#this has been in my draft for too long...

[soliyawnn]

֗ ✩彡 . | 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

. . 𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡: you accidentally stay the night with them — and wake up somewhere between comfort and something more.

. . 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: kuroo tetsurou x reader, kageyama tobio x reader, oikawa tooru x reader, tsukishima kei x reader, atsumu miya x reader

. . 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fluff, comfort, slow burn, soft moments, friends to lovers (ish?)

. . 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: none— just sleepy intimacy, light teasing, and lingering feelings

. . 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 874

. . 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: this and that other todoroki fic has been marinating in my drafts for so long 😓✊

𝐤𝐮𝐫𝐨𝐨 𝐭𝐞𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐨𝐮

you’re curled up in his hoodie, watching steam rise from the mug he placed in your hands. the apartment is still dim, light barely creeping in through the curtains, and kuroo’s leaning against the counter with that sleepy smirk of his, hair a disaster, arms crossed like he’s trying not to say something dumb.

“you snore,” he says eventually. you raise a brow, sipping carefully. “do not.”

“you absolutely do,” he says, a little too quickly. “it’s kind of adorable. like a tiny engine.”

you glare at him over the rim of your mug. “you’re lucky you make decent coffee.” he shrugs. “you’re lucky i let you steal my blanket. again.”

he walks over, plucks the mug from your hands, sets it on the table. he doesn’t step back. instead, he leans in close, voice lower now. “seriously, though. you can stay as many nights as you want.”

your breath catches, heart stuttering in your chest. his eyes are soft, not teasing. you nod. “…okay,” you say quietly.

he smiles, this time, is real. warm. grounding.

𝐤𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐲𝐚𝐦𝐚 𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐨

you wake up to the soft hum of the city outside and the faint sound of a volleyball bouncing. kageyama is sitting at the edge of the bed, stretching out his hands, eyes focused but calm.

he glances over when you shift awake. “you’re up.”

“yeah,” you say, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “didn’t expect you to be awake this early.” he shrugs, expression unreadable for a moment before softening. “you stayed last night. i wanted to make sure you were okay.”

you blink. “okay?”

“yeah. you seemed tired. and i… liked that you were here. you smile, warmth spreading through your chest. he’s never great with words, but the honesty is unmistakable.

he stands and offers a hand. “breakfast?”

𝐨𝐢𝐤𝐚𝐰𝐚 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐮

last night was chaos — card games, snacks everywhere, an old rom-com you both made fun of until you accidentally fell asleep on his chest. now you’re waking up tangled together on his couch, your face buried against his shoulder, his heartbeat calm under your ear.

he shifts a little, blinking down at you, and for once, he’s not performing. not grinning. not posing.

“hi,” he whispers, like anything louder might ruin it.

you lift your head slowly. “…hi.”

he lets out a breath. “was i… comfortable?”

you blink, still half-asleep. “you’re shaped like a space heater.”

he laughs, light and real, pressing a hand over his heart like you’ve wounded him. “i’ll take that as a yes.”

you sit up slowly, brushing hair from your face. he watches you, expression unreadable now.

“you could’ve moved me,” you murmur.

“i didn’t want to.”

you glance at him.

he shrugs. “you looked peaceful. and i—”

he pauses. swallows.

“i liked it.”

your heart does something funny in your chest. “me too.”

he grins again, this time a little softer. “then maybe we should make it a habit.”

𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐚 𝐤𝐞𝐢

it’s quiet. soft golden light filters into the living room, hitting the shelves where he keeps his records. you’re wrapped in a blanket, tucked into one end of the couch. tsukishima is at the other, a book in his lap, glasses slightly crooked. his hair’s a mess. he looks like he didn’t sleep well, but he doesn’t seem bothered.

you stretch. “sorry for crashing.”

he flips a page. “no one asked you to apologize.”

you glance at him. “you didn’t have to let me stay.”

he finally looks up, brow raised. “you think i let just anyone sleep on my couch?”

you blink. “…no?”

he sets the book down, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. he reaches over without a word and pulls the blanket over your toes, like you’re not watching his every move.

“you were tired,” he says simply. “and i didn’t want you going home alone. it made sense.”

you nod slowly. “right. logical.”

but then, he hesitates. and when he speaks again, it’s almost too quiet.

“…i sleep better when you’re here.” your breath catches.

he doesn’t meet your eyes — just picks up the book again.

𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐮 𝐦𝐢𝐲𝐚

you wake up to the sound of humming. atsumu’s in the kitchen, hair somehow even wilder than usual, wearing one of your hoodies — he must’ve grabbed it by mistake, but he’s absolutely owning it.

“morning sunshine” he beams when he sees you peek around the corner. “i made pancakes”

“you can cook?” you mused.

“okay. made is a strong word. but they’re pancake-shaped. mostly.”

you laugh, walking into the kitchen, and he practically bounces over to pull out a chair for you.

last night, you were supposed to leave around midnight. he convinced you to stay for one more episode, and somehow that turned into staying over. now it’s morning, and the apartment smells like maple syrup and comfort.

he plops down across from you, propping his chin in his hands. “this was nice,” he says, softer now. “i like waking up with you here.”

your cheeks heat up. “yeah?” he pauses. “yeah. it felt… happy.”

you look at him — golden in the morning light, eyes bright even without his usual volume. and you realize: he means it.“i’d stay again,” you say.

he grins like you just told him he won the lottery.

[ineedpaigebuckets]

Hello. Can you write a comfort Pazzi fic about Paige's first days in the W? Perhaps one set after yesterday's game, where she's happy her friends are there, but she's missing Azzi. She come home tired and beat up, wanting to talk to Azzi, who shows up by surprise and takes care of her. Some vulnerable moments maybe where Paige talks about the adjustment and how hard she's working and how her body is best up from the intensity. Azzi, maybe giving her a massage or bath, and some "gentle ish" sex, where they both are soft with each other, but Azzi really, really takes care of her. And Paige finally has her person with her in Dallas, and someone just to talk to and share the moment with.

yes ma'am (it's kinda like filthy be warned)

home, now

the door clicked shut behind her with a quiet finality. paige stood frozen in the entryway, her keys still dangling from her fingers, the strap of her duffel bag sliding off her shoulder and thudding softly to the floor. her legs felt heavy—like concrete—and her arms hung limply at her sides. she had never known her wrists could ache like this, or that the simple motion of pulling her hair out of a ponytail could feel like too much.

the game was over. the adrenaline had worn off hours ago. the high-fives, the lights, the press. her friends had been in the stands—she’d seen them, smiling and screaming her name, and it had helped for a moment. she’d smiled back. waved. she’d even felt proud.

but now the silence of her apartment pressed against her chest like a weight. she was proud. she was also exhausted. and sore. and just… lonely.

paige didn’t cry. not really. not when she left uconn, not when the draft happened, not even when she stepped on a w court for the first time. but now, here, in the soft dark of her living room, with bruises blooming across her thighs and a dull ache pulsing in her knees, she blinked and felt something wet catch on her lashes.

she rubbed at her face, dropped her keys onto the counter, and dragged herself toward the couch—only to stop short.

the lights were on in the kitchen.

and there, standing by the fridge in a hoodie too big for her and socks pulled halfway up her calves, was azzi.

paige froze. stared. didn’t breathe.

“hey,” azzi said, like she hadn’t just rearranged the entire universe by being here.

“what—what are you doing here?”

“you sounded tired on the phone yesterday. and our schedule finally lined up. so… i flew in. got the spare key from your agent.” azzi walked toward her slowly, like she knew paige might crumple if she moved too fast. “i just wanted to be here when you got home, but im really sorry i couldn't make it to the game.”

paige let out a sound—something caught between a laugh and a sob—and stepped into her arms like she hadn’t seen her in months. because it had felt that long. longer. her head dropped to azzi’s shoulder, her face buried in the space between her collar and neck. azzi’s hands circled her back instantly, one sliding up to her hair, fingers gentle.

“i missed you,” paige mumbled. “i don’t even know how much until right now.”

“i know,” azzi whispered. “me too.”

they stood like that for a long time—until paige’s legs started to shake and azzi was guiding her to the couch, pulling her down gently, cradling her like something precious. azzi helped her out of her shoes, then crouched down in front of her, fingertips brushing over paige’s knees like she was cataloging the pain by feel.

“rough night?” azzi asked softly.

paige huffed. “rough month.”

“talk to me.”

paige swallowed. her throat felt thick. “everything’s faster. harder. i knew it would be. but knowing and living it are two different things. i’m trying. i swear i’m trying. but my body… it’s so tired. i’m so tired.”

“you’re doing amazing,” azzi said, brushing hair from her face. “and you don’t have to be strong for me. not here.”

paige’s eyes fluttered shut. “i just needed… you.”

“you have me,” azzi said, kissing her temple.

they ended up in the bathroom, quiet except for the gentle hum of the tub filling. the light was soft—just the dim glow above the mirror and the flicker of one candle azzi had somehow found and lit while paige was in her haze.

paige leaned against the counter, hips resting against the cool marble, eyes barely open. her sports bra clung to her ribs, damp from sweat, and her shorts were loose but felt suffocating after the game. azzi moved around her with quiet purpose, barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up to her elbows.

“arms up,” she said gently.

paige obeyed without speaking. azzi pulled her bra over her head with care, folding it and setting it aside. then the shorts, sliding them down slowly, her fingers brushing paige’s skin. nothing rushed. nothing greedy. just presence. reverence. a kind of knowing only built through years of quiet, quiet love.

when paige was fully bare, she didn’t cross her arms or shy away. she just looked at azzi, eyes a little glassy, like she might cry if azzi wasn’t already holding all the heavy things for her.

“in,” azzi whispered.

the bath was warm. not scalding. just enough to pull the tension out, to coax her tired body into letting go. paige stepped in slowly, wincing at first, then sighing deep once she sank beneath the water. azzi got in behind her, pulling paige between her legs like she belonged there. like she always had.

paige’s head rested against azzi’s collarbone, and azzi’s hands started moving—soft circles over sore shoulders, her thumbs pressing gently at the knots by her neck.

“just breathe,” azzi murmured, mouth close to her ear.

paige exhaled shakily, chest rising and falling in uneven waves.

“hurts?” azzi asked, fingers pausing at a particularly tight spot near her spine.

“yeah,” paige said. her voice was hoarse. small. “everywhere.”

“i’ve got you.”

slowly, azzi let one hand drift down, tracing the line of paige’s arm beneath the water. her fingers dipped below the surface, brushed over her ribs, then lower—along her thigh, where bruises were blooming like violet fingerprints. she cupped one gently, her thumb brushing over it like she could take the pain into herself.

“you’re working so hard,” azzi said. “i know it feels like you have to do it all alone. but you don’t. not with me.”

paige tilted her head, cheek brushing azzi’s jaw. “i didn’t know how much i needed you here until you were.”

“i know,” azzi whispered. “you carry everything.”

“sometimes i wish i didn’t have to.”

“then don’t. not tonight.”

azzi’s hand slid across her stomach, slow and steady. not demanding. just there. grounding. the water lapped gently around them, and azzi kissed the top of paige’s head, then her temple, then lower—along her jaw, soft lips pressing into the places where the tension lived.

paige let her legs float open slightly, the smallest movement, but azzi understood. she always did. her fingers found the inside of paige’s thigh beneath the water, just resting there at first, as if to ask are you sure? and paige’s breath caught, then steadied, and she shifted back into her, answering in the way her hand found azzi’s thigh and squeezed lightly.

“okay,” azzi said, so soft it was almost a breath. “just let go, baby.”

and paige did.

she let azzi touch her, slow and steady, the way only azzi could—like her body was a language she already knew by heart. azzi’s palm moved beneath the water, slipping over soft skin and settling between paige’s legs, but even that didn’t feel like the start of anything rushed. it felt like an extension of the care she’d been giving all night. like an offering. like safety.

azzi’s fingers moved slowly, parting her carefully, like she was trying to memorize every reaction. her other arm stayed locked around paige’s waist, holding her steady. anchoring her. her mouth never left paige’s skin—cheek, shoulder, collarbone—kisses placed gently between each breath, each soft sound.

paige’s breath hitched as azzi’s fingers circled her, a slow rhythm that built with no urgency, just intention. her hips shifted, a subtle roll forward that told azzi everything she needed to know. she tightened her arm around her, guiding her through it.

“you’re okay,” azzi whispered. “i’ve got you.”

paige whimpered—a broken, beautiful sound—and azzi kissed her temple, lips lingering.

“you’re doing so good,” she murmured. “just relax.”

paige’s eyes fluttered shut, her body melting into the space azzi had made for her. everything ached—her knees, her wrists, her back—but not here. not like this. azzi’s touch washed it all away, slow and sure and patient, until all that was left was heat building low in her stomach and the soft press of skin and water and love.

when she came, it wasn’t loud or frantic. it was a quiet unraveling, a slow release that crept up on her like dusk. a soft surrender. a breaking open in silence.

it started in her chest—a tight coil of exhaustion, pressure, emotion that finally, finally gave way. her breath stuttered, shallow and uneven, then deepened into a long, trembling exhale as the feeling washed through her, full-body and fierce. not overwhelming, not this time. just consuming in the way that made her feel known. real. touched in places that had nothing to do with skin.

her legs shook beneath the water, gentle but visible, the kind of tremble that started deep in her core and radiated outward in soft, involuntary pulses. her thighs twitched as the warmth swelled low in her belly, a dull ache that unspooled into pleasure slow and deliberate—like her body had been holding back too long and was finally, mercifully, allowed to feel something that didn’t hurt.

her knees knocked faintly against azzi’s, and her breath caught—shallow and sharp—then spilled out in a shaky moan that barely made it past her lips. her stomach clenched, not with effort but release, every muscle around her hips fluttering beneath the water as she let the feeling crest, then crash. not fast. not overwhelming. just steady. consuming.

her body curled slightly, instinctively, the water rippling around her. she reached behind without thinking, fingers fumbling through the bath until they found azzi’s thigh—smooth and strong and steady behind her. she gripped it—not tightly, not desperate, but with this quiet urgency, like she needed to know something was there. something real. something grounding when everything inside her was liquid and shaking and breaking open at once.

her palm flattened there, splayed wide over azzi’s skin, and in that moment she felt everything. the tension in her own shoulders finally starting to ease. the rush of blood behind her ribs. the softness of the water against her chest. the heat between her legs, still pulsing in slow waves. azzi’s breath at her ear. azzi’s hand still cradling her gently, not pushing, just holding her through it.

azzi didn’t speak. she just held her tighter, fingers easing their rhythm as paige’s body trembled once, then again, then stilled. her mouth was pressed to paige’s temple, breath warm against her hairline. she whispered something too quiet to catch, but paige didn’t need words.

the warmth between them was more than the bath. it was the way azzi wrapped around her like a second skin, like protection. it was the way her hands knew when to keep moving and when to stop. the way her touch never asked, only gave.

paige let her body fall completely limp in azzi’s arms, muscles softening like she hadn’t let herself relax in weeks. her spine curved against azzi’s chest, head tipped back onto her shoulder, neck long and exposed in a way that felt like trust.

her eyes stayed shut. her breathing was unsteady still, little aftershocks in her ribs. but her face—usually so guarded, so tense—was calm now. raw and flushed and peaceful.

she didn’t say a word, didn’t need to. everything was already spoken in the way her body curled back into azzi’s like instinct. like belonging. like home.

and azzi just held her, fingers still moving gently, easing her through every wave until she stilled. until her body was slack and heavy in azzi’s arms, her breathing deep and slow and clean for the first time in days.

“there you go,” azzi said, pressing a kiss to her cheek, her temple, her wet lashes. “i’ve got you. you’re home now.”

they stayed there, naked and quiet, water cooling around them, but warmth pulsing steady between their bodies. and for the first time since the season started, paige didn’t feel like she was bracing for the next hit.

she just felt held.

they stayed like that long after the water cooled, azzi holding her like something precious, like her being here was the only thing that mattered.

and maybe, for tonight, it was.

when the bath was over, they moved to the bedroom. paige’s skin was soft and warm from the heat, her limbs loose with exhaustion. she didn’t say anything when azzi kissed her—just kissed her back slowly, gratefully, like she needed to memorize the shape of her again.

and when azzi touched her—soft palms over tired muscles, mouth against her chest, her stomach, her thighs—paige let her. she didn’t feel like a wnba player or a public figure or someone who was supposed to be fine. she felt like a person. her person’s person.

they ended up in bed without really speaking, towels loose around their bodies, hair damp against their shoulders. the light was low. the sheets cool. and when azzi kissed her again—really kissed her—there was nothing hesitant about it.

it was different now. not soft, not slow.

it was need.

paige felt it in the way azzi’s hands roamed lower, bolder, like she wasn’t afraid of breaking her anymore. like she finally believed she wouldn’t. and paige met her there—hips lifting, teeth catching azzi���s bottom lip, hands fisting in the towel still slung around her waist before pulling it off completely. she was done being careful.

because this wasn’t about relaxing anymore. this wasn’t about rest.

this was about remembering she was alive.

and when azzi touched her—soft at first, but building, pressing deeper, harder—paige burned for it.

heat bloomed under her skin, spreading fast, fast, fast. her breath stuttered in her chest as azzi’s fingers traced the slope of her waist, her ribs, the dip of her stomach—each touch grounding and electric all at once. her back lifted off the mattress, body curving instinctively into every point of contact like she’d been starved for it. like this—her—was the only thing that still felt real.

azzi’s mouth followed the line of her torso, open and warm, tongue flicking across her skin in slow, purposeful drags. paige could feel every pass of it—how her stomach jumped when azzi dipped into her navel, how her thighs tensed when azzi’s nails scraped lightly up their insides, how her nipples tightened under the rush of breath when azzi grazed past them again, not stopping, teasing, building.

and when azzi finally pressed her hand between paige’s legs, sliding in slow, deliberate strokes, paige gasped—sharp and breathless, her hips jerking up to meet her touch like a live wire had gone off inside her. slick heat surged through her, low and insistent, her thighs falling open without hesitation now, surrendering to the rhythm azzi set, one that was fast becoming frantic.

everything that had been quiet in her all week—the ache in her shoulders, the hollow in her chest, the dull numbness from forcing smiles through days that demanded too much—came roaring back as want. feral. full-body. her fingers twisted in the sheets, jaw slack as a moan slipped loose, shameless and low, and azzi groaned softly in return, like she felt it too.

“that’s it,” azzi murmured, voice dark and reverent, breath hot against the inside of paige’s thigh. “just like that.”

and paige gave in—hips rolling up to meet azzi’s hand, her mouth falling open as the pressure built sharp and fast. her body moved without thinking, chasing it, aching for it, driven by instinct and hunger and the sheer relief of being allowed to want something this badly. to be wanted this badly. to not be composed or collected or fine—but fucked open and undone, and seen in the fire of it.

every nerve in her body was screaming, raw and awake again.

and god, it felt so fucking good to feel.

pure, physical, full-body want.

“azz,” she breathed, eyes fluttering shut as azzi’s mouth moved down her chest, her ribs, her stomach. “please.”

and azzi didn’t ask what she needed—she already knew. her hands were steady, her mouth unrelenting, and paige’s body answered with sharp gasps and a tremble that wasn’t gentle this time. it was raw. it was desperate.

paige clutched the sheets like she needed something to hold onto. like she might come apart if she didn’t. and maybe she did. but azzi was already there, anchoring her, pulling moans from her throat like she wanted to hear them, wanted to feel how wild she could make her.

and god, she was wild.

it wasn’t quiet now. it wasn’t delicate. it was fast and hot and dizzying, and when it hit her—when she came this time—it felt like a snap. like a match strike. her back arched off the bed, and azzi held her there, let her ride it out, let her make noise.

paige didn’t cry, but it was close. the kind of climax that felt like a reckoning. like something crashing through her chest. her whole body was shaking, fingers tangled in azzi’s curls, thighs trembling as she finally fell back against the bed, slick with sweat and flushed all over.

azzi crawled up beside her, mouth kiss-wet, hair sticking to her cheek. and she looked at paige like she was hers. not like an athlete, or a name on a jersey, or a girl who needed to be taken care of. but like a woman who was fire and fury and feeling, who had come back to herself tonight and let someone witness it.

“you good?” azzi asked softly, brushing paige’s hair from her face.

paige let out a long breath. her lips were parted. her eyes still half-lidded, dazed.

“yeah,” she whispered. her voice was hoarse. “yeah, i’m good.”

and she smiled—not polite, not tired.

real.

hungry.

“you’re gonna kill me,” azzi gasped, breath shaky, fingers curling weakly in paige’s hair.

paige smiled against her skin, slow and dangerous, lips brushing the edge of azzi’s ribcage. “good,” she whispered. “you deserve it.”

azzi had taken care of her. had held her through the unraveling. but she wasn’t tired. not really. her chest was rising fast, yeah, and her lips were kiss-swollen—but she hadn’t been wrecked yet. hadn’t been touched like she touched paige. and paige needed that. needed to feel her come undone. to see the heat in her face shift into something wild, something messy, something ruined.

she pressed azzi back into the pillows, hands moving low, deliberate, greedy. azzi’s breath caught, her thighs parting almost automatically, her body too honest to lie.

“baby—” she tried again, but it was thin, breaking. “you don’t have to—”

“shut up,” paige murmured. “let me.”

and then she was everywhere—mouth, hands, hunger. kissing down azzi’s stomach, biting gently at the skin just above her hip, dragging her tongue over every sensitive place she remembered from long nights and low light. she was slower than shefelt, but deeper. pressing her weight into each movement like she wanted to brand azzi with it. like she needed to make her feel it tomorrow. the next day. every time she tried to walk.

