there, breathing him in like you’ll never get enough. Your chest heaves, eyes fluttering open then falling shut again, lashes trembling as the scent floods your skull. Hot, heady, raw. It rolls over you like a fever.

You rock against him slowly, purposely, hips tipping forward in a stuttering rhythm. It’s instinct more than thought—seeking friction, chasing it. The heat of his cock against you, separated by so little, maddens. The slide of skin, the dull pressure, the way your bodies know what to do even as your brain hiccups and stalls.

Viktor groans, strained, hands coming to frame your hips, leaving the holding of his underwear to you. His fingers grip just enough to ground you, thumbs dragging along the jut of your pelvis as he matches your rhythm—helps it. Encourages it. One hand slips around to your lower back, drawing you in tighter with each grind.

His gaze never leaves your face. Watches the haze take you, drink you in—your parted lips, your unfocused eyes, the way your breath snags every time your clit catches on the ridge of him just right. He’s wrecked with it, shaken.

“So pretty,” he rasps, barely audible. “So… gods, what were we doing all this time?”

You whimper something that might be his name. Might be a prayer.

“I should’ve known,” he breathes. “Should’ve followed my nose.”

He leans in then, mouth against your jaw, your cheek, the place behind your ear that makes you shudder. Kisses and breath and heat, all around you, and you keep grinding, brazen, gasping, the fabric still clutched to your face like a reliquary. Your thighs tremble where they frame his, and the heat builds dizzy behind your eyes.

Your arms wind around his neck, fingertips finding purchase in the damp curls at his nape. You drag your mouth open along the column of his throat, just above his pulse, your breath steaming where it lands. “You smell like life itself,” you murmur, devoted, drunk on him. “I love it.” A kiss to the hollow below his ear. “Gods, I’ve wanted you for so long.”

Viktor makes a sound—half-choked, half-swallowed. His hips shift beneath you, cock sliding slick through your slit, caught and cradled by your wet heat. He doesn’t push in, no need or no time. The drag of him, hot and heavy against your cunt, is enough to make your thighs quake. Enough to make you keen into his mouth when he kisses you again.

You feel full. Not inside—no breach—but everywhere else. Full of him, of his heat, of his scent. Of the warm, persistent weight of him gliding slow against you with every movement, every breath. His chest pressed to yours, heartbeat thundering where your ribs touch. His breath ragged in your mouth. He’s in your blood now, everywhere, omnipresent.

His hands cradle the back of your neck, thumbs stroking up into your hairline. “Closer,” he mutters, hoarse, voice buried in your skin. “Closer—” as if he doesn’t realise you’re already pressed heart to heart, stomach to stomach, slick joining you where you grind, slow and soaking.

Your bodies melt together, no seam between them. Sweat pearls at your temples and runs down the line of his spine where your fingers trace him blindly. The soft sounds of it—flesh, breath, mouth—fill the room in waves, each crest heavier than the last.

You feel the twitch of him—urgent and uncontrolled—where his cock slides along, dragged by the rhythm of your hips. His stomach is tight beneath yours, muscles drawn taut like string, trembling between the bars of want. The vein in his neck rises under your mouth as he tips his head back, jaw slack, lips bitten vermillion.

“I can’t,” he gasps softly, “I won’t last—”

“Kiss me,” you whisper, panting against his cheek. “Please.”

Viktor obeys instantly—like it’s the only thing he’s ever longed for. His mouth finds yours, warm and trembling, the taste of him the last spark you needed. It breaks something in you—a breath caught sharp in your throat, a tightening low in your belly—and then the snap.

It overtakes you in a long, flooding wave. Your muscles seize, thighs arresting his hips, spine arching. Your moan is swallowed into his mouth, open and dank, tongues clumsy with the rhythm of your shuddering body.

He gasps when you tighten above him—not inside, not quite—but the friction, the warmth, the slick rush of your release pouring onto him is enough. He moans out your name, his cock twitching helplessly where it’s caught between you. You feel it, hot and sudden, the spill of him striping his belly, thick and wet between you both.

Still, you move. Slow, drawn circles of your hips, chasing every aftershock, dragging your folds through the mess of it until Viktor shudders and groans—“Please,”—high and wrecked, trembling under your weight.

You kiss him through it. Through the bliss, through the overwhelmed whimper. Through his lashes fluttering and the flush climbing to his ears. You kiss him like he’s the only thing keeping you afloat, and he kisses you back like you’re something sacred.

There’s no line anymore between where he ends and you begin—just sweat and sighs and the unbearable sweetness of finally, finally having each other.

You don’t move far. Just shift your weight enough to nuzzle into his jaw, his cheekbone, dragging your face over the slick of his skin. You’re gathering him: his sweat, his scent, the salt-heat of his body, rubbing it into your own like a fevered benediction.

“I want to smell like you always,” you murmur, voice hoarse with truth. “Everywhere. On my skin, in my sheets, under my nails.”

Viktor’s breath catches, soft and stunned.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” you go on, fingers slipping into his hair to pull it back, so you can kiss the line where his jaw meets his throat. “How long I’ve stared. Dreamed. Gods, Viktor. I just—”

“I think I know,” he interrupts gently, one hand rising to cover yours, to press your palm deeper to his chest, right over his thudding heart. “I just wish I knew sooner.” Your eyes close. The confession hums between you, warm and bright, like the filament of a bulb not yet burned out. When you open them again, you’re still in his arms, still tangled in the sweat and spent longing of what used to be wanting—and is now it’s yours.

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