“god,” azzi breathed, her voice gone low and wrecked already. “paige—”

but paige didn’t answer. she just kept going. sucking, licking, curling her fingers just right until azzi’s thighs were shaking, until her hips jerked and her hands slammed into the headboard, fingers gripping the slats like she was holding on for dear life.

paige didn’t stop when azzi begged. didn’t stop when she came, the first time—high and sharp and with a broken cry into the crook of her arm. didn’t even slow. just kept going, mouth soft but relentless, fingers deep and confident, coaxing sound after sound out of azzi’s throat until she was writhing, legs clamped around paige’s shoulders, breath a wrecked mess of “please” and “fuck” and “i can’t—i can’t—”

but she could.

and paige proved it.

with her mouth first. slow, then fast. tongue teasing at first, then deep, purposeful, pressing into azzi like she wanted to ruin her. like she meant to. her hands held azzi open, thumbs dragging soft, dizzying circles over her hips while her tongue licked through slick heat, again and again, until azzi’s back arched and her hand flew to the sheets and pulled. the kind of grip that begged for mercy. the kind of grip that meant don’t stop.

and paige didn’t.

she sucked and licked and curled her fingers into azzi when she started shaking—just two at first, then three, slow but deep, hitting the spot that made azzi cry out and snap, hips lifting off the bed, thighs trembling around paige’s shoulders. the third orgasm tore out of her like a sob, like it had been dragged up from the root of her.

but paige didn’t stop there.

she eased her through it, just enough for the tension to break, then started again—lips sticky, chin wet, eyes wild with it. she shifted her angle, kissed the insides of azzi’s thighs, then went back to her center like she couldn’t stay away. her fingers didn’t falter, didn’t slow. her mouth sealed over azzi again with that same steady rhythm, building it up again, and azzi bucked, already too sensitive, already wrecked.

“paige—” her voice cracked, high and hoarse. “please.”

paige just groaned, the sound low and almost possessive. “you can take it,” she said, mouth brushing wet over her. “i know you can.”

azzi came again, harder—hips jerking, legs locking, both hands shoved into her own hair like she didn’t know what else to hold onto. tears welled in her eyes, spilling out at the edges when she gasped paige’s name like a prayer she couldn’t stop saying.

and still—still—it wasn’t over.

paige climbed up her body, kissed her face, her throat, bit at her collarbone, and said, “one more.”

“i can’t,” azzi choked out, voice shredded.

“one more,” paige whispered, breath hot in her ear. “let me, baby. please. i need to.”

and somehow, azzi did. she let her.

paige moved her leg over azzi’s thigh, bodies sliding together, flushed skin on flushed skin, slick and wet and raw. she lined them up, pressed in, slow and devastating, her hips grinding just enough to pull a choked moan from azzi’s throat.

it was too much. and exactly right.

azzi clawed at paige’s back, her body lifting to meet her, rocking helplessly as paige proved it with every roll of her hips. every kiss. every breathless whisper of “i love you” against her ear.

azzi shattered again—legs trembling, thighs slick, voice gone—and this time, she didn’t even make a sound. just a breath, a sob, her whole body seizing beneath paige, then going utterly limp. twitching.

and paige finally stopped.

her mouth pressed to azzi’s cheek, then her temple, then the corner of her mouth. her hand stroked through her hair, whispering “you’re okay, you’re okay, i’ve got you,” over and over until azzi could finally breathe again.

azzi’s arms tried to lift, then dropped. spent. tears still clung to her lashes. her lips parted, eyes unfocused, voice slurred when she mumbled, “you win.”

and paige smiled. soft. proud. completely in love.

“i know.”

azzi didn’t move for a long time. not even a twitch. she just lay there, breathing shallow, lips parted, her entire body slack beneath the damp sheets. paige hovered above her, catching her own breath, chest rising and falling with quiet pride and something even deeper—something like awe.

eventually, azzi stirred.

“you’re a menace,” she croaked, voice absolutely wrecked, the smallest smirk tugging at her mouth. “i’m gonna have to be stretchered into the next team meeting.”

paige grinned, not even a little bit sorry. “you’re the one who showed up unannounced.”

“to take care of you,” azzi groaned, dragging a hand across her face. “and now i need my caregiver.”

“well,” paige said, shifting down and kissing her belly button, “consider it mutual destruction.”

azzi let out a hoarse laugh. “i can’t believe you kept going. i think my soul left my body on orgasm number four.”

“number five,” paige corrected. “but who’s counting.”

“you were,” azzi said, eyes fluttering shut as she grinned. “sicko.”

paige rolled to the side and gently pulled azzi with her, wrapping her up in her arms. azzi was limp but pliant, head falling against paige’s collarbone. their skin was sticky, overheated, slick with sweat and everything else, and still, neither of them pulled away.

“you good?” paige murmured into her hair.

azzi made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a hum. “i’m alive,” she said. “barely.”

“wanna rinse off?”

“i can’t walk, bro.”

“so dramatic,” paige teased. “you’re an elite athlete.”

“not anymore,” azzi groaned. “i’ve been retired by your mouth.”

paige laughed, full and warm, and kissed her temple. “okay. i’ll carry you.”

and she did—half-lifting, half-guiding her into the bathroom again. the lights were low, the air warm. paige ran a soft stream from the showerhead and let it trickle down azzi’s back while she held her steady, soaped her up gently, kissed the slope of her shoulder every time azzi leaned too heavily into her.

“this is actually nice,” azzi murmured, finally able to stand on her own as paige rinsed her arms. “i think i forgive you.”

“think?”

“jury’s still out.”

once they were clean and dry, paige tugged azzi back into bed, this time under the covers. she made sure to lotion her shoulders, run her fingers through the knots in her hair, kiss the soft spot behind her ear just because she could.

“you okay now?” azzi whispered after a while, voice drowsy.

paige looked over at her, and something in her chest softened, like all the fight had gone out of her.

“yeah,” she said quietly. “i am now.”

“good,” azzi said, tucking herself into paige’s side. “i don’t ever want you to have to go through something big without me again.”

paige kissed the top of her head, pulled the blankets up around them. “then don’t leave.”

“wasn’t planning on it.”

and they drifted like that—bodies tangled, skin warm, every ache eased by the presence of the other. there was nothing left to prove. just this. just them.

safe. loved. home.

[pixiefelixie]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ where i land.

: ̗̀➛ pairing — volleyball player!hyunjin x reader, university au : ̗̀➛ word count — 19k : ̗̀➛ content — angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship, MDNI due to very mature themes (smut warnings below the cut), underaged blogs will be blocked, mentions of an injury, grief over identity loss, lots of crying and kisses, they're in love your honour

you’re dating the university’s best right-side hitter—hyunjin, best of the court, all instinct and fire. volleyball is everything to him. has been since before you met. but when an injury cuts his season short, hyunjin’s forced to face something he’s never had to before: a future without the one thing that’s always defined him. now, with his knee and his heart barely holding together, he has to figure out who he is off the court—and what it means to still be worthy of love, purpose, and you.

author's note: i had way too many of these long fics collecting dust in my drafts so i figured… might as well post this one! volleyball is everything to me so this one’s super self indulgent and written straight from the heart 💔🏐 i hope you enjoy it <3

: ̗̀➛ smut warnings: two sex scenes, oral (m. receiving), cw! safeword (used, respected but late; very very mild nonconsensual elements, not glamorized), piv, protected sex, dirty talk

volleyball was everything to hyunjin.

not just a sport. not just a hobby. it was the pulse in his fingertips, the reason he got up in the morning, the way he measured time—not in months, but in seasons. you met him at one of those tournaments, back in high school, when your team had already been knocked out and your friend dragged you to the other gym to “watch the boys play.”

you’d rolled your eyes. “what, like for fun?”

but then you saw him.

and suddenly, it was fun.

you’d never seen a guy move like that before. there was something different in the way he played—like every step was instinct, like he knew where the ball was going to be before it even left the setter’s hands. he played right side, but there was nothing “side” about the way he commanded attention. his hits were vicious. his blocks were surgical. and when he smiled—after a perfect kill that sent the crowd erupting—you felt it all the way in your ribs.

you’d played too, but never like that. never with that fire. you had enjoyed the sport. he loved it.

somehow, he noticed you that day.

maybe it was because you were still in your jersey. maybe because your friend was not-so-subtly pointing at you while whispering. maybe—he’d later tease—it was because you didn’t look impressed, and that irritated him just enough to want to change your mind.

from there, things moved fast—faster than either of you expected. a few exchanged dms turned into late-night facetime calls, which turned into weekend meetups halfway between your schools. it didn’t take long for hyunjin to ask you out officially, nervously gripping the edge of his gym bag like it might shield him from rejection. you’d said yes before he could finish the sentence.

after graduation, the decision was easy. he got a scholarship for volleyball—a full ride, no surprise—and you got accepted into the same university for a program that made your high school guidance counselor say, “you sure about this?” you were. you always had been. smart, focused, maybe a little stubborn—your idea of a challenge was enrolling in the hardest courses they offered, just to see if you could survive.

so there you were. two years into university. him, chasing championships. you, chasing equations, reports, exams you barely had time to breathe through. but somehow, it worked. you studied while he practiced. he came to your presentations in a hoodie and brought you bubble tea after midterms. you helped him stretch when he was sore. he held you when you broke down from stress.

you both had it all sorted out.

the alarm blared at 7:00 am, dragging you out of a dream you barely remembered. you groaned, buried under a mess of tangled blankets and limbs. hyunjin mumbled something incoherent beside you and flopped onto his stomach, arm stretching across your waist, pulling you closer without even opening his eyes.

you lay there a second longer, eyes still shut, nose tucked against the side of his neck. he smelled like laundry detergent and sleep and something warmer underneath—something you’d learned to associate with safety.

“i have weights in forty minutes,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep.

“and i have a chem lecture in thirty,” you mumbled back.

“skip.”

“you skip.”

a pause.

he peeked one eye open. “can’t. game tonight.”

that made you smile. because even now, even half-asleep, his entire face changed at the mention of it. his mouth curved up automatically. his eyes lit up, even through the haze of grogginess.

tonight’s game was big.

hyunjin had been talking about it all week—hell, for the past month. their rivals from the west coast were flying in. undefeated so far, just like his team. he’d been studying footage of their right side like he was prepping for an exam.

“it’s gonna be a bloodbath,” he’d said last night, lying back on the dorm floor, tossing a stress ball in the air while you highlighted your textbook. “in a good way.”

“is there a good way for a bloodbath?” you’d asked without looking up.

“for the winners, yeah.”

he was so ready. sharpest he’d ever been. his vertical had improved, his timing was better, and he’d finally stopped complaining about the weird new brace he had to wear on his ankle. every time you saw him walk out onto the court, you swore he looked taller. like something about it gave him a new center of gravity.

and now? now the alarm was screaming, and still—neither of you moved.

“five more minutes,” you muttered, curling into him.

hyunjin groaned into your hair. “ten.”

“we’re going to be late.”

he exhaled heavily, like the weight of responsibility was something he could blow off with enough dramatic flair. but he didn’t let go. his leg was tangled with yours. his hand slid under the hem of your shirt, just resting there, warm against your skin.

“whenever you sleep over, i can never get up,” you murmured, voice still scratchy with sleep.

your hand found the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair—soft and messy from the pillow, a little damp at the nape from how warm it had gotten under the covers. he sighed, melting a little under your touch, his whole body relaxing like you’d pressed a switch.

hyunjin shifted slightly, his nose brushing your neck as he spoke, voice muffled and boyishly whiny. “well your bed’s comfier than mine.”

you smiled, still playing with his hair. “it’s the same mattress, genius. university-issued.”

“yeah, but yours also smells like vanilla and detergent.” he tilted his head just enough to nuzzle under your chin. “mine smells—not like this.”

you groaned, the alarm still blaring beside you like an obnoxious countdown to responsibility.

“okay, that’s it,” you muttered, reaching out with one arm and slapping the snooze button harder than necessary. silence, blessed and brief, fell over the room.

then you turned back to hyunjin and gave him a shove. “up. seriously. we’re gonna be late.”

he grunted dramatically, refusing to budge. “just a few more—”

“no,” you said, already halfway untangling yourself from the sheets. “we're not doing this again, hwang hyunjin.”

but before you could escape, he hooked an arm around your waist and pulled you back in with one quick tug, your back flush to his chest.

“hyun—!”

he was already on the attack, pressing quick, fluttery kisses against your cheek. “you’re so mean to me in the mornings,” he whined between kisses.

you squealed, squirming as his lips trailed toward your jaw, tickling your skin with every dramatic pout he planted there. “hyune—stop, i’m gonna be late—!”

“you say that every time,” he said, voice smug now, lips brushing just under your ear. “and you’re always exactly on time.”

you were laughing now, full and unfiltered, even as you tried to wriggle free. “that’s because i sprint across campus!”

“good cardio,” he said, kissing the corner of your mouth like punctuation. “you’re welcome.”

you turned your head just enough to meet his eyes, grinning as you pushed at his chest.

“dick,” you whispered under your breath, eyes narrowed but your mouth twitching with a smile.

his jaw dropped. “me?”

you shook your head, biting back another laugh as you swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood up, stretching with a small groan before grabbing the t-shirt draped over your desk chair. you tugged it down over your sleep shorts and ran a hand through your hair, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror.

“i swear,” you muttered, turning toward the door, “when i come back, you better be gone.”

hyunjin was already spreading himself out dramatically across your bed, arms tucked behind his head, hair fanned out against your pillow like he lived there. he rolled his eyes with the laziest grin.

“yeah, yeah. kick me out of my own second home, why don’t you.”

you chuckled, shaking your head as you opened the door. “i’ll see you tonight.”

“six p.m.,” he said immediately, eyes flicking toward you like he’d already counted the hours in his head. “stadium.”

you nodded, one hand still on the knob. “wouldn’t miss it.”

a pause, just long enough to make the next part soft.

“love you,” you said.

hyunjin didn’t even hesitate. “love you too.”

you smiled, small and real, before pulling the door shut behind you.

the hallway was already buzzing—dorm doors cracking open, slippers shuffling against linoleum, the distant hiss of a kettle in someone’s shared kitchen. you padded down toward the shared bathroom, toothbrush in hand, weaving past two girls arguing over whose towel was dripping onto the floor.

the mirror was still a little foggy from someone’s shower, but you wiped a stripe clear with your palm and leaned in.

you knew today would be a good day.

it always was when it started with him.

the sky had started to dip into that golden haze that only showed up right before sunset, warm and honey-colored, stretching long shadows across campus as you and your friends made your way toward the stadium.

you were ready, as always.

university tee half-tucked into your jeans, a hoodie tied around your waist just in case it got cold later, and two neat stripes of your school’s colors painted on your cheeks. your friends had done them for you in the dorm bathroom twenty minutes ago, giggling the whole time and arguing over whether the stripes should be angled or horizontal.

they settled on angled—“for spice,” someone said.

now, the group of you walked in a loose formation down the path that led toward the stadium, sneakers scuffing pavement, laughter bouncing off the brick walls of nearby buildings.

hyunjin had texted you an hour ago: you better be loud.

you chuckled to yourself, tucking your phone back into your pocket as your friends kept chatting, loud in that way they always were before a big game.

“i can’t believe the season’s only just started and we’re already undefeated,” one of them said, adjusting her hair in a compact mirror before snapping it shut. “like, they’re actually insane this year.”

“did you see the last match? they crushed them. that one guy on the other team literally fell over trying to block hyunjin.”

you bit back a smile. “he just… misjudged the angle.”

“mmhmm,” another friend teased, bumping her shoulder against yours. “downplaying your man like he doesn’t hit like a cannon.”

you rolled your eyes, cheeks warming just a bit under the paint. “i’m just saying. he doesn’t try to humiliate people.”

“sure, but he still does,” someone laughed. “he’s too good. honestly, the whole team is stacked this year. if they keep this up, they’re gonna make playoffs easy.”

“maybe,” another added cautiously, “but tonight’s gonna be rough. the other team’s no joke.”

you glanced over as she pulled up a screenshot from their athletics page, stats already loaded. “their outside hits like a monster, and their libero—what’s his name again?”

“bang chan.”

everyone groaned in unison.

“that guy’s insane,” someone muttered. “like, literally everywhere at once. how does someone cover that much court?”

“i know,” your friend said, squinting at the screen. “his defense is gonna be annoying as hell. they’re never letting the ball drop.”

“but hyunjin’s a smart hitter,” one of your friends chimed in, shifting her tote bag higher up her shoulder.

“he’s been studying chan for weeks,” you said, a little proud, a little breathless just thinking about it. “like, frame-by-frame footage. movement patterns, positioning, even how he transitions between zones.”

“god,” someone groaned, “that sounds exhausting.”

you shrugged. “not to him. he actually gets excited about it.”

“of course he does,” another one laughed. “i swear hyunjin would analyze a toddler’s footwork if it helped him.”

“we shouldn’t even be worried,” one of them said, pushing open the stadium door as the music grew louder, brighter. “this is our court. we got this.”

you stepped into the arena, and the atmosphere hit you all at once—bright lights, echoing shoes squeaking across the court, the rhythmic thud of volleyballs being peppered back and forth. the crowd was already buzzing, rows of students and alumni piling in, decked out in school colors and face paint, waving foam fingers and handmade signs.

your eyes found him almost instantly.

he was across the court in his warmup jersey, sleeves pushed up, hair tied back loosely. he looked focused but relaxed, like his entire body was vibrating with anticipation. his approach was clean even during warm-ups, like he didn’t know how to give less than everything. you watched him leap—effortless, practiced, beautiful—and send the ball flying just inside the corner line.

you smiled, already feeling your chest tighten.

“seats there!” one of your friends pointed, already heading toward a row just off center court, a perfect view of hyunjin’s side.

you all squeezed in, tossing bags under the bench and adjusting your hoodies as you settled. 

hyunjin was locked in.

even from the stands, you could see it—that razor-sharp concentration that settled over him like armor. he moved with precision, muscles coiled and ready, every jump timed to the millisecond, every swing calculated. he jogged to the sideline to grab a water bottle, tilting his head back for a quick sip. his coach leaned in, already pointing toward a clipboard, going over rotation tweaks. hyunjin nodded, jaw tight, eyes flicking between the notes and the court.

then, just for a second—his gaze lifted.

he scanned the crowd like he was looking for something he already knew would be there.

and when he found you, his lips curved, small but unmistakable. the kind of smile meant for one person only. quick, careful, just enough to say hi.

your heart did a little flip.

you raised your hand in a tiny wave, fingers wiggling, trying not to grin too hard.

he held your gaze for just a beat longer, then dropped his eyes back to the clipboard, nodding again as his coach spoke.

“gag, you two are so gross.” your friend beside you muttered.

you rolled your eyes, leaning on her dramatically. “shut up.”

the other team began filing in from the opposite tunnel.

their uniforms were sleek, crisp white and navy. they looked good—annoyingly good. confident. sharp. a few of them glanced toward your team’s side of the court as if sizing them up before the first whistle.

your heart was racing.

it wasn’t nerves—not exactly. more like adrenaline, like your body already knew something big was coming and was bracing for it. you crossed your arms loosely over your chest, trying to play it cool, but your knee bounced under your seat.

on the court, the other team began their warm-up routine.

clean, practiced, ruthless.

their libero—bang chan—moved like he was born there, gliding from one end of the court to the other, dropping into receive like it cost him nothing. the way he read every toss, every angle, every fake-out—it was unreal. you watched him dive for a pancake save that should’ve been impossible, only to bounce back up like it hadn’t even winded him.

their outside’s swing was vicious. quick wrist, sharp cross. every hit landed with a smack loud enough to echo through the gym.

your friends went quiet. no more teasing.

“okay… they’re kind of terrifying,” someone finally whispered.

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. not with how your chest had gone tight.

across the court, your team was finishing their own lines of warm-ups—hyunjin among them, focused, shoulders rolled back with that quiet confidence he always carried on game days. but even so, you could see it in the way his brows furrowed for just a second after the opposing outside hit another brutal cross.

he saw it too.

the competition was real.

ten minutes later, the buzzer rang. the music cut.

a few quick announcements echoed through the gym—rosters, school chants, the referee’s name, the starting rotations—but it all blurred in the noise, the kind that made your chest vibrate from the inside out.

then the whistle blew for real.

first serve: one of your team’s middles. he bounced the ball twice, exhaled, and sent it clean over the net.

the other team received it smoothly, the pass was perfect. set. attack. your team scrambled into defense. a diving dig from the back row saved it just in time.

quick set on your side. middle hits—blocked, but avoids it.

the rally built fast, back and forth, clean hits and sharper recoveries. you were already on the edge of your seat, watching the ball blur between teams like it had a mind of its own.

and then—finally.

another pass. another set. this one floated just high enough, just fast enough.

hyunjin’s.

he was already moving, feet thudding against the court in three quick steps, arms swinging back. you knew that approach—the precise angles of it, the sheer snap in his body as he launched into the air.

once he hit it, the ball shot across the net, slicing through space and aiming dead for the back corner, right where he mastered it.

“mine!” someone from the other team yelled—too late.

the ball hit the floor with a smack so loud it echoed in tangible vibrations.

the stadium exploded.

cheers erupted around you—students jumping to their feet, fists thrown into the air, stomping and shouting. the first point was yours.

you and your friends jumped up instantly, yelling over the chaos.

“let’s go!” one of them screamed, cupping her hands around her mouth..

you clapped hard, heart pounding, adrenaline syncing with the rhythm of the chants echoing through the stadium.

then the next serve from your team came—and the other team answered.

quick pass, faster tempo. a sharp hit split the seam between your blockers. the ball slammed into the floor with just as much force, just as much precision.

point: theirs.

a collective groan rippled through your side of the gym, but no one sat down.

and your team didn’t back down.

the pace picked up fast, every point earned with blood and sweat. it was a tug-of-war. one point for you, one point for them. hyunjin hit clean again. bang chan dug it up like it was nothing. then another rally—your setter faked to the middle, backset to hyunjin again, and he threaded the ball through hands that never even touched it.

then they answered with a kill off the block.

it was a beautiful game.

terrifying game.

every serve, every swing, every dive left you holding your breath. you could feel the pressure mounting with every passing minute, the margin for error shrinking. both teams were reading each other too well.

before you knew it…

your server missed. an ace from the other side. another tight roll shot that just barely dropped over the net. and all of the sudden—

they were pulling ahead. by four. and not fluke points—smart ones. high digs. strategic hits. they were pulling ahead with control, and you could see the frustration start to creep into your team’s side like a slow leak. a few mistimed passes. a block that wasn’t there fast enough. a shake of someone’s head. it was all piling.

your friends tried to keep the energy up—clapping, chanting, yelling encouragement—but you could feel it. the shift.

and suddenly to you, it wasn’t just about the game anymore.

it wasn’t about the scoreboard or the rally count.

it was about him.

when hyunjin played well—really well—it was electric. he’d leave the court flushed and buzzing, body thrumming with victory, adrenaline humming through every cell. he’d throw his arms around you in the hallway after and talk a mile a minute about everything—the timing, the blocks, the play he almost fumbled but didn’t. he’d be unstoppable.

and sometimes—more than once—those were the nights you’d end up in his dorm room, down on your knees before he even got his jersey off, just because you were both so high on the win it didn’t make sense to stop. you loved seeing him like that. weightless.

when he lost, you also knew him. sometimes, sure, he’d shake it off. crack jokes in the locker room, say stuff like we’ll get them next time, tug you close and act like nothing had ever gone wrong.

but other times…other times it hit him like a brick wall. you’d seen it. after certain games, he’d shut down completely. he wouldn’t want to talk. wouldn’t want to eat. wouldn’t even want to be touched—not even by you. and not out of anger, but out of guilt. out of this impossible pressure he carried like it was stitched into his skin.

tonight felt like one of those times. you could already feel it closing in around you.

he was playing well. that was the worst part. he was moving sharp, hitting smart, putting everything he had into every point—but it wasn’t enough. not yet. and you knew exactly how much harder that would be for him to swallow.

the whistle blew, cutting you from your thoughts. timeout—your side.

your team gathered near the bench, forming a loose huddle around the coach, towels slung over shoulders, water bottles passed down the line. from the stands, it was hard to hear what was being said, but you could see it all in their faces—tight jaws, shallow breathing, sweat glistening down temples.

hyunjin was the last to step into the circle.

he ran a hand through his hair, pulling the tie loose as if he couldn’t stand it anymore. it flopped down messily over his forehead, but he didn’t bother fixing it. he leaned forward with his hands on his knees, listening, nodding occasionally.

the coach was gesturing rapidly now, drawing imaginary lines in the air, shifting pieces they couldn’t afford to lose. you could practically hear the urgency just from the way he moved—faster than usual, clipped and sharp.

one of the middles clapped his hands, trying to hype the group up. another player tapped his chest twice, mouthing something. the timeout ended with one last sharp clap from the coach, and just like that—they were moving again.

your team filed back onto the court, more focused now, like something had shifted in those sixty seconds. you leaned forward in your seat, hands curled tightly in your lap as your friends whispered around you.

“what do you think they’re trying?”

“i don’t know—but they’ve switched completely.”

and they were.

it wasn’t obvious at first, but then you saw it—hyunjin wasn’t starting from his usual position. the setter had shifted too. your middle blocker was crouched lower than usual, almost like he was prepping for a sprint, not a block.

and then the whistle blew.

the serve flew over—clean, controlled.

your team received it smoothly, but instead of setting to the outside or middle, the setter jump set backwards across the court—a full-speed, cross-body set with almost no telegraphing.

it landed perfectly in hyunjin’s zone.

he wasn’t even fully visible to the blockers until the last second—disguised behind the rotation shift. he came flying in from the back row, not where they expected him, soaring with his body stretched out like a missile.

the crowd gasped before the ball even touched his hands.

you sat up straighter, brows furrowed. “wait—what are they—?”

hyunjin launched from the back row like it was second nature, legs slicing through the air, body twisting mid-air to angle the hit just right. and then—

crack.

he didn’t go cross. he didn’t go down the line.

he hit straight into the softest, most empty pocket on the entire court—dead center, back row, right behind their setter. not even bang chan could cover it.

the ball smacked the floor.

perfect. no touch. clean.

you didn’t even have to wait for the whistle.

point. yours.

you were on your feet in an instant, mouth wide open, cheering at the top of your lungs, barely hearing yourself over the roar around you. your friends were jumping, grabbing each other, laughing in total disbelief.

“holy shit!” someone yelled beside you. “that was insane!”

but just as quickly as it started—the noise stopped.

like someone hit mute.

a chill crawled up your spine.

you turned back to the court—confused, heart already thudding for a different reason—and your eyes locked on the place where hyunjin should’ve been standing.

he wasn’t.

he was on the floor.

no.

he was clutching his knee. his fingers were digging into it, and his face was twisted in something you’d never seen on him before.

not pain from a cramp or a bruise.

something deeper. sharper.

you felt the blood drain from your face.

his teammates were already moving—rushing to him from every side, their celebration cut off mid-cheer like someone had yanked the breath out of the room.

the setter dropped to his knees beside him. the middle crouched low, hands hovering like he didn’t know what to touch. 

and hyunjin wasn’t getting up.

you couldn’t even hear the crowd anymore.

just the dull ringing in your ears and your heartbeat thudding somewhere too high in your chest.

“no,” one of your friends whispered beside you, voice tight. “no, no, no…”

you couldn’t move.

you were frozen in place, staring at him through the blinding white of the stadium lights, through the sea of players gathering like a wall between him and the rest of the world. you could barely see his face anymore—but you remembered the way it looked.

like he knew.

like in that one second—he knew something was wrong. something bad. something he couldn’t walk off.

suddenly, the crowd shifted, murmurs rising like smoke. they were carrying him.

two staff members on either side, arms looped under his shoulders, another holding his leg steady as they carefully lifted him off the court. hyunjin’s face was buried in the crook of his elbow, jaw clenched so tight you could see the tension from where you sat.

you stood halfway out of instinct, trying to follow him with your eyes, but the mass of movement on the court swallowed him up. the trainers led him to the far corner near the benches, behind a curtain.

and just like that, he was gone from view.

your stomach dropped.

on the court, your coach looked stunned—frozen for a second too long, his clipboard limp in his hands. he blinked hard, almost like shaking himself out of a daze, and then turned, his voice barely carrying over the now-muted stadium.

a sub scrambled to his feet, face pale as he stripped off his warm-up jersey and jogged toward the line. no one looked ready. no one was ready. the rotation was lopsided now. the rhythm shattered.

they had to play without him.

your team returned to their positions like ghosts, stiff and quiet, eyes flicking toward the sideline every few seconds.

you didn’t even realize you were walking until your feet hit the concrete stairs of the bleachers.

one step. then another.

the sound of the game behind you dulled into nothing. cheers, squeaks of sneakers, whistles—it all faded into a low hum, like your ears were full of cotton. you pushed past people in the aisle without meeting their eyes, murmuring apologies you didn’t really mean.

you couldn’t stay in there.

not with the scoreboard still ticking. not with them still playing like everything was normal.

you slipped out the side exit of the stadium, the heavy doors swinging shut behind you with a thud that echoed down the hallway.

the air out here was colder. sterile. the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as you moved past storage closets and empty water coolers, the polished floors squeaking under your shoes. no signs. no directions. just your gut pulling you forward.

you passed the locker rooms. the hallway turned narrower, less familiar, walls a little grimier, like you weren’t meant to be here without a staff badge. but you kept going. past laundry carts and low murmurs behind closed doors.

and then—around a final corner—you saw it.

the door leading to the first-aid clinic. you moved closer, careful, heart hammering so hard you thought it might bruise your ribs.

you reached for the handle.

it didn’t budge.

locked.

from inside, you could hear muffled voices—the medic speaking low and even, someone voice barely audible in return. you leaned in instinctively, trying to catch a word, a phrase, anything that would make this feel less terrifying.

but you couldn’t make anything out.

your fingers stayed wrapped around the doorknob for a second longer, trembling slightly, and then finally dropped to your side.

you backed up a step. then another.

your back hit the cold concrete wall behind you, and you slid down slowly, knees folding until you were crouched there in the hallway like you’d forgotten how to stand.

you pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes.

everything felt warped, like the fluorescent lights above you were humming louder than they should, like the cold of the floor had sunk all the way into your bones.

you didn’t hear the door open. you only saw it move.

a creak. a shift. then a sliver of light spilled into the hallway.

someone—one of the medics, probably a student trainer—poked his head out. young. clipboard in hand. his brows knit as he glanced down and saw you there, curled up in your hoodie and university tee, the stripes of face paint still smudged across your cheeks.

you blinked up at him, dry-mouthed.

“hi,” you said.

it came out too soft. like a question you weren’t sure how to ask.

he stared for a second, taking in your whole mess of a posture and game-day colors, your trembling hands and your knees drawn up to your chest. his eyes flicked to the crest on your shirt, the one that matched the jersey hyunjin had been wearing.

“were you trying to open the door?” he cleared his throat. “can i help you?”

you opened your mouth, but nothing came out at first. you looked down at yourself—still dressed like you were going to war for school spirit, like this was just a fun night out.

you felt ridiculous.

you looked up at him, throat tight. “is hwang hyunjin in there?”

the man nodded slowly, shifting awkwardly in the doorway. “yeah. he is.”

something in you relaxed at the confirmation, just for a second—but it didn’t last.

the guy looked over his shoulder, then back at you, rubbing the back of his neck. “look, i get it. i do. but you shouldn’t be here.”

your stomach twisted.

you nodded, more out of instinct than agreement. “i know,” you whispered.

“it's nothing personal. he's just not in great shape right now,” he said, more gently this time. “they’re still figuring out the damage. trying to keep things quiet. we don’t want anyone back here yet.”

you nodded again, this time more shakily, pressing your fingers into the hem of your sleeve just to feel something solid. the man lingered for a moment, still halfway in the doorway, like he didn’t want to be the one to push you away completely.

then, after a beat, he sighed. “but i can check.”

your head snapped up.

“really?” you breathed, eyes wide.

he hesitated—then gave you a look that said don’t make me regret this before slipping back inside and gently shutting the door behind him.

you stayed frozen in place, heart in your throat, chest rising and falling way too fast. you stared at the door like you could see through it, like if you just focused hard enough, it would let you in.

seconds passed. maybe a minute. it felt like an hour.

then the door creaked open again.

the man leaned out and gave a slight tilt of his head. “come in,” he said quietly.

you didn’t even hesitate.

you scrambled to your feet, legs still shaky, and followed him inside.

the room was colder than you expected. colder and too bright.

it smelled like antiseptic and old sweat and something metallic, like the sharp edge of panic that hadn’t quite left the air. you stepped inside slowly, eyes adjusting to the stark contrast between this place and the roaring stadium just minutes ago. the walls were a dull gray, the floor scuffed with years of cleats and court shoes. it didn’t feel like a place where someone like hyunjin should be.

he sat on the padded table, jersey still on. his left knee was wrapped, elevated on a foam wedge. his face was pale, damp with sweat, lips parted like he’d been breathing through pain for too long.

the doctor stood beside him, glancing at a clipboard. “alright, hang tight,” she said gently. “we’ll be back in a few with imaging details, okay?”

hyunjin nodded slowly, not quite meeting her eyes.

then she turned to leave, pausing only to give the trainer a quiet nod. they both slipped past you, closing the door behind them with a quiet click.

you stood there.

for a second, hyunjin didn’t move.

then his head turned toward you, slow and heavy like it took effort just to look.

his eyes found yours—and they weren’t the ones you knew.

this was something else entirely. empty. distant. like he was still falling, even now.

he didn’t say anything.

his jaw was tight. his hands rested stiffly at his sides, like he didn’t trust them to hold anything—not even his own weight. his shoulders were tense, his posture too upright, like the pain was the only thing anchoring him.

you took a few slow steps forward, hesitant like you were approaching a stranger.

“hyune,” you said softly.

nothing.

just the faintest twitch of his fingers.

you could see the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed, the way his lip wobbled for a half-second before he caught it. he blinked—once, then again—and looked away, back down to his knee like if he stared at it hard enough, it might undo whatever had just happened.

you took another cautious step toward him, watching him crumble in slow motion.

your voice came out quiet, barely more than a breath. “one to ten?”

it was a thing you always did—after tough practices, late-night cramps, bruises from blocked spikes. you’d ask it with a smile, even when he was clearly hurting, and he’d roll his eyes and say two or four, just to seem tough. sometimes he’d lie and say ten, just to make you laugh.

but this time, he didn’t answer right away.

he let out a sharp breath through his nose, almost like a laugh—but there was nothing funny in it. his hands finally clenched into fists at his sides.

then he looked at you, and something behind his eyes snapped.

“it doesn’t matter.”

his voice was flat. cold. shaky with everything he was trying not to feel.

you froze.

“i’ve seen this,” he said, more to himself now. “i’ve seen guys go down just like this. same way. and just like that—” he snapped his fingers harshly. “they’re done.”

you shook your head instinctively. “no, hyun—”

“it’s over,” he said, cutting you off, voice cracking around the edges. “do you get that? and i felt it the second i landed.”

he paused, shoulders rising like he was trying to hold himself together with just breath. you stepped closer, barely breathing, your hands aching to reach for him—but still unsure if he’d even let you.

“i know,” you said gently. “i know it feels like that right now. like everything’s ending. but it’s not—hyunjin, it’s not over.”

“no,” he said sharply, voice rising, fraying. “y/n, don’t—don’t say that.”

your heart splintered.

his hands trembled on the edge of the table, clutching the vinyl padding like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

“you don’t get it,” he said, turning his face away from you, eyes glistening. “you’re brilliant. you’ve always known what you’re doing. everyone on my team does too,” he kept going, his voice shaking harder now, barely holding together. “they’ve got degrees lined up. internships. backup plans.”

his chest rose and fell faster, his breath uneven. he finally looked at you, and the heartbreak in his face knocked the wind from your lungs.

“i don’t,” he said, quietly, helplessly. “i don’t have anything else.”

his chin trembled. and then—just like that—he broke.

tears welled in his eyes too fast to stop, slipping down his cheeks before he could even wipe them away. he tried—he really tried—to hold it in. but it was no use.

“this sport is all i have,” he whispered again, voice barely there, shattered between sobs.

you didn’t say anything.

you couldn’t. there was no fixing this with words. no comforting lie that would make him believe it wasn’t happening. so instead, you stepped closer, so gently, and reached a hand toward him.

fingers threading through his hair—slow, steady, soft.

he flinched at first, like touch would be too much, but the second your hand settled there, something in him caved. his shoulders dropped. his head tilted forward into your palm like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

your other hand came up to cradle the back of his head, guiding him forward.

he leaned in, pressing his forehead gently into your stomach, his whole body folding inward. you wrapped your arms around him, holding his head like something precious—like you were trying to shield him from the weight of what was happening.

and for the first time since the fall, he let himself be held.

it had been a few days. to no one’s surprise, the other team took the win home.

the official word came down two mornings after the game: full acl tear, grade three. complete rupture. months of rehab. no return this season. no guarantees beyond that.

you’d been there when they told him. sat beside him in the tiny office with the blinds drawn, the doctor’s voice steady and clinical as she read off the report. hyunjin hadn’t said a word the entire time. just stared down at his hands, jaw locked, expression unreadable in that terrifying way it gets when he's not okay but refuses to show it.

since then, everything had been... quieter.

the news spread fast, of course. the university’s athletic account posted an official update—“wishing a full recovery.” his teammates rallied around him publicly, reposted the announcement with hearts and strength emojis. but under all that noise, in the places that mattered, it was like someone had pressed pause on hyunjin’s whole world.

and your friends never asked either.

not really.

they gave you the space to bring it up first, which you hadn’t. a few of them texted to say they were sorry, or that they’d heard and were thinking of you both. but no one asked how he was holding up. no one pushed.

you appreciated it more than you could say.

because honestly, you didn’t even know what to tell them.

he’d texted earlier this morning to let you know he was in his dorm room when you asked him where he was.

he hadn’t wanted to talk volleyball. at all. the day after the diagnosis, he shoved his gear into a box and pushed it into the back of his closet. he didn’t even watch the next game. 

so he tried something else.

a distraction. something that didn’t involve courts or rosters. something that felt like anything but the thing he loved most.

you found him in the corner of his dorm room, tucked beside his desk where the late afternoon light streamed in from the window. his crutches leaned against the wall beside him, forgotten for the moment. he was sitting on a low stool, hunched over a sketchpad with a charcoal pencil in hand, his left leg extended stiffly in front of him in its brace.

you paused in the doorway for a second, just watching.

there was smudge on his cheek. a little streak of black where he must’ve rubbed his face without realizing. his hair was pulled back in a messy bun. there were shadows under his eyes, like he hadn’t been sleeping well—not that he ever said it out loud.

he lifted his head when he heard your footsteps.

you softened instantly. “hi, hyunjin.”

he gave you a small smile—barely there, but real. “hey.”

you made your way over, sliding onto the empty stool next to him, careful not to bump his leg. up close, you could see more of the charcoal dust on his fingers, the soft curve of concentration still lingering in his brows.

“whatcha working on?” you asked gently, nodding toward the sketchpad in his lap.

he looked down at it, then tilted it slightly so you could see.

it was a portrait—stunning, honestly. still unfinished, but already detailed enough to recognize the profile, the emotion, the shadow work. you blinked at it, impressed.

“is that…?” you started.

“one of my favorite movies,” he said, lips twitching up just a little. “it’s the scene i always liked.”

“it’s really good,” you said honestly. “like… really good.”

he gave a little shrug, wiping his thumb along the side of the paper to soften a line. “i still remember a bit from when i used to do it. a few years ago. took a class once. my teacher said i had a gift.” then he smiled again, sheepish this time, “and i ignored her and spent all my time elsewhere.”

you knew what elsewhere meant.

volleyball. always volleyball. 

but you didn’t push.

instead, you just nodded softly, watching the way he blended the shadow near the jawline with a precision that felt both practiced and instinctive.

“how’s your knee?” you asked after a quiet moment.

without looking up, he murmured, “honestly? it hurts pretty bad.”

your chest tightened.

he shifted a little on the stool, trying to get more comfortable, but winced when his brace caught against the edge of the table leg. “the meds help a little, but the brace is stiff as hell. and i keep waking up at night.”

he rubbed his palm over his knee gently, not like it helped, more like it was habit. a quiet frustration simmered beneath his words—one you’d come to recognize too well. the kind that wasn’t about pain alone.

you reached over and brushed some charcoal dust from his wrist.

“i'm sorry,” you said, softly.

he looked at you, then—not just glanced, but really looked. eyes a little red, a little tired.

but grateful.

you let your fingers linger just a moment longer against his wrist, feeling the faint tremble in it even as he tried to keep his hand steady over the page.

“when’s surgery, again?” you asked gently.

he looked down at his knee again, then exhaled slowly through his nose. “this weekend.”

you nodded, the word settling heavy in your chest even though you’d known it was coming.

“saturday morning,” he added. “they want me there by seven. it’s at the ortho clinic just off campus.”

“are you nervous?” you asked.

he didn’t answer right away.

then, with a voice so quiet it barely made it to your ears, he said, “yeah.”

you nodded gently, already a step ahead of him.

“i’ll borrow my friend’s car,” you said. “to come get you that morning.”

hyunjin looked up, surprised.

“i talked to her about it already,” you added with a soft smile. “it’s all set. i’ll drop you off and take you home after. whatever you need.”

his eyes softened, the tension in his shoulders melting just slightly. “thank you, really.”

you didn’t look away.

“of course,” you whispered.

there was a pause, a quiet beat that hung between you like a thread.

his eyes flickered to your mouth—slowly, deliberately.

and before you could even catch your breath, he leaned in.

the kiss wasn’t rushed. it was careful, like he was trying not to break something fragile—like you were the only solid thing left in a world that had suddenly become unsteady.

his lips lingered on yours for a breath longer, then another—like he didn’t want to let go. when he finally pulled back, it was just far enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes still closed, breath brushing softly against your skin.

he didn’t say it. just stayed there, breathing quietly, forehead against yours.

trying not to think about how it used to feel to have you underneath him. or how badly he missed it.

because this wasn’t how it used to be.

whenever you two made out, i would get…physical. you used to kiss like you couldn’t get enough. tangled limbs, rushed hands, mouths colliding again and again between laughs and gasps. he used to grab you by the waist and lift you right into his lap, pin you to the bed. you’d end up flushed and breathless, clothes half-off, his hands under your shirt, yours in his hair.

but now…

now there was no way he could move like that. couldn’t let things get wild or fast or messy. his knee wouldn’t let him. the brace made everything stiff, every shift a risk. he couldn’t even kiss you too hard without pain flaring through his leg.

his breath hitched.

still close, still barely touching, but something in him had started to tremble. not from pain—at least not just pain. his skin had gone hot. your mouth had been so soft against his. your fingers, gentle on his wrist. the warmth of your breath, the kindness in your voice—it stirred something in him that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with need.

real, aching, quiet need.

and you hadn’t noticed yet. you pulled back just slightly, blinking at the way his face had tensed, how a sheen of sweat had started to rise along his brow.

“hyunjin?” you asked softly, brows drawing together. “are you okay?”

he didn’t answer. just closed his eyes for a second, jaw tightening as he breathed out slow through his nose, like maybe he could will the heat in his body to disappear.

you leaned in, frowning, thumb brushing a bead of sweat off his cheekbone. “what’s wrong?” you whispered, more worried now. “what do you need?”

you started to move—maybe to grab water, maybe just to give him space—but his hand shot out and caught your wrist before you could stand. not rough, but firm. stronger than he’d touched you all week. his eyes met yours then, wide, dark, burning in a way you hadn’t seen since before the injury.

“you,” he breathed.

you blinked, breath caught somewhere in your throat. “what?” you asked, voice small, barely more than a puff of air.

hyunjin didn’t answer right away.

instead, his gaze held yours and then he guided your hand down, slow, deliberate, until your palm met the heat between his legs. his fingers curled lightly around your wrist, pressing, just enough for you to feel it.

hard.

you froze.

he was already so hard it pulsed beneath your touch, straining against the soft fabric of his shorts, hot through the cotton. your lips parted in a quiet, startled breath—eyes flicking up to meet his again, searching, questioning, caught between confusion and something much heavier.

he swallowed.

and then he was looking at you differently—like he couldn’t stop. like he’d forgotten everything else. the pain. the brace. the sterile clinic room with its sharp fluorescent lights. all of it faded as he stared at your face now, your wide eyes and parted lips, your fingers still resting right over his cock, uncertain but not pulling away.

you looked so soft. so concerned. so painfully beautiful.

too good for him.

too gentle to be caught up in whatever this was trying to turn into.

the image of how you used to look beneath him—hair spread out on the pillow, flushed cheeks, that gasp you’d make when he kissed your neck just right—it slammed into his chest so hard it almost knocked the air out of him.

and still, your hand stayed

you didn’t even realize your thumb had shifted slightly, tracing the heat through the fabric without thinking. you could feel how hard he was now, pulsing against your palm like his body was begging without him having to say a word.

but your heart was racing, chest tight, torn between the rush building in your core and the sting of guilt that came with it.

“i…” you started, voice catching, eyes flicking down, then back to his. “i can’t—hyunjin, you’re hurt…”

the words felt wrong even as you said them. his leg. his knee. the brace locked stiff across the line of his thigh. he couldn’t move the way he used to, couldn’t roll you under him, couldn’t press his weight into you like before. and part of you was terrified of doing anything that might make it worse.

but hyunjin didn’t flinch. didn’t let go.

his fingers tightened around your wrist, just a little. his throat worked around a thick swallow, adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to speak.

“we don’t have to…” he started, voice hoarse. “go all out,” then he exhaled—long and slow, jaw clenched like it physically hurt to hold the words back—and the sound that came with it wasn’t just breath. 

it was a moan.

and it hit you somewhere deep.

your body reacted before your thoughts could catch up—heat blooming between your legs. his voice always did that to you, but hearing it like this—like he couldn’t even help it—made something tighten hard in your belly.

“just…” he breathed again, eyes dragging across your face like he couldn’t get enough, “just something.”

his gaze dipped lower. to your mouth. the flush climbing your throat. the way your thighs had pressed together just slightly as you sat.

and still—god, still—you looked at him with that soft, hesitant concern. the look in your eyes that made his cock twitch painfully inside his shorts.

for a second, you didn’t say anything—just stared at him, fingers still resting on the thick heat of him, heart hammering so loud it drowned out everything else. the room felt too small, too quiet. you were straddling the edge of something, dizzy with want but scared to fall all the way in.

then—slowly—you reached behind you.

your hand found the door handle, turned it, and you heard the soft click of the lock sliding into place.

hyunjin’s eyes tracked every movement.

you still didn’t look at him as you pulled your hand back, settling it in your lap. “i’m scared,” you whispered.

it wasn’t a plea. it was just the truth. raw. honest. the way your voice only got when you couldn’t hide what you were feeling anymore.

and he softened immediately.

not in his body—he was still hard, still aching—but in his face, in his eyes, in the way his hand slowly loosened its grip on your wrist and slid up to cup your waist instead. “don’t be,” he said quietly, thumb brushing over your shirt. “you’re with me.”

you swallowed hard, then reached up and gathered your hair in both hands. twisting it quickly, you tied it into a loose knot at the top of your head—out of the way. practical. familiar.

his breath caught.

you didn’t have to say anything. he understood.

his cheeks flushed, mouth falling open slightly as he watched, and then—careful, slow—he rolled his chair back a few inches. the wheels squeaked softly against the floor, giving you more space, clearing the narrow strip between him and the edge of the desk.

then he hooked his thumb under the waistband of his sweatpants.

the fabric caught for a second on his brace, but he tugged gently, shifting the good leg first, inch by inch. down past his hips, baring the tight line of his stomach, then the hard length of him straining up against his briefs, thick and flushed and twitching where it pressed into the cotton. he pushed them down too, just enough, cock springing free with a soft thud against his lower belly.

he watched you the whole time.

like you were the only thing in the room. like every breath he took depended on what you would do next.

it took you a second to breathe.

the way he looked sitting there—back against the chair, legs parted carefully around the brace, chest rising and falling under his t-shirt, flushed and exposed and completely still except for the twitch of his cock—was enough to make your knees feel unsteady even though you weren’t standing.

god, he was beautiful.

long and thick, flushed at the tip, a bead of slick already welling there as if his body was just as impatient as his eyes. his body tensed when you leaned in, gaze flicking between his face and the heavy line of him resting against his lower stomach.

you reached out with your hand—no hesitation this time—and wrapped your fingers gently around the base.

he hissed through his teeth.

“fuck—” he breathed, head tipping back against the edge of the chair.

you stroked once, slow and curious, thumb brushing just beneath the tip. he twitched again, harder, a tremble running down his thighs as he tried to hold still. his hands gripped the arms of the chair, knuckles white.

“is this okay?” you asked, voice low, thumb circling now.

he nodded, eyes half-lidded. “yeah. yeah, that’s—” he couldn’t finish. his head rolled back, dark hair threatening to slip free from the messy bun. it spilled around his shoulders as he exhaled, a shuddering breath that turned into a soft moan when your grip tightened just a little.

you did it again. squeezed at the top, slow twist of your wrist, then slid your hand back down. you couldn’t stop watching his face—the way it tensed, the way his mouth parted just slightly, the sheer effort it took for him to stay still in that chair.

and he was so warm in your grip. so hard. so desperately full.

you leaned in.

hyunjin’s eyes snapped down to you, breath hitching audibly. his fingers twitched at the edge of the chair arm, and then your mouth was on him.

he let out a sound—half-moan, half-gasp—as your lips slid over the head of his cock, tongue swirling to catch the taste of him. you moaned around him, soft and quiet, and the vibration made him groan aloud.

“ah, fuck—baby—”

you took him deeper, slowly, carefully, easing your lips down his length while your hand stroked what your mouth couldn’t reach. 

hyunjin’s breathing turned ragged, each inhale sharper than the last, his chest rising fast beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. you could feel him throbbing on your tongue, as your lips slid down again—deeper this time, slower, letting the stretch of him fill your mouth.

his moans were coming more freely now.

soft, broken things that fell from his lips with no control. his hand finally let go of the chair arm, trembling as it hovered in the air for a second before he reached out and touched you.

fingertips to your temple first. featherlight. like he was afraid he’d shatter if he took more than that.

then his palm curved behind your head. but it didn’t stay gentle. the longer your mouth worked around him, the more his grip tightened, his breath falling faster.

and then he started pushing.

harsh and mindless.

each time you tried to ease back, his hand would push forward again, holding you there longer, deeper, chasing the heat of you without any thought. his hips couldn't do what they used to—his knee locked him in place—but his hand compensated for everything his body couldn’t. and it kept pushing, guiding, pressing you down until you couldn’t take more without your throat burning and your breath catching.

you let out a muffled noise, hands bracing against his thighs, trying to signal to him to slow down—but he didn’t hear it. didn’t see. his head had dropped back, hair falling loose around his flushed face, lips parted in a moan that sounded more like a sob.

he wasn’t with you.

he was inside himself—somewhere dark, somewhere drowning—and using your mouth like it was the only way to claw back toward the surface.

you choked softly, eyes stinging, unable to pull back. your throat ached.

every push of his hand kept you down longer than the last—too deep, too fast. your jaw was sore, your eyes blurred, your lungs clawing for space that wouldn’t come. the weight of him, the pressure, the heat—it wasn’t pleasure anymore.

not for you.

it didn’t feel like him.

not the way he usually was. not your hyunjin, who used to check on you between every kiss, who held your face like it was something sacred, who used to stop even if you blinked too fast.

now it felt like he didn’t see you at all.

like you weren’t a person anymore—just something to forget the pain in his knee and the fear in his chest. he wasn’t here. not really. his head was thrown back, hair falling wild around his face, mouth parted like he was dreaming. his hips twitched and his grip only tightened.

and you couldn’t breathe.

you reached up blindly, panic crawling up your spine, and your fingers found his wrist. you squeezed—hard—nails digging in, not gentle. you tugged, sharp and clear, trying to break through the fog he’d sunk into.

he didn’t respond.

you let out a sound around him—muffled, choked—desperate, strained. the shape of your safe word barely formed against his skin, but you tried. a soft, garbled syllable that wasn’t a word but should’ve been enough.

he finally stilled.

right on the edge of another thrust, his body went stiff, lips parting like he was about to say something—maybe your name, maybe nothing at all—but you beat him to it.

you yanked your head back with what little leverage you had left, slipping free from his grip, from his cock, from everything.

you coughed, choked, gasping as cool air hit your throat again, and then the tears came—hot, sudden, uncontainable.

“red,” you managed to say, voice cracked and hoarse. “red—red—”

the word hit like a gunshot.

hyunjin froze.

his whole face changed in an instant. every bit of color drained from his cheeks, and his hands, which had just been gripping the arms of the chair like a lifeline, fell limp.

“oh my gosh.”

you were already sliding backward, falling to the floor, knees knocking the desk leg as you curled in on yourself. your hands shook where they braced against the tile, and your chest heaved as you tried to pull in air that wouldn’t come smooth. you were crying now—no sound at first, just tears streaking hot down your cheeks, lips parted in a silent sob, your throat too raw to speak.

he scrambled, clumsy, heart in his throat. one hand yanked his sweatpants back up, barely getting them over his hips.

“hey, baby, i didn’t fuck, i didn’t know—i wasn’t thinking, i’m so—” his voice broke, and he reached for you with trembling hands. “i’m so fucking sorry—”

he touched your face, barely.

fingertips to your temple, your jaw, trying to check if you were okay, trying to wipe the tears that kept coming. his touch was gentle now. so different from how it had been minutes before, like the realization had shattered something inside him.

but you couldn’t look at him.

you were shaking too hard, too fast, every breath coming short, sharp, uneven. you curled further into yourself, arms hugging your sides, forehead pressed to your knees. you didn’t push him away—but you didn’t answer him either.

your skin recoiled under his fingertips.

even though his hands were soft now—so soft, barely brushing along your jaw like he was scared to break you—you still flinched. a subtle twitch at first, then a shiver so full-body it knocked your balance as you tried to push upright.

“don’t,” you rasped, voice raw and shaking. you didn’t mean to sound so small. so scared. but you were.

he froze.

you didn’t even look at him. you couldn’t.

your hands scraped the floor as you stood—clumsy, uneven, like your legs weren’t steady under you. you grabbed for your bag, for your phone, for something solid to hold onto. everything in your chest felt like it was spinning, tearing, trying to collapse into itself.

“i need to go,” you whispered, backing toward the door.

hyunjin’s mouth opened, but no words came. just a broken sound, breath catching, shoulders shaking like his whole body had stopped working.

“i didn’t know,” he finally said, voice cracking. “i didn’t mean to—i wasn’t—”

he was crying now. not quietly. not the kind of tears you hide.

they poured down his cheeks, one after the other, lips trembling, eyes wide and full of everything he couldn’t fix. “i’m so sorry,” he choked out, curling forward like the words hurt. “please, i didn’t mean to hurt you, baby—”

but you were already reaching for the door handle.

your hand shook as you unlocked it, chest tight, the cool metal grounding you even as the room blurred with tears. you still couldn’t look at him. not with how scared you still were.

the door clicked open beneath your trembling fingers, and cold air spilled in from the hallway—but it didn’t clear your head.

it didn’t make anything better.

you stood there for a second, caught in the threshold, chest still heaving, heart still slamming like it didn’t know how to stop. you didn’t look back. couldn’t. you could hear him behind you though, curled forward on the floor, gasping through sobs he couldn’t swallow down.

but that wasn’t him.

that wasn’t hyunjin.

not the one you knew. not the one who used to cradle your face between kisses, who used to hold your hand in the dark just because he liked the way your fingers fit his. not the one who used to whisper how much he loved your voice, even when you were only reading out loud from your textbook.

this wasn’t him.

and whatever this injury had done to him… it went deeper than you thought.

it had eaten something. hollowed him out.

left behind someone who could shut his eyes and chase comfort in your body without even hearing you cry.

you wiped at your face with the back of your sleeve, but more tears came.

because you knew him. you knew his heart. you’d seen every soft piece of it. you’d held it. and even now, you wanted to believe that he didn’t mean it—that the real hyunjin was buried under all that pain and grief and fear of losing the one thing he’d built his life around.

but wanting to believe wasn’t enough. not tonight.

you stepped out into the hall. the door clicked shut behind you.

and for the first time since you’d met him, you didn’t feel safe with him.

it was still dark when you parked outside his dorm.

the campus was quiet—too quiet for 6:30 a.m., the sky barely touched with light, the windshield misting over with the last traces of night. you sat there in your friend’s borrowed car, engine idling low, hands resting on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the front door.

a minute passed. then two.

and then—you saw him.

hyunjin came down the steps slowly, crutches under each arm, hood pulled up, sweatpants hanging loose over the bulky brace on his leg. his pace was careful, uneven, but steady. he moved like he didn’t want anyone to look at him too long.

you got out immediately, door creaking in the quiet. “do you need help?”

he looked up and gave you a small smile—gentle, so much softer than you expected. “no i’m okay,” he said, voice just above a whisper. “thank you.”

you stepped back as he opened the passenger door and climbed in, easing himself down. he slid the crutches into the backseat, shut the door, and settled in without a sound.

you walked around to the driver’s side, climbed in, and pulled your seatbelt over your shoulder.

as you started the drive, the streets still empty and blue-tinted with morning, he turned to you.

“you really didn’t have to do this,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with something heavy.

and maybe he was right.

you shouldn’t be here. not after what happened. not after how he hurt you—physically, emotionally, in a way you still hadn’t figured out how to name. but you were here. because you loved him. because no matter how much pain there was, you couldn’t stand the thought of him going through this alone.

so you just said, “it’s okay. i didn’t want you to be alone after surgery.” you glanced at him, voice soft. “i know anesthesia can make you dizzy.”

he didn’t say anything for a moment. but when you stopped at the red light and looked over, you saw the way he was staring at you—like your care was something he couldn’t quite believe was still his to receive.

his eyes stayed on you, searching. you could feel the weight of it even in the stillness.

then, his voice broke through the quiet. fragile. raw.

“i’m sorry, baby.”

you didn’t respond right away. your fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel, your throat catching.

“what i did… that day…” he shook his head, gaze dropping to his lap like he couldn’t even look at you. “it was unforgivable.”

you opened your mouth to say something, anything—but he kept going.

“are you okay?” his voice cracked. “did i hurt you?”

you didn’t answer immediately, and that silence alone made his breath hitch.

you wanted to say no. wanted to take his pain and carry it for him, like you always did. but you couldn’t lie—not about this.

so you whispered, barely audible, “a little.”

he flinched. your hands were still on the wheel, eyes locked on the road, but you could feel him unravel beside you.

you swallowed hard. “you didn’t mean to. i know that.”

“but i did,” he said, almost to himself. “i was so far gone i didn’t even see it.”

the pain in his voice made your chest ache.

and still, the car kept moving forward—two people in the same space, carrying wounds too fresh to fully name, but still choosing not to let go.

the clinic came into view faster than you expected—just a few more turns, a quiet lot, and a small sign out front that read orthopedics in clean, neutral lettering.

you pulled into a space near the entrance, engine humming to a stop. the sky was still a soft gray, the sun just beginning to push up over the horizon, casting a pale gold light across the windshield.

neither of you moved.

there was still time. maybe ten minutes before they’d call him in. enough to sit in the quiet. enough to say the things that hadn’t found a place yet.

hyunjin stared out the window for a moment, then turned toward you slowly. his face was pale in the early light, eyes heavy with everything he’d been holding back.

“i don’t even know how to start,” he said softly.

you glanced at him, your heart twisting. 

he leaned his head back against the seat, staring up at the ceiling of the car like maybe it would offer answers. “i’ve never felt so… lost. i thought i could just push it all away. pretend like it didn’t matter if i played again. pretend like i didn’t care.”

“but you do,” you said.

he nodded slowly, eyes closing. “i do. i care so much it’s eating me alive. and i used you to make it stop for a second.”

you looked down at your hands, folded in your lap

“i don’t know what i’ve become,” he whispered, voice cracking like the words hurt more coming out than staying in. “i look at myself and i don’t… recognize it. the way i think. the way i treat you. the way i can’t stop being angry.”

he stopped, swallowing hard. 

“and even after everything,” he went on, quieter now, shaking his head in disbelief, “you still show up. at ass o’clock in the morning, no less.” he gave a broken laugh. “still with that look on your face like you don’t hate me.”

you looked up at him then, and he met your eyes, raw and stunned and aching.

“you’re still the sweetest damn thing,” he said. “and i feel terrible.”

he meant it. every word. you could hear it in the way his voice faltered, in the way he couldn’t even look at you too long without blinking hard, like he was afraid he’d cry all over again.

and in that moment, it wasn’t just guilt.

it was grief—for the person he used to be. for the person he thought he ruined. and for the fact that you stayed anyway. you reached over, gently placing your hand on his arm—warm, steady, grounding him in the silence between you.

“you’re going through so much right now,” you said softly. “more than i can imagine. and… i get it. i do.”

he didn’t look at you right away, but you felt the way his muscles tensed under your palm. like the weight of your understanding was heavier than blame.

“i’m not saying it’s okay,” you continued. “it’s not. what happened scared me. and i’ll admit that—because i can’t lie to you. it was scary.”

he flinched, but you squeezed his arm gently.

“but i still want to be here,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “because i know your heart and what happened that day wasn’t you.”

he turned to you, eyes glassy. “i don’t deserve you.”

“that’s not for you to decide.”

he exhaled shakily, dropping his forehead for a moment like he needed to gather every ounce of control he had left. then, with his voice low and sure, he looked up and said:

“i promise… nothing like that will ever happen again.”

you watched him, holding your breath.

“i swear, y/n,” he said. “i’ll never put you in that place again. you’ve never had to say our safe word before that day, not once. and from now on… you won’t. you never will.”

you saw the guilt in his eyes. but more than that—you saw the intent. the need to mean it. to prove it.

you nodded slowly, your chest tight with everything you hadn’t said but still felt. and then, without overthinking it, without needing to say another word—you leaned in.

you kissed him.

his lips moved against yours with the same softness, like he understood exactly what you were offering. like he was afraid to take too much. one of his hands moved to your jaw, barely brushing your skin, his thumb trembling just slightly as it hovered near your cheek.

he kissed you like he wanted to be better. like he needed to show you that he could be.

you pulled back slowly, your forehead resting gently against his.

there was a beat of silence—just breath, just warmth.

then you whispered, “ready to get cut open?”

a huff of air left his nose, and he actually chuckled—a real one, small and hoarse, but real. “god, you really know how to set the mood.”

you smiled, the corners of your mouth lifting just enough to feel like hope.

without another word, you unbuckled your seatbelt and opened your door, the early morning air spilling in, cool and crisp.

hyunjin followed, slowly shifting forward and carefully maneuvering his crutches. you circled around the car as he swung the door closed behind him, crutches tucked under his arms, his weight shifting just slightly as he adjusted. you could tell it still hurt.

still, he looked at you—and you both started toward the entrance together.

click. you locked the car behind you, the sound echoing in the quiet lot.

the automatic doors slid open with a soft whoosh, and the two of you stepped into the quiet sterility of the clinic lobby. the floors gleamed under fluorescent lights. 

hyunjin made his way to the front desk while you hovered just behind him. he gave his name, confirmed the time, signed a clipboard with a hand that trembled more than he probably meant it to.

the nurse behind the counter offered a polite smile. “we’ll call you when he’s in recovery.”

you nodded, lips pressed into a thin line.

hyunjin turned to look at you then—nervous, but trying not to show it.

you reached out and gently brushed your fingers down his sleeve. “i’ll be right here when you wake up,” you said softly.

his eyes lingered on yours like he wanted to say something more, but instead, he just nodded.

and that was enough.

the room was dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of a monitor and the pale light bleeding in from the hallway. hyunjin lay asleep in the recovery bed, his face slack with exhaustion, an oxygen clip on his finger and a thin hospital blanket draped up to his waist. one arm rested loosely at his side, the other still bandaged from the iv.

you sat quietly in the chair next to him, one leg pulled up to your chest, your phone dimmed low in your hand.

you hadn’t meant to look it up. you weren’t sure what made you do it—curiosity, maybe. restlessness. you didn’t want to call it masochism.

but there it was. the clip.

posted on some account. zoomed in.

you watched it with your stomach in knots, biting the inside of your cheek as the moment played out on repeat. the set. hyunjin’s approach. the jump. you already knew what was coming, but even bracing for it didn’t soften the blow.

then the landing.

your eyes flinched before your body could.

the twist of his knee was subtle—too fast, almost invisible if you weren’t looking for it. you hadn’t even noticed it that night in the stands. not like this. not with the slowed frame-by-frame and the awful, perfect clarity.

and then the collapse.

he went down like someone had pulled the ground out from under him. you winced, lowering the phone, suddenly too aware of the weight in your chest. 

you slammed your phone down onto your thigh, a little harder than you meant to. the sharp sound cracked through the stillness of the room like a drop of glass, and the screen went dark in an instant.

you exhaled shakily, your eyes finding him again—hyunjin, pale and quiet, the blanket pulled up to his waist, the brace peeking out from underneath. he looked fragile in a way that didn’t suit him. too still. too quiet.

and then—his fingers twitched.

you sat up straighter.

he stirred, eyelids fluttering once, twice. slowly, he blinked open one eye, unfocused and hazy.

“hi,” he murmured, voice low and rasped and soft as crushed velvet.

your chest squeezed.

“hi, hyunjin,” you whispered back, immediately leaning in.

you kissed his forehead gently, your hand brushing through the strands of hair damp against his temple. he smelled like antiseptic and warmth and something familiar underneath.

“how are you feeling?”

he blinked again, a tiny, tired breath escaping his lips. “fine.”

you smiled, brushing your thumb across his cheek.

“i’ll get someone,” you said. “let them know you’re awake.” you said softly, and reached for the small remote clipped to the side of his bed. you pressed the call button, the little light blinking red.

you sat back a little, still holding his hand, your thumb moving in slow, absent circles against his skin. he was drifting in and out—still groggy, but awake enough to keep his eyes on you, like you were the only thing anchoring him.

there was something else you had to say. something you'd been told in the hallway an hour ago by a nurse with an apologetic smile and a quiet voice.

you waited, watching him breathe, steady and slow.

then finally—quietly—you said, “there’s something i should probably tell you.”

his eyelids lifted slightly, still heavy from the meds. “hm?”

you hesitated.

“i don’t think you’ll want to hear it,” you admitted, giving his hand a soft squeeze. “but… your coach is coming here.”

that got through.

his expression didn’t change much, but you felt the shift. a tension curled through his body—subtle, but there. like something bracing underneath the surface. his fingers tensed under yours.

“he called while you were in surgery,” you continued gently. “said he wanted to see you himself.”

hyunjin stared at the ceiling, his jaw tightening just a little.

you didn’t push him to respond.

you just kept holding his hand.

you were here. no matter who else came through that door.

hyunjin stayed quiet for a moment longer, eyes still on the ceiling like he was searching for something in the sterile white above him. then his grip on your hand loosened—not letting go, just… relaxing.

“it’s okay,” he murmured. “i need to talk to him at some point.”

you gave him a small smile, brushing your thumb along his knuckles.

a few moments passed in comfortable silence before the door creaked open and a nurse stepped inside, clipboard in hand. she offered you both a warm smile as she crossed to hyunjin’s side.

“hey there,” she said gently. “how are we feeling?”

“numb,” hyunjin deadpanned before breaking into a smile.

the nurse chuckled. “fair enough. let’s run some vitals, make sure you’re tolerating everything okay.”

he nodded, letting her work. blood pressure. pulse. pain scale. you watched as he cooperated without complaint, quiet and steady, his expression unreadable but calm.

just as she finished scribbling the last of her notes, she looked up. “by the way,” she said lightly, “your visitor is here.”

hyunjin stiffened for a half second. then he adjusted his posture slightly, pulling the blanket up a little higher, straightening in the bed as best he could.

“he can come in,” he said quietly.

the nurse nodded and stepped out.

the door opened again, and this time a tall man stepped in—mid-forties maybe, graying at the temples, weathered face, windbreaker zipped up halfway with your school’s logo printed over the chest. he paused inside the doorway, eyes scanning the room until they landed on hyunjin.

you started to rise, hand slipping from hyunjin’s as you moved toward the door, ready to give them privacy—space for whatever this conversation was going to be. but before you could even take a full step, his fingers tightened around yours.

you stopped.

his grip wasn’t firm, but it was certain. quietly asking you to stay with him.

so you stayed.

you eased back into your seat beside the bed, glancing up as the coach stepped further into the room. he was tall, broad-shouldered in a way that made the space feel smaller, more serious. but his eyes weren’t cold—just tired. like someone who’d been doing a lot of thinking.

you cleared your throat gently. “hi, sir.”

he looked over at you and gave a small nod, his voice low but familiar. “y/n.”

then his eyes returned to hyunjin.

“hi, coach,” hyunjin said, his tone polite, quiet. measured.

the man stepped closer, stopping just at the foot of the bed. “how’re you holding up?” he asked.

and somehow, the question felt heavier than it sounded. not just about recovery. not just about the knee. it was everything.

hyunjin didn’t answer the question at first. he just sighed—long and slow—his eyes falling to the edge of the blanket draped over his brace. the weight of it all was written in the slump of his shoulders, the way his fingers idly traced the seam in the bedsheet like he needed something to do with his hands.

the coach watched him for a beat, then took a breath. “i’ve been thinking about that last rotation,” he said, voice even but laced with something deeper—guilt, maybe. “i pushed for the shift. pulled you from front to back too fast. you were approaching from the wrong angle and i knew it. that back-row pipe—” he stopped himself, rubbed his jaw, “—that’s a brutal landing when your momentum’s off. you were running too shallow and i let it happen.”

hyunjin’s eyes lifted slowly.

“you’ve done it in practice, yeah. but not like that. not with the pressure we had. i was thinking strategy, not bodies. and yours paid for it.”

“it’s not on you,” hyunjin said, almost too fast.

the coach didn’t argue. he just gave a quiet nod and said, “things like this happen.”

but there was no ease in the way he said it. no comfort.

hyunjin went quiet again, his gaze flickering back to the ceiling, and you stayed still in your chair beside him, fingers curled lightly in your lap, unsure if you should say something or just keep breathing.

then, the coach glanced at you—kindly, not harsh—and said, “y/n, could we have a minute? just the two of us?”

you turned immediately to hyunjin.

his eyes met yours, unreadable at first… then, after a moment’s hesitation, he gave the faintest nod.

you nodded back, slowly rising to your feet. “i’ll just be outside,” you said gently, the words meant more for him than anyone else.

you gave the coach a polite bow before slipping out of the room, leaving the door to click softly shut behind you.

the hallway was quiet, cold, the kind of sterile stillness that made every sound feel sharper. you lowered yourself into the nearest chair just outside his room.

their conversation carried on—quieter now, more personal. you couldn’t hear the words anymore. just tone.

and then—silence.

you sat back against the wall, letting out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, eyes drifting closed for just a moment.

whatever was being said inside that room… you hoped it was enough.

it had been a few weeks since the surgery.

the brace was still on, the crutches were still with him, and the follow-up appointments had become part of your shared routine. you’d bring him snacks while he iced his leg. he’d quietly wait for you outside your lectures, scrolling through his phone without really reading anything.

but something had shifted.

not physically—he was healing fine. but emotionally? that was harder to track. harder to measure.

because he hadn’t told you what his coach said that day in the hospital room. not once. not even in passing. you didn’t push, not after everything.

you didn’t know if it was good or bad. whatever his coach told him in that hospital room—it lived in the space between you now. not sharp, not violent, just… there. quiet. heavy. untouched.

he never brought it up, not even once. you never asked. not because you didn’t want to know, but because part of you was afraid of what it would mean if he told you. what it might take from him. from you.

still, you noticed the change.

he’d started talking to his teammates again. slowly at first. then it was late-night facetimes, low conversations on speakerphone while you worked next to him, laughter that didn’t sound forced.

and with you? he was closer.

he reached for you more now—your hand, your waist, your sleeve as you walked beside him. he asked you to stay longer, hang out more, nap in his room, sit in silence and just be. you figured it was because he wasn’t practicing anymore—because the hours he used to fill with drills and reps now echoed open and unstructured.

but still… there was something.

something you couldn’t name. like he was hugging you a little tighter for reasons you didn’t understand. like he was grateful in a way that didn’t quite match the moment. like every time you kissed him, he wasn’t just kissing you back—he was holding onto something.

and whatever it was, it all started the day you left him alone in that room. the day his coach walked in and closed the door behind you.

right now, you were walking beside him through one of the quieter buildings on campus, the late afternoon light casting long shadows across the tile. the hallway was nearly empty—just the occasional distant echo of footsteps and the buzz of old overhead lights.

hyunjin moved slowly, carefully, but smoother than he had in weeks. he only needed one crutch now, swinging it lightly with each step like he was getting used to the rhythm. his other hand was in yours, fingers laced together, warm and easy.

you were telling him something ridiculous—some story about your friend’s disastrous attempt at making microwavable dumplings and accidentally melting the lid of a tupperware container into something that looked like abstract art.

hyunjin laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “how is she still alive?”

“honestly?” you said, grinning, “i ask myself that every day.”

he smirked, then glanced down the hallway, squinting at a door at the end of the corridor.

“oh, hey—look,” he said, nodding toward the wide windows. “that’s the gym.”

you followed his gaze, eyebrows lifting. “huh. i didn’t realize we were near here.”

he leaned a little toward the glass, cupping a hand around his eyes. “looks empty.”

you looked in too—big open court, polished floor, no lights on but the sun slanting in through the high windows gave everything a golden glow.

“let’s go in,” you said, nudging him playfully.

hyunjin moved to the edge of the court, leaning lightly against the wall, one crutch tucked under his arm.

you peeled off toward the storage room, curiosity tugging at you, and came back a moment later holding a volleyball. scuffed, slightly deflated, but good enough. you dropped it to the ground and gave it a bounce.

thud.

it echoed through the empty gym, and hyunjin’s head snapped toward you, eyes lighting up with something close to amusement—maybe even delight.

he laughed, short and warm. “do you even remember how to play?”

you raised a brow, spinning the ball in your hands. “um, of course.”

he gave you a look. “you wore your kneepads under your knees.”

you gasped dramatically. “because all the girls did that! all the time!”

“yeah, and none of you could walk straight after practice.”

you grinned, bouncing the ball again. “listen, it was about the aesthetic, not the function.”

he shook his head, biting back another smile, and for a moment—just a flicker—something in his posture loosened. like this place didn’t just hold what he lost… but also what he loved.

you caught the ball, turning it over once in your hands, then glanced up at him with a little smirk.

“ready?”

hyunjin raised an eyebrow, still leaning casually against the wall, his crutch beside him. “you’re seriously gonna toss it to me?”

you shrugged. “you’re the one judging my form.”

without waiting for a response, you tossed the ball gently in his direction—a soft arc, easy and slow, aimed straight for the area in front of him.

he didn’t even shift his weight.

just lifted his hands, angled his forearms, and bumped it back with a crisp pop, so clean and precise it floated right back into your arms without even spinning.

you caught it, eyes wide. “okay, show-off.” you bounced the ball again, the sound echoing lightly off the gym walls. “wanna pepper?”

hyunjin raised an eyebrow. “you sure?”

you grinned. “i’m not that out of practice.”

he chuckled, pushing off the wall a little. “alright, but if you hit it like, way over there—” he gestured loosely to the far side of the court—“i’m not hobbling after it. i’m on injury probation, remember?”

you nodded solemnly. “deal.”

and then you tossed the ball up and bumped it gently, the pass floating toward him with enough air for him to set it.

he caught it with his fingertips and flicked it up with practiced ease—smooth, clean, almost too perfect. it dropped right above you, and you popped it back over with the heel of your hand.

he bumped it again—still sharp despite barely shifting his feet—and this time, you set it back high and slow.

and then—he slammed it.

not full power, but with that controlled snap of the wrist that made it drop out of the air like it’d been yanked by gravity itself.

you squealed, lunging forward with both hands out, managing to dig it just before it hit the floor. the momentum tipped you over and you rolled, laughing as you landed flat on your back, arms outstretched.

at least the ball floated back toward him.

he tucked it casually into the crook of his arm and grinned down at you.

“you’re mean,” you said breathlessly, still grinning, hair a mess, pride only slightly bruised.

he laughed, eyes crinkling as he looked down at you sprawled across the court.

“you’re still very good,” he said, voice low but honest, the kind of praise that didn’t feel like flattery—just truth.

you chuckled, brushing hair out of your face as you pushed yourself up to stand, brushing your hands against your jeans. “you’re just saying that because i nearly sacrificed my knees for your hit.”

“hey,” he said, the ball still tucked in one arm. “don’t complain about your knees to me.”

you rolled your eyes, walking toward him with a dramatic limp. “oh, i’m sorry. want me to tear the other one so we match?”

his eyes widened in mock horror. “you wouldn’t.”

you smirked. “i might.”

he shook his head, biting back a grin. “you’re evil.”

you chuckled, that warm kind that came from somewhere deeper, and leaned in before he could say anything else—pressing a kiss to his mouth, soft and sure.

he kissed you back instantly, instinctively. like it was muscle memory. like you were the one thing he never had to think twice about.

his hand slid up your waist, slow and careful, fingers curling around your side as if he needed to hold on to something real. you melted into him—every part of you relaxing, sighing against his lips like this was home, like he was.

when you pulled back just enough to speak, your voice was quiet, steady.

“i love you, hyune.”

his eyes searched yours for a moment, wide and open and impossibly full.

“i love you too,” he whispered, his thumb brushing against your side.

you stayed close, your forehead resting gently against his, his breath still warm against your lips.

but then he shifted—just slightly. his hand lingered at your waist, but something in the way his fingers curled changed. slower. hesitant.

“y/n…” he said softly.

you pulled back just a little to look at him.

there was something in his voice—something heavy. the kind of weight that made your chest go still before your heart could catch up. your eyes searched his, waiting, sensing it.

he was about to tell you.

about that day.

you could feel it in the silence that stretched after your name.

but then he blinked, looked away for a second too long, and his hand dropped back to his side.

“never mind,” he murmured, shaking his head. “it’s nothing.”

you turned your gaze forward, toward the far wall of the gym, swallowing the ache in your throat.

because it wasn’t nothing. you knew it wasn’t. but you also knew he wasn’t ready.

not yet.

the room was dim, lit only by the warm spill of the bedside lamp. the sheets were bunched at the foot of the bed like they’d been pushed down in your hurry to get close.

hyunjin lay propped against the headboard, pillows stacked behind his back, his bad leg stretched out carefully. his other knee was bent slightly, his chest bare, skin flushed, eyes half-lidded as he looked at you—like you were something he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch again.

you were straddling his hips, thighs braced on either side of his waist, your palms resting gently on his chest. the stretch of you around him made your breath catch, and his hands trembled slightly as they found your hips, grounding himself in the heat of your skin.

his hands, still trembling slightly, smoothed up your sides beneath the hem of your soft cami, the thin cotton clinging damply to your back with sweat. you rocked your hips down again with a muted gasp, the motion achingly slow, the stretch deep and languid.

“ah fuck,” hyunjin hissed through his teeth, his head tipping back, exposing the long line of his throat. his fingers dug into your hips, but not hard enough to hurt. just enough to keep himself tethered to the moment. “you feel so fucking good like this.”

your breath caught on a tiny whimper as you lifted again, the slick sound of him leaving you wet and open echoing faintly in the quiet room. you were trying to be gentle, mindful of the way his injured leg stretched out beside you, but each time you rocked down again, that careful rhythm unraveled a little more.

“hyune,” you breathed, voice shaking as you bent forward and braced your hands on either side of his chest. the motion pressed your cami tighter across your breasts, the thin fabric straining where your nipples peaked, soaked slightly where sweat clung. he looked up at you like you were something divine, dazed and reverent, his lips parted in awe.

“you’re killin’ me, baby,” he rasped, one hand sliding from your hip up to the curve of your waist, fingers splaying under the hem of your shirt. he dragged it a little higher but didn’t take it off. “you’re gonna make me come just like this, fuck—”

you clenched around him, involuntarily, your thighs trembling. his voice cracked when he spoke again, rough and ruined and soft all at once.

“when my leg is healed” he started, mouth moving against your skin, teeth grazing lightly, “i’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you. i swear to god. gonna make up for every time i made you do the work. every single one.”

you whimpered, your whole body twitching in response, overwhelmed by the promise laced in every word. “y-yeah?” you managed to breathe, rocking into him again, the angle shifting just enough to brush something electric deep inside you. your legs shook harder.

he nodded, his hands gripping your waist now, steadying you. his eyes burned up into yours, pupils blown wide. “yeah. gonna have you under me, bent over. won’t let you move without feelin’ me deep. gonna fuck you ‘til you cry.”

his eyes, dark and glistening under the low light, locked onto yours like you were the only real thing in the world. his breath stuttered as he watched the way your face contorted, trembling with need, sweat beading at your temple, your thighs trembling against his hips. you rocked into him again, slow and deep, and he felt it—felt that flutter around his cock, the tight drag of your walls clenching just a little harder as the friction built.

“i love you,” he said suddenly, voice raw, breaking like a wave against your skin. his forehead pressed to yours, lips brushing your cheekbone. “fuck, i love you so much—”

your breath caught, your entire body jerking with the force of it, the sweetness cutting right through the heat and making your chest ache.

“i—i love you too,” you whispered, voice cracking, every word ragged with pleasure and emotion. “i love you, hyun—i’m so close, i can’t, i need—”

he didn’t wait. his right hand slid down from your waist, fingers skimming over the curve of your stomach before settling between your thighs. the pad of his middle finger found your clit, slick and swollen, and began to rub slow, tight circles with practiced pressure.

“right here?” he murmured against your mouth, his voice shaking with restraint as he moved in rhythm with your hips. “right here, baby? gonna come for me like this?”

you moaned helplessly, louder now, no longer trying to hold anything back. “oh gosh—hyun, please—right there, don’t stop—”

his hips jerked beneath you, his control unraveling. “fuck, i’m close too—so close,” he gasped, his cock throbbing inside the condom, still buried deep, pulsing with every clench of your cunt around him. the way your walls squeezed him each time he rubbed over that spot—it was too much, too perfect.

you clung to his shoulders, nails pressing half-moon imprints into his skin as your thighs began to shake uncontrollably. you rolled your hips forward, just a little, and his finger pressed harder to your clit as he gasped out your name.

that was it.

your orgasm hit like lightning, white-hot and overwhelming. you cried out, your voice a broken sob of his name, your body locking tight around him. he felt every twitch, every contraction as you fell apart in his arms.

his hips bucked once, twice, and he buried himself as deep as he could, cock swelling, spurting into the condom as he came with a low, guttural groan against your neck. 

his hands clutched your waist as you both trembled through the aftershocks, breath mingling in broken pants and gasps, bodies locked together in a perfect, trembling knot.

you were still pulsing around him, thighs twitching, mouth open and eyes glazed, his cock softening slowly inside you. his hand lingered between your legs, rubbing you gently through the afterglow until you whined and squirmed from the sensitivity.

“hey,” hyunjin whispered, brushing your hair back with a hand. his other arm stayed wrapped around your waist, holding you close, eyes soft. “you did so well, baby. so, so good for me.”

you shifted slightly, thighs sore, core still pulsing. with care, you lifted yourself off of him, wincing just a little at the sensitivity. hyunjin’s hands steadied you as you moved, his eyes never leaving your face.

“i got it,” he said, sitting up slightly despite the stiffness in his brace. he pulled the condom off, tying it quickly before tossing it into the small trash bin beside his bed. then he reached for the tissue box on the nightstand.

his touch was gentle as he wiped between your thighs—tender, almost reverent, like you were something sacred. “still okay?” he asked, voice low and sweet.

you nodded, cheeks flushed. “yeah. i promise.”

he nodded too, lips pressed together like he was holding back something bigger than a smile. he cleaned himself next, wincing slightly as he adjusted his leg again, then tossed the tissues away and reached out for you.

“c’mere.”

you didn’t hesitate. you crawled back into his arms, your body folding against his like you belonged there—because you did. he pulled the blanket up over you both, tucking it behind your shoulders, then tucked your head under his chin.

he exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that let everything finally settle. his hand found your back again, drawing lazy circles as your breathing began to match his.

you yawned softly, the kind that made your whole body rise and fall with it, head burrowing a little deeper into his chest. the sound made hyunjin smile—tired, full, quiet.

he kissed the top of your head gently.

“y/n,” he murmured, his voice barely above the hum of the bedside lamp.

“mhm?” you replied, eyes still closed, voice muffled into his skin.

he paused. you could feel it in the way his chest stilled under your cheek—like something shifted. his fingers stilled too, resting softly against your spine.

“what would you say,” he said slowly, “if i told you volleyball isn’t my life anymore?”

your eyes opened at that, the sentence settling slowly into your sleep-fogged mind. you tilted your head slightly, just enough to see him. “what?”

hyunjin didn’t answer right away.

his eyes flicked toward the ceiling again, lips parted like the words were there, just stuck somewhere behind his teeth. you waited, watching the way his throat bobbed in a slow swallow, the way his arm tightened just slightly around your waist.

you blinked, still half-draped over him, heart starting to thud with a dull ache. “what do you mean?” you asked, your voice quieter now. “it’s always been your life.”

“i know,” he murmured. his voice was low—like he didn’t want to scare the words away.

his hand drifted slowly along your back, thumb brushing the curve of your spine. “it always was. volleyball… it used to be everything. but ever since this injury…” he paused, inhaling shakily. “i’ve come to learn things. about myself. about life.”

you looked up at him then, brows drawing together, curiosity flickering behind the sleep still clinging to your eyes. “like what?”

he didn’t answer right away. just stared up at the ceiling, as if the words were etched into the plaster and he was tracing them with his eyes.

“i’ve learned that it’s always been something else,” he said, so quietly you almost missed it.

you blinked. “something else?”

his eyes stayed on the ceiling, but you felt the way his fingers flexed gently against your waist, like he was anchoring himself in the feel of you.

“over the sport,” he continued, voice barely above a whisper. “even when i didn’t realize it. even when i said volleyball was my whole world.”

you shifted slightly, propping yourself up on your elbow now, your gaze searching his face. “hyun… what could possibly mean more to you than volleyball?”

his eyes flicked down to meet yours.

he didn’t say anything.

not a word.

just looked at you—really looked—like you were the only thing that made sense in a world that had stopped making any. his lips parted like he might speak, but nothing came out. no dramatic confession. no flourish of words.

just silence.

and then, softly—so soft you barely heard yourself—you said, “oh.”

it hit you all at once.

you.

it was you.

you were the something else.

the thing bigger than the game. you were the only thing he was holding onto when everything else had slipped.

you laid your hand over his heart, feeling it thump unevenly beneath your palm.

you blinked hard, the weight of it pressing into your chest. “where is this coming from?” you asked quietly, eyes never leaving his.

hyunjin’s gaze dropped again, drifting toward the edge of the blanket between you. he swallowed.

“that day,” he said slowly, “when my coach came to see me after the surgery.”

you waited, heartbeat skipping.

“he told me something.”

you sat up a little straighter, heart inching into your throat. “what is it?”

he hesitated, like saying it out loud might split something wide open all over again. his fingers found the hem of your shirt and tugged at it absentmindedly, grounding himself in the soft cotton and your even softer skin beneath it.

“i was scouted,” he said finally. “before the injury.”

your breath caught.

his voice was steady, but quiet. “there was a team. a higher league. semi-pro. they were gonna offer me a spot.”

your lips parted, but nothing came out.

“i didn’t know,” he added. “he was going to tell me after the game. but after i got hurt… they pulled the offer. said they couldn’t take the risk.”

you felt your heart twist, like something inside you folded over on itself.

“i would’ve said yes,” he admitted, eyes fixed somewhere far away. “if i hadn’t gotten injured, i would’ve gone. even if it was across the country”

the silence pressed in around you again—thick and heavy.

“but after everything that happened,” he continued, voice thinner now, like he was peeling something vulnerable straight off his ribs, “i don’t know if that choice would have been the same.”

you stared at him, your fingers tightening slightly where they rested on his chest. “what do you mean?”

hyunjin’s gaze stayed distant for a moment, somewhere just past your shoulder, like he was still watching a version of himself walk away without looking back.

“i mean…” he exhaled, slow and unsteady, “i used to think i’d drop everything if the opportunity came. no questions. i thought that was the only path that mattered. that if i didn’t take it, i’d be nothing.”

he looked at you again, and the rawness in his eyes almost knocked the breath out of you.

“but then i got hurt. and everything stopped. and you were still there.”

you didn’t speak—just waited, the knot in your throat growing tighter by the second.

“and for the first time,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “i had to sit in the stillness. in the silence. and all i could think about was you. not the scouts. not the stats. not the path i’d worked my whole life for. just… you.”

his thumb brushed absentmindedly along your hip.

your chest ached.

not in the way it used to when he was on the court and you were in the stands, watching him soar.

this ache was deeper. heavier. like your heart finally understood the cost of everything he’d carried—and everything he was letting go of.

you leaned in slowly, your forehead pressing gently to his, your breaths mingling in the soft space between words.

“you’re everything to me as well,” you whispered, voice trembling slightly, “but… i prepared myself for anything, hyun. i always knew volleyball came first. i knew it was your number one. and i never wanted to be the thing that got in the way.”

his hands found your face, cupping your cheeks like he couldn’t believe you were even saying that.

“but it’s not,” he said, firm now. immediate. like the words had been waiting just beneath his ribs. “it’s not anymore.”

you blinked, lips parting, but he kept going—eyes locked on yours.

“it used to be. god, it used to be everything. but that version of me…” he exhaled, shaky but sure, “he didn’t know what it felt like to almost lose you. to really see what we have. what we built. that version of me didn’t know how much this—” his thumb brushed beneath your eye “—could wreck me in the best way.”

he leaned his forehead harder into yours now, eyes fluttering closed.

“you’re not in the way,” he murmured. “you’re the way forward.”

you let out a sound between a breath and a sob, something quiet and broken and whole at the same time. your hands slid up to hold his wrists, grounding him just as much as he was grounding you.

“i didn’t want you to have to choose,” you whispered. “but i’m so glad you did.”

“i didn’t choose because i had to,” he said. “i chose because i finally saw what mattered.”

and then you were kissing him—softly, slowly, like the words weren’t enough anymore.

because they weren’t.

not when your hearts already knew.

you breathe in.

let it out.

all you can focus on is the ball.

the sun’s high, white-hot above you, and the roar of the ocean fades into a blur behind the thud of your heart and the beat of your bare feet in the sand. everything else—voices, heat, even the sting of sunscreen in your eyes—melts away. you watch the opposing server toss the ball up. perfect arc. sharp spin.

and then—smack. it’s coming.

you move, knees bend, arms out. you bump it up to your teammate, the ball floating clean and high. she’s already there, ready. you sprint toward the net, muscles burning, the sand pulling at your ankles like it’s trying to slow you down but it won’t—not this time.

your friend sets. high. wide. just how you like it.

you jump.

arms raised, eyes locked on the ball as it hangs in that slow-motion drop of gravity.

and then—

hands.

fast ones.

hyunjin.

he’s already there. tall and smug and laughing as he blocks your spike like he was born to ruin your day. the ball ricochets off his hands with a satisfying smack, straight back into your side of the court.

point: him.

you groan, letting yourself fall dramatically into the sand.

“are you serious?” you yell, spitting a bit of hair from your mouth as you push yourself back up. “you couldn’t let me have one?”

he’s already on the other side of the net, grinning so hard his eyes crinkle.

you narrow your eyes. “oh, that’s it.”

he sees it—the shift in your posture, the way you start dusting sand off your knees with purpose—and his grin widens into something almost nervous.

“y/n,” he warns, backing up a step. “let’s not do this—”

you duck under the net without a word.

he yelps.

“you’re insane!” he shouts, already turning, already running—feet kicking up clouds of sand as you sprint after him.

“you’re dead!” you call back, laughter bubbling in your throat as your feet pound across the beach.

he’s fast, but you’re faster.

he bolts for the shoreline like it’s his last line of defense, chest heaving, arms flailing a little as he yells back, “you’re gonna ruin my hair!”

“i’m gonna ruin your whole life!”

by the time he reaches the water, it’s too late. you’re right behind him, and he dives into the shallows with a splash, trying to put distance between you like the ocean’s suddenly his new home turf.

you charge in after him without hesitation. the cold water smacks against your legs, but you don’t stop. 

you launch yourself forward, leaping onto his back with a triumphant shout. he staggers, arms pinwheeling as he lets out a loud, delighted, “agh!” before catching your legs instinctively.

“you menace!” he laughs, gripping your thighs to keep you from sliding off. “you were actually trying to take me down!”

“i succeeded,” you declare proudly, clinging to him like a backpack as he spins in a slow, splashing circle. “it’s justice for that block.”

“justice my ass,” he grumbles, but he’s grinning too wide to mean it.

you wriggle off his back and drop into the water beside him with a splash, waves slapping against your sides as you gather both hands full of seawater.

“don’t you dare—”

splash.

right in his face.

you’re already sticking your tongue out at him, playful and smug. “oops.”

he shakes his head, then tips it forward sharply, water flying off his hair like a wet golden retriever.

“ugh,” he says through the dripping mess, “i hate you.”

you raise a brow, wading back a step, hands spread in mock offense. “you do not.”

he glares at you—then ruins it with a grin.

“no,” he says, stepping closer, sloshing through the surf until he’s right in front of you. “i really, really don’t.”

you barely have time to breathe before he leans in and kisses you—warm and smiling against your mouth like he can’t help himself. you break the kiss with a grin, breathless and glowing, then splash one last bit of water onto his chest before turning to wade out of the surf.

“c’mon,” you call over your shoulder. “i need a towel before i start growing gills.”

hyunjin jogs after you, still dripping, grabbing your hand just as you hit the edge of the beach. the sun’s warm against your skin now, sticky with salt and laughter, and your friends are scattered across the sand—some sprawled out tanning, others still bickering over who’s winning the volleyball rematch.

you find your towel half-buried under a tote bag and collapse onto it with a happy sigh. hyunjin flops beside you with the grace of a man who has zero shame about tracking wet sand onto everything.

he starts towel-drying his hair while you lean back on your elbows. that’s when you notice the sketchbook tucked beside his bag, its pages curling a little in the heat.

“oooh,” you hum, reaching for it. “whatcha working on?”

he lifts his head, a little surprised, then wipes his hands on the towel and scoots closer. “you can look,” he says, reaching out to open it to the latest page.

you blink.

it’s the beach. this exact beach—down to the curve of the shoreline and the way the volleyball net leans slightly in the wind. but what gets you is the color. the emotion in it. the tiny splash of a figure in the water, mid-jump, arms outstretched like she’s flying.

“hyun…” you say, voice soft, awed. “this is beautiful.”

he shrugs, ducking his head a little. “just messing around.”

you look at him, fully. “don’t do that. don’t downplay it. this is crazy good.”

his cheeks flush, but he smiles as he flips to the next page—another sketch, this one of his teammates gathered around a bench.

“y/n,” he says, leaning back on one arm, gaze drifting out toward the water, “i’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

you glance at him, curious. “what is it?”

he bites his bottom lip, then says, “the university’s letting me switch my major. i’m going into kinesiology.”

your mouth drops open. “what?”

he grins. “yeah. like, officially. rehab sciences. sports performance. biomechanics. they even said i could tailor a track toward athletic recovery and art-based therapy if i submit a proposal.”

you blink rapidly, heart swelling so fast it nearly bursts. “hyunjin, that’s… that’s amazing. that’s so you.”

his gaze flicks to yours. “you think?”

“i know.” you reach out and squeeze his hand. “i’m so proud of you.”

his fingers curl around yours, warm and a little sandy.

“thanks,” he murmurs, eyes soft. “i didn’t think i’d ever get excited about a future that didn’t have a court in it.”

“you don’t need a court to make an impact,” you say, nudging him gently. “you just need a place to land.”

he smiles at that.

then he kisses the back of your hand, quick and bashful, like he’s still getting used to this version of life—one where he’s building something new, with you beside him.

you let the moment sit there, warm and full, before you smirk.

“a place to land,” you repeat. “y’know… preferably without tearing anything this time.”

before you can blink, his fingers are at your sides.

“hyun—” you shriek, twisting away as he pounces. “don’t you—ah!”

he tickles you mercilessly, fingers digging into all your worst spots as you writhe and kick, laughing so hard you can barely breathe.

“say sorry!” he demands, grinning like a madman.

“never!”

he wiggles his fingers harder. “say it!”

“fine—fine!” you gasp, tears streaming down your cheeks from laughter. “i’m sorry! you’re a graceful athlete with good landing skills!”

he finally stops, letting you collapse against the towel in a breathless heap. you’re flushed, still giggling, your hand swatting weakly at his arm.

“you’re evil,” you mumble.

he stretches out beside you, completely at peace. “you started it.”

you glance over at him, watching the way the sunlight catches the curve of his smile, the softness in his eyes, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing he wants to see today—or maybe ever.

and somehow, with your hair a mess and your clothes damp and your skin covered in sand, it hits you all at once.

you’ve got it all figured out.

this boy. this life. this love.

you didn’t know if the pieces would fit—through injuries and arguments and fear—but they did.

they do.

hyunjin nudges you gently with his foot, still smiling. “what are you staring at?”

you hum, scooting a little closer. “just the rest of my life.”

he blinks.

then grins.

and says, “looks good from here.”

[impossible-rat-babies]

woe azem + her brother be upon ye

[monkebearness]

Our Story, Like a Romance Novel [Chapter 0]

Tags: fluff, angst

Word count: 11.5k

a/n: this has been stuck in my drafts for way too long, so I decided to start posting them, while I keep on wrinkling my brain for more ideas and writing new stuff. this will have multiple characters, but the main ones will be revealed by the end. there is no smut on this chapter. it has more plot, but if you're still interested, I hope you like & enjoy it!

A young man stands in front of his open locker, buttoning up his vest before loosening his neck tie while looking at the casual attire that he’s worn earlier today. Scanning the room, he realizes that he’s the only one left in there. He tightens his tie once again–but not too tight. He inhales his hesitation, takes a deep breath, and gulps down his doubts.

Let’s do well today, he thinks to himself, perhaps the eighth time he’s told himself those same words. He closes the locker shut and walks to the door leading to another room in silence, joining the rest of the kitchen crew with a determined mindset. He faces two of his superiors–the head chef and station chef–and greets each of them with a deep bow.

“The team and I have already gotten you through the basics,” says the head chef, Geum Junghoon, to the newbie. “We’re guessing that you are now ready to work with the rest of the crew?

Yook Daewon takes one quick but careful look around the kitchen, keeping his smile and honorable ardor towards all his new employers and fellow colleagues, chefs, and servers, gathered in the same room for an event they have been preparing for the past few weeks. Despite the head chef’s lower baritone voice, Daewon only feels encouragement from his polite presence and approachable demeanor.

Mirroring the positive briefing of his employer, Daewon adjusts his tenor voice to sound more robust and confident with his light tone. “Ne, Chef! I am ready. Thank you so much for accepting me for this job. I will not disappoint you.”

“Are you sure you’re ready, Daewon-ssi?” The station chef, Jeong Hyerin, teases Daewon with her question while squinting her almond eyes to intimidate him. “This is a big night for the company. We can't risk making any messes… Especially not around our guests.”

“Yah! Go easy on him,” Junghoon immediately whispers to Hyerin, but she holds in her laughter. “It’s his first night. He proved himself last time, if that’s not enough for you.”

“Are you Daewon-ssi, Chef Geum?” Hyerin shoots a sarcastic remark back at her own superior, imitating a drill sergeant even with her light and comical tone. He raises his eyebrow at her, even if he knows that she’s messing around.

“It’s okay, Chef,” Daewon tries to simmer down the two from bickering, not realizing that she’s goofing around with him to lighten up the mood of the room. “And I’m ready, Chef Jeong Hyerin-nim. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t pass the interview, so I will do my best!”

“Well…” Hyerin smirks at Junghoon before raising her thumbs in approval. “I believe he just passed my final test.”

“How was that your final—Whatever…” Junghoon can only chuckle before looking at the corner of the kitchen in hopes of calling for the third superior’s opinion. “Chef Gong Yubin-nim! How about you? What’s your evaluation?”

“Chef, anyone’s good enough for me, as long as they’re doing their job right,” Yubin only answers him at the same tempo she’s dicing a bundle of onions on her board. She stops to look at Daewon. “So I don’t need any words from you, new guy. Just do well on your job and don’t mess up… Hyerin-ssi, come here and help the rest of us out, will ya?”

Junghoon and Hyerin couldn’t help but nod and filler words in agreement to Yubin.

Daewon quickly raises his arm to the sous chef. “Oh, I can assist—”

“No, it’s fine!” Hyerin politely stops him. “I’ll do it. There will be plenty of tasks for you to do later on. Welcome to the Kitchen, everyone. Best of luck out there!”

“Kamsahamnida, everyone!” Daewon bows to everyone at the kitchen, including the station cooks, and his fellow waiters and waitresses, as most of them reciprocate his polite and respectful gesture. “I will do my best on the job!”

All waiters and waitresses then at Hyerin and Junghoon, just as the former rushes to Yubin at the other side of the kitchen as they both chop tons more veggies with the rest of the crew, the station and junior chefs, and the porters.

Daewon sees the chefs argue while washing the goods, much to his perplexion. How can these cooks quarrel and still work together so well at the same time? If he wants to keep working there with them long enough, then maybe he can find out, but that shouldn’t be his business.

“They’re often like that, don’t mind them,” Junghoon nonchalantly assures him. “If you need help or question about anything, do not hesitate to ask any of our cooks, as well as your fellow servers, arachi? We have each other’s backs here.”

The City That Never Sleeps is a name that can pretty much refer to any well-known city across the world. New York was probably the first. There are others like Tokyo, Madrid, Manila, Sydney, and Chicago. But here in Korea, they also have a few of their sleepless cities. For one, Seoul is a city that doesn’t think of sleeping, as do most businesses and parties taking place here. And for tonight, it is both here in Daewon’s new workplace.

The clock strikes at 6:00 in the evening, alerting all of the crew in the Kitchen to line up.

“Well, then,” Junghoon tells his entire crew. “We believe all of us are finally suited to start. Welcome to the Kitchen, everyone. Welcome to ModHaus.”

It’ll be a long night. One they can’t sleep on, especially if they don’t do an optimal job.

Daewon was just accepted at the company last week. At the age of twenty-six, he’s had enough work experience to make a living, but rarely any promotions to keep past jobs. Tonight at 6:50, the Kitchen has a lot on their plate to fill in, literally, thanks to its big event concerning the future of their head corporation in the next five years or more.

Daewon’s job isn’t restricted to anything, as he went from job to job in the past. Joining this company was a surprise for him too, as everyone else whom he’s now working with, but he’s here now. And he doesn’t wanna fail his employers or disappoint his colleagues. Whenever he’s waiting at the lobby with his two feet, he looks around the grand scenery of elites and financial giants in front of him. He can never imagine himself being one of them, talking to each other about shares and projects, complimenting or backstabbing someone based on their looks or laughing about their trivialities, at least as rich folks.

Taking place at the Grand Hotel’s Central Ballroom, the guest list of this event includes businesspeople, philanthropists, and celebrities across Asia and a few collaborators who flew all the way from America and Europe. Without a doubt, it is a luxurious event for its guests, but intimidating for the staff that prepared it.

A woman in a blue dress takes a glass of mocktail from a server. “Thank you.” After a sip, she faces the guest beside her, a man in a black and purple suit. “I hope you’re not having doubts about our collaboration tonight, Mister Kim.”

“Not at all, Miss Yoon,” Kim Chungho says to her with a suave and nonchalant temper. “ModHaus has been one of the top rising companies in Korea in the past four years! How can we miss such a wonderful opportunity to work with you? It’s an honor for us and our company to be invited here tonight.”

“So is ours, Mister Kim!” exclaims Yoon Seoyeon. “What you and your company have been doing with fast and high quality livestock production is something that our country needs more than ever. We’re more than grateful that you delivered our Kitchen with your best supply for tonight.”

“That’s our pleasure!” Chungho receives her compliment well. “But speaking of products, When will dinner be ready? I’ve heard nothing but praise about the cuisine made by your ‘Kitchen’ and honestly, I’ve been anticipating how you’ll be cooking our products… I even skipped lunch today!”

Seoyeon chuckles in disbelief. “Really now? Well, I don’t advice you or anyone to go through a diet like that, but I assure you that your wait will be worth—”

The double doors from the kitchen opened up and eleven servers came out to the seven tables in the lobby, with one of them being Daewon. On their trays appeared waves of uniform yet diverse plates of culinary marvels. From East to West, the first batch of cuisine arrives thanks to the ModHaus waiting staff, starting with the appetizers.

The heads, their secretaries, and their colleagues couldn’t help but take their eyes on the cuisines coming their way. Some mouths water and throats gulp at the sight and scent of food, both familiar and unfamiliar, yet all are appetizing to the senses of each guest who was waiting for their treats. Who wouldn’t be up for a free gala meal?

“Well, how about that?” Seoyeon remarks and her enthusiasm prompts her to request a microphone from a staff member to call all guests. “Attention everyone. Our main meals are ready to serve! To our company partners, all I can say is that I can’t wait to hear what plans and proposals you have for our new collaboration.”

Almost each and every guest slowly sat on their tables, if they weren’t already there to begin with. The servers welcome them with their plates and bowls with a smile before placing each plate of appetizers.

“Enjoy your meal,” Daewon says to a guest with a smile after placing their platter.

It turned out to be quite the formal event. Hosted by ModHaus’ CEO, Yoon Seoyeon, the Seventh HAUS Event begins today, January 4, 2031. This year, its guests consist of about eight heads, dozens of representatives and celebrities from companies, agencies, and affiliate groups across Asia who were invited for this gala at the Grand Seoul Hotel.

As Seoyeon had spoken to him earlier, Mister Park Chungho from Jeju State represents his Produce Domain and has been partners with ModHaus for over eight years as one of its producers of different fresh livestock and ingredients. Now a main supplier for this event, approximately 50% of the ingredients used in the kitchen were delivered by them.

“This is quite the event, Ms. Yoon. You should be proud of this achievement,” a tall and slender woman in a dark red dress tells Seoyeon from her seat, located on the opposite side of the long dinner table. Her elegant presence garners everyone’s attention inside the room, man or woman. “And that dress… You look smashing today!”

“Oh, it’s such an honor to hear that from you. The Fashion Queen herself!” Seoyeon laughs as she can’t help but feel flattered. “But I don’t think tonight would’ve been this festive and glamorous without the designs and decorations you provided us, Miss Zhou. They simply take after you.”

“Of course, they do!” With a giggle, the guest in red dress takes in Seoyeon’s compliment to heart. “They're my precious babies, and what better nursery will help them grow and fit in with local customers than ModHaus.”

Miss Felicia Zhou hails from China, representing the Qian Fashion Imperium, though she had spent a few years in Korea during her youth. Her family company was known for cooling down any tension between her nation and their more belligerent neighbors alongside their allies due to the supreme quality yet affordable and accessible clothing they design, produce, and sell to customers worldwide. A well-known celebrity herself, Felicia is known for her past as a talented, award-winning actress and model, until she stepped down to join her family’s business from the moment it first expanded globally.

“That’s some analogy,” another guest comments from Seoyeon’s side of the table while the two continue to have a laugh with their seatmates. But due to her shining bracelet, Felicia cannot help but surprise her attention with a compliment.

“Princess Bunraksa! Oh, that’s a beautiful bracelet you have,” Felicia exclaims with glee, reaching her hands to her wrist. “I don’t I’ve ever seen that from your latest collections.”

“Thank you, Miss Zhou,” the princess chuckles at her excitement. “It’s not there… Yet. But I have to thank Seoyeon-unnie because with our new partnership, our stores can finally unveil the latest releases for this year. And please, just call me by my Korean name, Sullin.”

“Princess… I mean, Sullin-ssi…” Felicia reaches to her hand with a warm smile. “You’ve made the right choice working with ModHaus and Seoyeon-ssi… I can’t wait for your new collection, and I assure you that word will spread out in a flash.”

Hailing from Thailand, Princess Pirada Bunraksa and her family owns one of the largest production of gems, other precious stones, and jewelries—which has been supplying and financing five high-class jewelry stores across Korea since February 2027. When the Thai Princess first joined her family business, she was already in Korea, having accomplished her term as an exchange student. She volunteered to handle the necessary transactions and make the partnerships to establish their first Korean branch in Incheon before expanding to Seoul’s Jongno Jewelry District due to popular demand.

Miss Natsumi Yamada from Japan represents her family and close associates, whose corporation pioneers in tech and robotics manufacturing. They first became partners with ModHaus in its second year as an entry-level company, before Seoyeon’s term.

Mister John Gonzales is one simple and hardworking entrepreneur from the Philippines who runs a company that started to export various native products in the past two years.

Lady Kim Yerim is a renowned Korean-British businesswoman who runs Velvet Sweets, a cafe and bakery franchise that recently took most of the world by storm due to its vast assortment of innovative, delectable, and irresistible pastries and caffeinated drinks that first caught the palates of MZ and Alpha customers since their first opening.

As ModHaus also emphasizes on the welfare of its workers’ well-being, they’ve become close associates with Doctor Lucas Tan from Singapore, who has been the head of one of the leading world healthcare and newer pharmaceutical companies since 2027.

Finally ending in the industry of comfort, Mister Nguyen Lahn from Vietnam runs and represents his family line's greatest exports: furniture and textiles, and they have been providing fashion companies like Qian with high class materials, while maintaining an eco-friendly means of production, something that ModHaus also strongly advocates.

All these eight heads of companies across the globe have chosen to collaborate with one of the largest and most influential companies in Korea and Asia for some of their latest line of products and upcoming programs. Daewon took turns with his six fellow servers between serving food and waiting for the chefs’ signal. While he could not understand every single detail of the long talk between CEOs and representatives, as if he is even allowed to listen to them and their matters to begin with.

“I’m thankful to all of you for attending this gathering,” says Seoyeon. “To some, if not most of the public, this may seem like any other ordinary gala where we just spend our money on drinks and amusements and there’s no doubt about that. But I would like to take this night more as a way for us to unite and harmonize our ideals and principles because we want to spend our resources on causes that are bigger than ourselves.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Ms. Yoon,” Chungho raises his glass to her and stands up from his seat in approval. “Since the beginning, I have never regretted my partnership with the company. I’m glad that things are going smoothly under your direction.”

Felicia stands up with her raised glass as well, agreeing with his sentiments about her friend and associate. “It’s our pleasure, Seoyeon-ssi. We know to trust you well in our projects, so all of us should thank you as well for believing in them.”

“To ModHaus,” Sullin joins the two in their joint speech. “The home of possibilities.”

Everyone else at the table follows the three vocal heads as a united toast, raising their glass with nods, smiles, and bows as they look up to the head of their new partnership.

Seoyeon raises her full glass with a smile, touched by the words of her partners and associates, old and new alike. She takes a breath and tells them, “To ModHaus.”

Moments later, they sit down and go on to take delight in their meals while they converse with their seatmates about much less serious talks and possible future partnerships—just as the clock strikes eight-thirty in the evening. The cue for the kitchen servers enter with their trays of various main course meals and pitchers of drinks.

“By the looks of it, tonight looks pretty much like an upgrade from last year,” Natsumi notices. Observing the room must have reminded her of the past company gala, which her seatmates have also been guests in. “I can’t believe how different and similar the ballroom looks now, if that even makes sense.”

Lahn shakes his head. “I’m pretty you said the same thing last year, Miss Yamada.”

“I can’t say I disagree with him, though,” Sullin bluntly voices her agreement. “But the way you said it gave off the wrong impression.”

“I never said it was a bad thing,” she retorts, playing her comment as nothing short of an insult to the event. “Come on, you two. Did y’all miss the word upgrade from me?”

“Seoyeon-ssi, I couldn’t be more thankful that you chose to sponsor Velvet Sweets,” says Kim Yeri. “Especially since I was still a newbie entrepreneur from overseas, it was really hard to find a company that we could trust here in Korea. Then you gave us a chance.”

“That’s nothing compared to how much you’ve helped us back then, unnie,” Seoyeon reciprocates her gratitude. “All of you have made ModHaus’ success possible.”

She puts her hand on her right shoulder. “I know this must be a lot of pressure, with all these responsibilities for you to carry, but I believe that Mister Han would be proud of you… With how far you’ve come. This company couldn’t have asked for a better CEO.”

= = =

Back in the kitchen, Daewon stands alone after his heavy lifting from earlier.

“Hey, new guy!” a soup chef, or potager, calls him from his station. “Daewon-nim, right?”

“Yes, I am, Seongsu-nim,” he politely answers. “Do you need any assistance, Chef?”

Just from his fingers, Seongsu looks fidgety. His tummy has been slowly boiling in the past hour, much like the soup he’s been cooking. It won’t be a pleasing sight for anyone. Thankfully, only Daewon seems to notice the potager’s weird and questionable behavior.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, I do! I need it now!” Even from his voice, shaking can be felt, as his head must have been pouring sweat for some time. As if he’s holding in something for a while now. “You mind if you’d look over the soup for a bit? I just, I gotta go out for a bit…”

“Oh, okay…” Out of respect, the server has no other words but compliance. “Yes, Sir.”

“Oh, thank God!” Seongsu immediately takes off his apron and hands it onto the server. “This can’t wait. I gotta go—”

Daewon doesn’t bother asking him as the cook rushes through the kitchen’s back door. He is left in front of the boiling pot with no instructions. Time is running as is his fellow servers rushing in and out of the kitchen to serve any additional request from the guests in the lobby. With a familiar broth, the soup looks like it's almost complete. As he stares at the pot, Daewon gulps and puts on his colleague’s apron, staring at the cooking broth.

“Hey, Daewon-ssi,” a fellow server approaches his station. Thanks to the name tag on his shirt’s pocket, Daewon recognizes the person as Kim Chulwoo—another newbie like him. “Are the head’s special soup ready?”

Oddly enough, Chulwoo doesn’t even question why he’s there. “Ummm… I don't think—”

“Will ten minutes be enough?” he interjects a negotiation.

Dispirited by the pressure of the situation, Daewon can only mutter, “Well…”

“Okay!” he immediately answers, signing “okay” with his finger. “I’ll be back by then.”

Daewon begins his new work. Even if it’s not meant to be his station to begin with.

= = =

In the Central Ballroom, most guests have empty plates and bowls, occupied by their conversations about the countless cuisines they’ve just engorged in for the past hour.

“Oh my God. I can’t believe how good the food was,” Yamada shares with the rest of the guests with delight. “Compliments to the chef!”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Lahn adds. “They managed to nail the spring rolls. I don’t know if it’s the MSG or something but it’s just like gỏi cuốn back home! My family would love to have your recipe.”

“Our Kitchen has a minimum MSG policy,” Seoyeon bluntly declares. “So our recipe should definitely be more authentic than a lot of Vietnamese restaurants in Seoul.”

“Really?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure,” the CEO admits, yet she still embodies her confidence. “But whatever ingredients we use, our Kitchen never disappoints in making them authentic as they are, especially tonight. But since our main courses are almost finished—they may be less busy now, would you like to meet our chefs and ask them your questions?”

“Considering that our contracts have been settled, it would be our honor to meet them, Seoyeon-nim!” Chungho answers for the rest of the head guests, who nodded with him.

After a few minutes of relaying the message through text, two figures enter the Central Ballroom doors, akin to a dramatic entrance. Having taken off their aprons, Junghoon and Yubin confidently walk toward the table of the heads in their blue coats.

“Everyone, this is our head chef, Geum Junghoon, and our sous chef, Gong Yubin. For the past two years, they have been the two of our greatest cooks here in ModHaus”

“It’s such an honor to meet you two,” Chungho humbly shakes both of their hands.

“The way you placed the sushi and sashimi platter,” praises Natsumi. “It’s exquisite! You even decorated them so beautifully. I couldn’t decide on whether I should’ve kept staring at them or I should have eaten them all by myself.”

“It feels like I just traveled across several countries on this table,” Sullin imaginatively describes her experience to them. “Knowing how our fellow guests are also speaking highly of their native foods, I can’t help but commend your five-star cooking.”

“Oh, that means so much from you, Princess,” Yubin slightly bows out with her palms touching together in gratitude, like a prayer, which Junghoon follows at the same time. With her nod, Sullin chuckles and returns her wai as a form of appreciation to the chefs. “And we thank all of you for your wonderful words about our dishes.”

“But you look kind of familiar,” Lahn looks at the two with his squinting eyes. “Hmm… Actually both of you do.”

“We both partook in last year’s event,” Junghoon tries to help the guest remember. “If that’s ringing you any bells.”

“Yeah, that’s not it,” he shakes his head. “I don't remember meeting any good-looking chefs last year.”

“I don’t think your fiance will be happy to hear that if he was here, Mister Nguyen,” Seoyeon teases him.

“Or our kitchen managers,” Junghoon quips, making the other guests laugh.

“Are you saying neither of them are good-looking, Seoyeon-ssi?” Lahn defends himself. “I’m just saying that these two fine young chefs have a lot of potential to do more stuff outside the kitchens, you know? Have you ever considered getting them publicists or agents? They should get out there more often.”

“I second that!” adds Sullin. “That would help your own brand grow if you promote your Kitchen. Maybe Miss Zhou can even recommend some tips to you! Don’t you agree?”

Felicia seemed like she was staring at both chefs for a while. Either she’s mesmerized or perplexed at the sight of the two. Or both. “Of course, it would be my pleasure.”

Yubin adds insight to their suggestions. “Funny you should mention that…”

From outside the room, Daewon peeks through the door’s windows with his fingers crossed that nothing goes wrong. The table where his superiors are standing seems exuberant and joyous with their talks with the two star chefs.

“As much as I hate to interrupt,” an elderly guest taps the head chef beside him. “I would like to ask, where’s the special soup? I believe it has not yet been brought to my table.”

“Soup?” Junghoon wonders. “Are you perhaps referring to the clam chowder we served earlier? We still have a few more in the kitchen, but we can cook you up some more.”

“No,” the elder’s voice starts to sound more demanding. “ I didn’t like that thick soup. I asked the servers if the chefs could cook a soup that is more runny after our meal. That always helps with my digestion and I really need it...”

“Digestion?” Doctor Tan questions the older guest. “Perhaps you have medication?”

“Yes, I do,” he responds. “But it has been our tradition to have soup at the end of every meal. I assume you don’t have any problems with that.”

“I very much respect traditions, Mister Park,” the doctor elaborates his opinion. “But we advise patients to take their meds at least thirty minutes to an hour after they have a full stomach.”

“Doctor Tan has a point,” Seoyeon agrees. “Perhaps the soup can wait, Direct—”

“No, it can’t,” the old guest maintains his stubbornness, slowly raising his voice to the respectful doctor. “I’m not your patient. I can’t and won’t drink my medicine until I’ve had my soup. Now, where is it?”

“It’s okay, Doctor Tan,” Junghoon deescalates the “conversation” between the guests. “Mister Park, I’ll have the station cook in the kitchen follow it up right now.”

“I’ll handle it, Chef,” Yubin interjects, bowing to the guests before taking a walk towards the door, enclosing her right fist in a manner as if she's squeezing an invisible stress ball.

But just as when they need it the most, two servers arrive at the room. They surprise the guests with their presence while pushing a server trolley containing bowls and a pitcher of what seems to contain the anticipated after-meal soup of the night. “We apologize to everyone! Apologies, Mister Park, but we have your miso soup right here.”

“Finally!” exclaims the elder guest at the sight. “I can’t believe it’s taken you this long.”

“What were you doing?” Yubin whispers to the servers. “How long did they cook this?”

“The chef had an emergency,” the female server answers her with a hint of nervousness. “A server took over his shift and we didn’t know—”

“What?” Yubin’s eyes widen at the news, yet they maintain their sharpness. “Who?”

The server gulps at her superior. But just as she can answer the chef and while Junghoon helps with serving the rest of guests with their own bowls, they witness the reaction from the very guest who takes the first sip of soup. The one who requested it.

“What is this?” The elder is taken aback by the taste of the miso soup, shocking the chefs and confusing the rest of the guests. “Can I get the chef who cooked this soup? This is…”

“Is there any problem?” Junghoon asks the question his crew is too nervous to ask. They can only keep their fingers crossed—as the dead air only leaves them paralyzed in fright.

= = =

Minutes later, both chefs now returned to the kitchen. Yubin picks up the knife on the counter in front of her and throws its razor sharp blade straight into the cutting board. Her subordinates freeze and shudder at her wrath—which she fires straight at Daewon.

“You had one job, new guy! Just the one. It wasn’t hard, but you just had to be late when a major shareholder and former board member had requested his order for an hour!”

Despite knowing how he got there, Daewon blames himself, enduring the sous chef’s tiger-like roar at him while he looks down while her eyes are melting through his soul. Even if he tells the whole truth to her, it’s too late. He’s already taking in bullets to his heart and mind.

“Joesonghamnida! It won’t happen again,” Daewon repeatedly bows to the sous chef.

“Yubin-ah, this is his first day on the job,” Hyerin reprimands her. “Cut him some slack!”

“Consider himself lucky Mister Park didn’t snap like he used to,” Yubin hisses.

“That’s enough, Yubin-nim!” Junghoon silences the room with his raised voice while he’s pinching the bridge of his nose. “Not Mister Park, nor any of the guests have complained. Yes, I know it wasn’t one-to-one with our standard recipe, they liked the soup with how it turned out. They said it was familiar... Authentic even. He was just surprised.”

“Joesonghamnida, Chef,” Daewon lowers his bow to them. “I thought I could handle the situation myself, but I didn’t tell any of you.”

Hyerin turns her head to the root of the issue, standing at the corner of the kitchen. “C’mon now, Seongsu-ssi. Why the hell did you leave him to cook your dish?

“Joesonghamnida, Yubin-nim. Joesonghamnida, Chef,” Seongsu bows at them quickly, mirroring Daewon’s actions. “I had a rough lunch earlier and it just suddenly happened. I didn’t know who else I could hand over—”

“Save it,” Yubin sighs, simmering down from her misplaced outburst. “It’s over. I’m not having any of this. The event’s over… I’ll meet all of you on Monday.”

Heading to the locker room, a quiet Yubin is the first chef to leave the kitchen to pack up.

“Make sure you drink your medicine, Seongsu-ssi,” Junghoon reminds his subordinate with a few taps on his shoulder. “But next time, tell some of the chefs to look over your station, not a server. Arasseo?”

“Ne. I will, Chef.” Seongsu bows. “Thank you for understanding, Sir. Joesonghamnida.”

“Daewon-ssi, we should talk for a moment,” Junghoon calls him just as he calls out to his left-hand woman, considering that his right-hand is no longer there. “Hyerin-ssi…”

Together with Hyerin, she and Junghoon had a word with the young server. A dispirited Daewon follows them, unable to think of any other way of how this night ends for him.

= = =

After about ten minutes, Junghoon exits the kitchen when hears an “excuse me” from the hallway. He turns around to see a familiar face slowly approach him. It's one of the eight heads who sat on the same table with Seoyeon. Fashion Imperium’s associate director— Felicia Zhou. He notices that she’s fixed herself, despite her enticing red dress standing out from earlier. Her hair is now tied and she’s holding a jacket around her left arm.

“I want to apologize for how Mister Kim reacted earlier,” she mutters. “I was aware of his behavior last year, and your crew must’ve been distressed if the same thing happened again. I hope that no one’s getting fired or anything for that matter.”

“There’s no need to apologize, Miss Zhou,” he eases her worry. “You didn’t do anything disrespectful, and my employees are doing much better now, especially compared to last year. From experience, Mister Kim still must’ve been constipated tonight that he was still craving that small bowl of miso soup.”

“That’s fair, because that miso soup was a great addition too,” she laughs at his remark. “You and your crew did a great job with the food.”

“I'm honored that an international celebrity enjoyed what we've cooked for all of you. It’s not rare for us to serve well-known guests, but it seems to be the first time everyone’s full from finishing their meals.”

“I might as well start dining in your restaurant if you keep that up,” she quips.

Both of them chuckle. Their eyes remain leveling at each other and to an extent, their souls. However, it feels as if there’s an invisible barrier that she’s trying to get through while she stares at him. She can't read anything from the man’s polite face. But she's a determined woman, so she holds in her hesitations…

“Geum Junghoon-ssi…” she says his name softly.

“Yes, Miss Zhou?” He seems unfazed when she calls him by his full name, something that only discourages her subtle intention. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Not really,” she doesn’t know what else to say, having lost hope about her assumption. “But I just gotta ask. Do you, umm… Remember me?”

It’s not just curiosity that fuels her to ask more questions to this man. This supposed “stranger.” For her, it’s more of a necessity that she hears him. Something is clinging inside her—clenching into her heart—one that won’t let go. Not until he answers her.

“Perhaps?” The chef still doesn’t know what she means. “Since Mister Nguyen also asked us a similar question earlier, have you attended last year’s gala, by any chance?”

“No, umm, but our previous president did. It’s my first time being invited to this event as an associate director of the company.”

“Well... I believe you may have mistaken me for someone else, since I was not the head chef at the time, but thank you so much for your compliment. My staff and I have been preparing the recipes for a week or two, so those words do mean a lot from someone in your position and reputation.”

Their uneasy atmosphere is drowned by the cacophony of noises from the kitchen. Junghoon hears the clattering plates and pans to rattling utensils being sorted out.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to head back to the kitchen and clean up.”

She lost her chance. “O–of course,” she stammers. “It was nice meeting you… Chef.”

Junghoon runs out of the lobby after a respectful bow in front of her. Downcast and confused, Felicia can only bow to him in response. She looks at him from afar. Their distance drifts with every second until he returns to the Kitchen… Not another word. Just a puddle of sorrow rising up and flooding into her heart.

= = =

Outside the hotel lobby, Daewon is back to his casual attire, a checkered polo shirt.

The driver rolls up their window. “Daewon-ssi,” Hyerin calls him. “Do you want a ride?

“Oh, no, no, no!” With his hands, he politely waves away her request. “You don’t have to, Hyerin-nim. I don’t live that far from here.”

“Oh really?” She wonders how far, but she intends to establish boundaries with him. “Well, okay... Stay safe. (waves) Na meonjeo galge!”

Hyerin drives off into the road. Daewon receives a text on his phone, prompting him to pull it out of his pocket. The bright screen lightens up his face with a soft smile. After a fifteen-minute walk to his neighborhood of Chuseon, Daewon meets up with his close friends in front of a nearby convenience store.

At a table, Ji Suhyeon and Lee Kyubok welcome him with celebratory midnight drinks. Suhyeon opens her first can of beer and drinks down her first sip for the night. Kyubok watches his friend with a laugh, before taking a sip himself.

“Yah! That must’ve been so hard for you, Daewon-ah. I wish I had told Kotone when it happened, but darn it! I had to extend my shift for the entire morning and afternoon, I couldn’t even use my phone to call her.”

“I’m fine, Suhyeon-noona,” Daewon calms her down. “It was sudden when it happened… And besides, Kotone-noona was busy interacting with the guests, so we couldn’t talk to each other the whole night, anyway.”

“Still,” Suhyeon groans. “She was the one who recommended you to this job to begin with. The least she could’ve done was tell you a little more details about what you were in for.”

Kyubok pats him on the back. “It’ll be better, Daewon-ah! Almost everyone messes up on their first day or week or month. It’s no big deal.”

Daewon sighs. “Ahh… So much for the ‘home of all possibilities.’ I didn’t even know that getting scolded on your first shift was possible when you tried doing the right thing.”

“Kyubok-ah is right, though,” Suhyeon points out. “It’s only your first day there. I’m sure they’ll understand. At least most of your heads do. Who knows if you’ll get a promotion after finishing that chef’s soup under pressure!”

“I’m just an ant working for those giants,” Daewon scratches his head. “It feels weird working there just tonight. I’m not even sure if it’s worth staying there.”

“I get how you feel. But ModHaus is like, the least corrupt company in Seoul,” she assumes. “At least that we know of. I believe that your crew will take care of you the longer you’re there. Just take it from Kyubok-ah and Kotone-chan.”

“I hope so,” Daewon feels like Suhyeon had just taken away most of his worries from him. “How long have you been working there, Kyubok-hyung?”

“About half a year,” he answers. “But you get what I mean, right? They have some nice and approachable staff. I’m sure the rest of the Kitchen’s no different.”

“Daewon-ah, come on now,” Suhyeon pats him on the back. “You did well tonight, okay? Don’t let some old, snobby, senile shareholder let you down because he got impatient for some digestion soup!”

“But Daewon-ah made that soup for the most part,” Kyubok points out to her. “That’s why he almost got an earful from that shareholder, no thanks to the actual chef who was supposed to be making it.”

“Oh… And I’m sure it tastes good. Probably even better than what that chef would have made!” she confidently remarks. “But my point is, I bet that both ModHaus President Yoon Seoyeon and Head Chef Geum Junghoon did their job to defend you through hell and back.”

“Chef Junghoon and Chef Hyerin-nim did speak for me during that moment, I guess,” Daewon recalls the scene from earlier. “But I don’t know much about President-nim.”

“You should start calling him hyung eventually, don’t you think?” she suggests.

“Hmm, maja!” Kyubok nods. “He was the first to consider Kotone’s recommendation of you, so I don’t see why you can’t be more informal with him one day.”

“Most of the staff were nice and considerate anyway, so I don’t think that’s necessary,” he tells them with a humble tone just before his memory catches up to him, making his eyes light up. “Well, maybe except for that one chef. His second-in-command. The sous chef.”

“Wait, I thought that Chef Hyerin was the second-in-command?” Kyubok gets confused by his statement. “She’s not the sous chef?”

“I thought she was,” Daewon clarifies. “But she’s only a chef de partie, and she was close with the head chef, so I assumed that she’s the sous chef.”

Suhyeon is shocked as well. “Omo, omo, omo. You already have a workplace rival? On your first night on the job? Wahhh, daebak… That must be some record!”

“How the hell did Yook Daewon, the kindest fellow in town, have a coworker who hates him? Do you want us to retaliate against him?” Kyubok adds. “If you want, Tone-chan and I can set up a prank at the cafeteria the next time we see that rude-ass douche.”

“Whatever that is,” a fourth voice answers him, walking up to their table. “I don’t wanna get involved in any more pranks or goofs, okay?”

“And speak of the devil!” Suhyeon calls Kotone out as the latter sits on the vacant chair. “Another late shift, eh? Daewon told me you’ve socialized with a lot of guests tonight. How’d that go?”

“Is someone getting a promotion soon?” Kyubok hypes up, though Kotone isn’t amused. “I’m surprised you even made it to the gala while our team was stuck with paperwork.”

“I don’t even wanna talk about it! And it’s not like my job was any easier up there,” she retorts. “But since we’re talking about work… Daewon, I can talk to her instead. Maybe she can directly apologize to you in your next meeting with Junghoon.”

“I appreciate the intentions, noona,” Daewon chuckles. “But you don’t have to… She might’ve just had a bad memory from Mister Park or something. Besides, I don’t wanna get fired the moment I get back by bringing it up again.”

“Oooooh…” Kyubok is intrigued by the new detail. “So, the sous chef is a woman then.”

Suhyeon grunts at him. “Why did you just react like that?”

A jolt of fear strikes not just Kyubok, but even the other two. “Like what?”

“Like that makes it okay if a woman just assaulted an employee…”

“Noona, I wasn’t assaulted,” Daewon reassures her again. “She just gave me an earful.”

“To a new employee?” she snaps. “What are you guys in, Culinary Class Wars? Hell’s Kitchen? That's unwarranted behavior from a superior if I have ever heard one.”

“Yeah!” Kyubok chimes in the hate train. “That doesn’t make sense. Who does that woman think she is?” He drinks up his can.

“A three-time award-winning chef,” Kotone nonchalantly brings up to them.

Kyubok spills the beer from his mouth like a tight faucet. “What the fuck?”

But Suhyeon remains unimpressed. “So is Geum Junghoon! But has he ever treated his own kitchen staff like shit? I knew Gong Yubin in college, too, you know? That wasn’t like her then!”

“Noona, are you alright?” Daewon senses it. She’s channeling her resentment elsewhere.

Suhyeon sighs in her own defeat. “Yeah… I mean, I don’t know. To be honest... I guess I just wanted a little break from home for just a night. You rarely get that around while raising a little bumpkin on your own.”

“How is Dongwon?” Daewon asks out of concern. “Did you find a sitter for her tonight?”

“Seoah’s taking care of her,” Suhyeon reveals. “She’s practically his aunt at this point.”

“You sure she’s okay with babysitting him all day?” Kyubok wonders. “She’s a sophomore in college now, isn’t she? That kid would probably have a lot on her plate by next year.”

“That’s what I said!” Suhyeon echoes with her slightly raised voice. “But she’s the one who insisted. She said it’s her excuse to see her ‘nephew.’ Yet, then again, if you think about it, she’s doing a much better job taking care of my own child than I am.” She puts her palm on her face and groans. “God, I’m a horrible parent, am I?”

“Yah… Don’t be like that to yourself,” Kotone comes to her defense, holding Suhyeon’s wrist and slowly pulling them down away from her face to assure her. “You’re doing your best as a mother, Suhyeon-ah!”

“Yeah,” Kyubok chimes in. “Especially if you have a kid to look after, I think that having a little me time ain’t that bad. Heck—If being here with us still makes you feel bad, I’m also willing to babysit Dongwon too!”

“So am I, noona!” Daewon joins them with enthusiasm. “I’ll find time outside my shifts. Don’t hesitate to ask me.”

“T--thanks, yeo--reobun,” she stutters. “I don’t know what I can do without you guys.”

“You should know we’re always here for you, Ji Suhyeon,” Kotone leans in for a hug. “Like you’re here, with us.”

Suhyeon can't help but be touched by Kotone’s remarks and the reassuring promises of her friends, she’s holding a few tears from pouring down her eyes. Despite living as a strong and caring single mother for the past three years, she didn’t always feel like she’s alone because of their presence and support.

“Just don’t drink too much!” Kyubok takes her empty can just before she can take a sip. “You’ve had enough cans for the night.”

“Oppa!” she tries to reach for the empty can, but it’s already on Kyubok's side of the table. “That’s not fair! That was only my fourth can.”

“Let Daewon drink some of the beers, too. He’s had a rough first night,” he snaps back.

Getting another empty beer can beside her, Suhyeon’s close friends witness the cylindrical aluminum container slowly get folded and crunched up by her palm with ease while her eyes remain its, instinctively evoking a gulp from Kyubok and a nervous laughter from Daewon. Kotone shakes her head while letting out a chuckle.

“I’m okay, hyung,” Daewon politely declines the offer, holding his cold and condensed unopened can. “I don't feel like drinking tonight. Here, Tone-noona, you can take mine.”

“Thanks, Daewon-ie,” Kotone takes the beer can from him. “Kyubok-oppa’s right on this one. I don't know if you’d like to have a hangover and beer breath in the morning while looking after Dongwon, but I don’t think this habit will set a good example for him.”

“Yeah,” Suhyeon sighs. Listening to Kotone's observation, she quickly cups her own hands and breathes into them to warm and sober up.

“You guys are right. What am I thinking? I should clean up in a bit. You guys better get home soon!”

“Ne, eomma!” Tone playfully answers her, igniting laughter from Daewon and Kyubok.

= = =

The following week has come since Saturday’s gala event. As early as eight to nine in the morning, employees run the office with their gossip, murmurs, and speculations about how the night had turned out. Considering how not everyone got the chance to attend such a grand event, most of the workers can only let their own imaginations run wild. Perhaps exaggerate an incident or interaction. Even if a certain rumor doesn’t have a grain of truth and fact that it ever happened, its “entertainment factor” is enough for them to talk about something and keep themselves motivated for the rest of the day.

“I heard there’s some spicy biz that night!” Miyu rushes to her deskmates in the coffee station. “Did any of y’all hear from the advertising team? Some of ‘em were really wild.”

“I did hear that some guests did it,” Suhyeon adds. “But there were some other things they managed to keep under wraps. You got any guesses on what it could’ve been?”

“Well, I don’t know if this is a big tea,” Chaeyeon whispers to them. “But Joonie-sunbae said that some server from the kitchen almost pissed off one of the board members—”

“Come on, Chaeyeon-ssi, you guys actually believe the advertising department?” Kotone interjects the talk between her colleagues, skeptical at whatever they were discussing. “I mean… If there was any tea that would’ve been spilled at the gala… I would’ve known.”

“Tone-yah!” Chaeyeon and the rest of her buddies get surprised. “Are you sure nothing scandalous happened at the event? You lucky dog… What are you not telling us?”

“At this point, I couldn’t care less whether their rumors are true or not, Tone-ssi,” Suhyeon whines. “Dang! I just wanna hear something extraordinary that might have happened last Saturday. A good office drama will keep us going for the rest of the year.”

“Believe whatever you want girls,” she warns them with a chuckle. “But save some of your tea for later. It’s time for lunch.”

“Tone-ssi… You’re really not telling us anything?” Miyu sounds like she’s pleading.

“Fine! I’ll tell you after lunch.” Kotone gives in to their desperation. “I don’t know too much gossip, but I know some projects that’ll definitely get you excited for the year.”

“Deal!” Suhyeon shakes her hand out of the blue.

Considering that not everyone at the company eats there during every lunch, dining at the ModHaus Cafeteria was not as grand or fancy as its events, but it is just as, if not more hospitable and relaxing to eat there, thanks to their Kitchen’s service and passion to cook up and serve excellent food. Open from Monday to Friday (sometimes Saturday), most of the residents and workers take their time dining while talking about how crappy or superb their day is so far. On some days, friends don’t even have time to eat together.

In the ModHaus Cafeteria, only twelve members of the staff are working at lunchtime.

“I hope it’s not a hassle for you to be working at this hour, Daewon-ssi,” Hyerin tells him. “I know this may be a sudden change in your schedule.”

“It’s okay, Chef,” the newcomer lightens up. “You and Head Chef Geum are the ones who gave me this offer. And it’s one that I can’t say no to.”

“You probably could have if you didn’t want it…” she points out.

“That’s true, Chef,” he nods. “Anyone else could’ve taken the promotion.”

“No. You deserve that promotion as much as anyone else, okay? You’ve proven that you can work under pressure” she defends him from his own misgivings. “Now, do you want us to regret making you an apprentice? Or do you want to prove yourself by learning?”

“I wanna learn, Chef!” He bows to her with enthusiasm, confirming his new position.

It is Tuesday afternoon when the Kitchen’s Head Chef Junghoon takes off his toque and the rest of his uniform, taking a break after cooking during the morning shift, leaving his most trusted crew to run it throughout the afternoon shift. Unfortunately, his usual hour of peace and relaxation becomes a state of confusion and discomfort the moment he sees the last face he expects to meet in this building.

The same woman who approached him outside the Grand Hotel’s kitchen. He can see her talking to her assistant. “I can take it from here, Yoojin. Use this company card to treat the rest of the teammates. Just like yesterday, arachi? Have fun!”

The latter bows to her and walks away from the cafeteria, while the woman follows him as she waves at him, like any other coworker who hasn’t seen their colleague in a while.

“Good afternoon, Miss Zhou,” he bows to her while holding his meal-filled tray. He tries to go on with his usual routine—but he feels the persistence of the woman from his past. Wearing glasses while in a business suit, she looks more or less distinguishable from her more revealing and standout attire since their last encounter, although she still manages to stand out on this one.

“I didn’t expect to meet you here, Chef Geum,” she follows him after falling in line and receiving her own tray of meals from the cafeteria line, only a minute after the chef got his. One of the perks of being beautiful, one would guess. Despite their distant meeting last week, her casualness is restored, showing her willingness to catch up with the man. “I really thought you’d be running a restaurant of your own, but now that I think about it, it makes more sense that you are the head of this cafeteria.”

He maintains his silence, while she keeps walking behind him. “Are you not with your team and colleagues, Miss Zhou? I just saw one of yours walk away just now.”

“I wanted to be more acquainted with this place myself,” she answers. “My team wanted to treat me to lunch, but I gave them my card instead so they could eat somewhere fancy outside... It's the least I can do on their first day joining my team.”

“Why didn't you go with them?” “Surely, a woman of your position would be more comfortable dining at a luxurious restaurant.”

“Is there anything more luxurious than The Kitchen who served us the most diverse and delicious cuisine at the gala?” she flatters, though the chef himself is not too amused. “If I’m gonna start working with ModHaus in person, I’d rather spend more time and get used here, my new home.”

“Well…” Junghoon reaches a vacant table. “Make yourself at home, Miss Zhou.”

She’s still in disbelief, yet deep inside, she feels that his behavior is nor unwarranted.

“Come on. Don’t you wanna talk about anything?” the woman becomes blunt with him, though she keeps her tone amiable. To his ears, however, her persistence is now starting to break through his clueless facade and his wall of politeness. “Do you really not wanna catch up, Mister Geum? It's been years since we’ve—”

“There’s nothing to talk about, Xinyu-ssi,” he finally snaps back, even with his low voice. Despite this sudden temper, he puts his tray on the table with no noise for others to hear.

Junghoon immediately realizes what he’s said to her. Xinyu’s eyes widened at the sound of her name. Not Felicia—but her native name. Aish… He thinks to himself with chagrin.

She freezes in shock and awe at his sudden response, even struggling to breath for a second until she mutters her next words. “So you do remember me… Junghoon-ah.”

In the man’s thoughts, he thinks revealing the truth to her would be enough to push her away and walk out of the cafeteria. Even though his heart is feeling the opposite, he just wanted his own sorrow to end. As selfish as his feelings may be, he does not know what else to do in dealing with this situation someone like him would not even imagine. Who knew she’d actually be back? She’s not the same person you knew.

“You were my sunbae in college,” he tells her bluntly. “How could I not remember you?”

“But that night,” she confronts him. “It was like you pretended that we were strangers.”

“We are strangers,” he keeps her pushing away. “Aren’t we, Zhou Xinyu-nim?”

Her heart keeps sinking, but she musters up to go on until she finds the remnants of the same man she used to know. “We used to know each other.”

“We did,” he maintains his coldness. “But I don't think that matters to you now, Felicia.”

She looks down as guilt clenches her heart. I’m guessing he remembers me… Everything about me. But deep inside, Xinyu wants to answer his hurtful remarks. However, just as she would���ve muttered another word, the harrowing silence between them was abruptly broken thanks to someone else’s interference. Another friend who somehow recognized her from back in the day. One who made her reminisce about the better days of the past, considering that the other didn’t when he saw her face once again.

“Zhou Xinyu-nim? Is that really you?” Out of nowhere, Kotone asks her with her mouth agape. Junghoon takes a seat on the corner of the table by himself, hoping to avoid any attention from what’s about to happen.

As she turns to see another familiar face, Xinyu’s reactions are beyond her control. “Omo… Kamimoto Kotone-chan?”

The two squeal as they unleash their joy and excitement. Junghoon cannot help but hide a snicker from the side of his seat. In this moment, he puts his strong emotions aside for the reunion that is unfolding before his eyes.

He's almost forgotten that he's not the only person who’s known Xinyu here from a personal level. Kotone looks at him, but he appears to be focused on taking sips of his soup. Surprisingly, her attire makes her look like anyone else. Everyone seems to be falling for her Clark Kent or Kara Danvers effect. For most workers, Xinyu is just a new employee who’s gonna bring nothing but annoyance, eye candy, or endless curiosities to them—at least in the meantime. Attention from everyone is the last thing she needs right now, so they join the head chef’s table to blend in the herds of corporate life.

“What are you doing here?” Continuing her conversation with the older woman, Kotone lowers her voice just as she takes a seat right beside Junghoon. “I thought you only went here for the gala event?”

Xinyu follows her move, taking the seat in front of Junghoon, as they continue talking. “I’m here to oversee the partnership between my company’s team and ModHaus.”

Kotone steals a glance at Junghoon, quietly taking a bite of a piece of tonkatsu and a spoonful of rice. My God, I can’t believe that things are still rough between these two. After six flipping years? She wonders, before looking at Xinyu once more with a bright smile as their conversation continues after joining the vacant seat on Junghoon’s table.

“Oooh…” Despite her position in ModHaus, Kotone’s formalities begin to drop around Xinyu, embodying the comfort and familiarity of their past as college friends. “How long will you be staying here then?

“Well, I don't know yet,” she humbly admits. “It depends on how our meetings will go... The heads preferred online meetings, but I proposed we also hold face-to-face meetings as well, so maybe I’ll stay here a little longer so I can check the progress of our project in person.” Xinyu takes a quick glance at Junghoon. He’s already halfway through his meal.

“I can’t believe the CEO of China’s top fashion brand is in our cafeteria!” Tone squeals.

“Please. I’m only the Associate Director of the Emporium,” she humbly corrects her. “That’s not even close to the Vice President... And come on, just call me unnie.”

Junghoon looks out to the rest of the cafeteria, noticing some employees trying to take out their phones and aiming their cameras. Thankfully, guards are there to moderate.

“Well… You never know, unnie,” Kotone embraces their renewed casualness. “This is a huge partnership between two of the greatest companies in Asia! If you keep it up, this may just get you promoted by the end of the year, don't you think?”

Xinyu chuckles. “That’s not really what’s on my mind, but we’ll see… For now, I’m just  helping out ModHaus with designing their next installment of clothing among other projects… And get in touch with some of our college buddies if I have time, of course.”

“Sure, you’ll have time!” Kotone hypes up her plans, despite its uncertainties. “And if you’re ever interested in taking a ‘trip down memory lane’ at our university, that can certainly be arranged. I know a few folks working there.”

“That would be great! I haven’t been at SSU in a long while… Wah, I wonder how much has changed here.”

“Oh, you have no idea, unnie. Just you wait.” She looks at Junghoon beside her with a raised eyebrow. “Yah! How about you, Chef Junghoon? You think you have the time?”

Junghoon is only chewing his food until the woman repeatedly taps his shoulder. “Huh…” He swallows and turns to her. “What?”

“Do you wanna tag along with us?” Kotone recalls. “We’re doing a tour of our university.”

“What for?” He steals a glance at Xinyu. She’s looking down at her meal, taking a bite of her salad. She doesn’t know how to face him either, especially not after he acted to her. Junghoon doesn’t know how to feel either. Kotone, on the other hand, is also far from amused by his blasé response to her nostalgic suggestions.

“What do you mean what for? she scoffs at his question. “For old times sake!”

“Who else will be there then?” He challenges her plan.

“Anyone else who we’ve met in college, who else?” she retorts.

“Are you sure this isn’t just one of your half-baked plans that you’re just coming up with now just to prove a point?”

Xinyu can’t help but laugh at Junghoon’s banter, but she prolongs her reaction to make herself look like she’s coughing instead. Kotone smirks at the two right after. Well, well, well… She thinks about them. Who knew? Junghoon shakes his head, but he still smiles.

“It will happen!” she insists to him, pointing a finger to both of them. “Just you wait... And I’m gonna have a good look on your faces once you’re back on campus.”

= = =

No matter how many times he avoided her, it seems that there's always a time and place where the two meet eyes and cross each other's paths. They’re now working in the same building after all. Hours become days. Days turn into weeks. He tolerates her countless persistence through the veil of her elegance and courteousness towards all the workers she passes by across the building, while she endures his attempts at often cutting their interactions short under the guise of the head chef’s busy mundane cafeteria schedule.

Regardless of their movements, the cats are out of the bag between these two. A former actress-and-model-turned-fashion-designer and a respected corporate head chef—only themselves and a few people are aware of their personal history. This game of hide and seek isn’t gonna end anytime soon.

= = =

February. It’s way past midnight on a Friday. The head chef had finished organizing and locking the kitchen by himself and is now making his way outside the ground floor of the parking lot to exit the building, considering the main entrance is closed during this hour.

A car stops beside him. He tries to look through the driver’s window out of curiosity, but it’s too dark to recognize anyone from outside. The driver rolls out their window to face Junghoon, revealing to be none other than Xinyu herself. “Where’s your ride?”

“I don't have any,” he bluntly tells her.

His answer confuses her. “What do you mean you don’t have–?” To the point that trying to make sense of it irritates her. A high-paying chef doesn’t own or drive a car? “Wait. Is this one of your excuses to avoid me again?”

“No, I’ve never had a car,” he tries to answer both her questions. “And I’m not avoiding you… I, umm, usually take a walk to the bus stop, if that’s what you’re wondering about.”

“The bus stop?” she scoffs in disbelief. “At this hour?”

“Yeah..? I don’t own a car,” he tells her, hoping it will throw her off and she’ll leave him.

Xinyu doesn’t know if she feels annoyed or dejected about his distance towards her. How he keeps pushing her away now. It didn’t matter because she feels both. In her heart and mind, the woman feels compelled to take initiative in this weird dynamic between them. It’s the least I can do, she thinks to herself. She sighs before looking back at him.

“Get in the car,” she tells him with a straight face.

That’s a response he doesn’t expect to hear from her. “Excuse me?”

“I’ll take you to your apartment…” she shakes her head. “I–I mean drive you there.”

“Thank you for your offer, Zhou Xinyu-nim, but I can still catch the bus.”

“Please don’t give me that honorifics crap, Junghoon-ssi. I’m not here to kidnap you… And besides, it’s already late. Do you really think you can still get a ride out there?” She looks down, hiding her sorrow towards him. “And besides, you don’t have to talk to me.”

Junghoon takes another look at the distance, down the streets. The stop had little to no bystanders. He takes a quick glance at his holographic wristwatch. It’s already 1:44 AM. She has a point. What am I thinking? Junghoon walks up to Xinyu’s car, to which she clicks a button, opening the door to the front passenger seat. But his hand reaches the door beside it, on the back seat. Awkwardness fills the air between the two, but Xinyu rolls her eyes and quickly opens the back seat door. Junghoon immediately opens it.

“Thanks,” is the least he could say to her.

“Don’t mention it.”

Driving outside the ModHaus Parking Lot, she can’t help but steal glances at the back seat through the rear view mirror. He’s looking outside the window. Even in the comfort of his seat, his posture is straight. A bit too straight. She feels the hint of discomfort from him, but his mostly blank somber face and silence tries to hide it.

“Where to?” she asks.

“It ain’t too far from here,” he explains to her. “But I can tell the address to the GPS, if that's okay with you.”

Xinyu clicks on the screen in front of her, activating its built-in digital assistant. He tells AI his address and within seconds, the route to the location pops up. She takes a look at the screen with a nod before easily shifting her gears and stepping on the pedal for this fifteen-minute ride.

He got a new place. Such thoughts begin to pop up in her mind. I mean, of course, he would. This shouldn’t be that big of a deal. She can’t help but be curious. Minutes pass, they leave the ModHaus Headquarters. The woman tries to get her mind and eyes off her passenger on the backseat by looking outside the window as she drives across Seoul. Certain memories resurface to her. Ones that put a still smile on her face. Simpler times.

The scenery makes her contemplate. “After all these years, Seoul still looks beautiful.”

“Aside from the bullet trains, brighter and more colorful neon lights, and noisier businesses on the streets, nothing much has changed if you look from a distance.”

“I know I can’t say the same about everything, but…” she smiles at the sight of Seoul. “I’m glad some things stayed, well, the same.”

“I guess some things did,” he concurs, taking another glance at her.

She sets her wheel to semi-autopilot, before taking a deep breath. “Can we talk..?”

“We’re talking right now,” he tells her.

“No, I mean talk about something else,” she continues. “Please…”

Junghoon himself sighs. There’s no energy of anger or resentment left for him, perhaps because that’s not how he mostly feels about Xinyu. Deep down, he feels tired. Tired of running away from her. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Just you know,” she pulls anything from her mind just to keep the conversation going. “How have you been?” She starts with the basics. Surely, that one will lead somewhere.

“I’m doing alright.” So much effort from that response.

“You didn't seem like you’re alright,” she snaps back.

“Well, not everyone gets happy days,” he confesses. “I’m sure you can agree sometimes.”

“I can,” she nods. “And you got a point. I guess I’m just stuck with the past and all…”

Such an answer sends a shiver down in his spine. “How so?”

“You're not as cheerful as you were… Not as optimistic as I knew you.”

“You really are stuck,” he scoffs. “Things change… So do people.”

She can only nod. “But hey… It seems you're doing great… You're a head chef now.”

“You also seem to be living a great life,” he agrees. “I guess it was worth it.”

Her nerve is also struck by his words, knowing what he means. “I guess it was…” she whispers, even though such a response is something that she isn’t sure she believes.

They arrive at Junghoon’s residence. A fifteen-story apartment in the middle of a quiet downtown neighborhood in Cheongdam, Seoul. At least it’s quiet this hour. While not the tallest within the block, it's the same height as most of the buildings alongside it.

Junghoon exits the car and bows to her with respect. “Thank you again, Miss Zhou.”

“It’s…” she bows to him, lowering her head from her seat. “No problem, Junghoon-ssi.”

He reminisces about who she was to him. Before the sorrowful memories. Before she left. The thought of her leaving again constricts his heart. Instead of letting his own past spite keep on pulling him into silence, Junghoon takes a deep breath.

“Xinyu-ssi…” he mutters. To him, it doesn’t matter if he’s shameless for calling her now. Let alone if he’s called an asshole for changing his tone when she kept on putting up with his attitude. Screw his own grudges. Screw his ego. Screw himself. At this moment, all his heart tells him that he just wants to see her again. Even if it’s for a second.

“Yes?” She halts the windows from rolling up, looking back at him with a hopeful gaze.

For a moment, Junghoon looks her in the eye. Yet his mouth hesitates to say something else. At least what he wants to say to her. Like any other sane person with a conscience, he wants to make up for what he’s done. For how he’s treated this person like a brick wall for days.

“Take care.”

Close enough. He still doesn’t know what to think of this. What to feel about any of this. Yet it already feels fifteen times better than how he treated her the last time they’ve met.

And so what else can Xinyu do at the moment? She lets out a smile the second Junghoon turns his back and enters the apartment lobby. The woman drives off away from him, yet not a second, could she think without thinking about what just happened tonight.

Entering his room, Junghoon looks through his window and sighs in silence, slowly unveiling the despair on his face in front of the silent and glistening lights of Seoul. Through the reflection of the glass, he sees a glimpse of himself at a time he rarely reminisces, at least at his own will.

Eight years ago.

= = =

so that's the prologue. if some may have gotten confused by the "cover" of this chapter, I'll just clarify that this isn't a harem story lol. but don't worry, I'm not stopping my one-shots and the other series because they're also w.i.p.s. I just decided to give a taste of this one. there will also be smut here, but right now, I'm setting up this series as it is. stay tuned and, as usual, tysm for the read. if you're a wav, don't forget to stream aya & a25! until next time. ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊

[munsonsmixtapes]

The Prophecy

Steve Harrington x fem!reader

After recommending a movie to you, Steve invited you you over to watch it with him and to his surprise, you agree.

This has been sitting in my drafts for a while and I have no idea why I never posted it.

Based on “The Prophecy” by Taylor Swift because that song is Steve.

Steve would be the first to admit that his sex life is nothing but vanilla. He’s always on top and always so sweet and gentle. But now he’s starting to wonder if that’s the problem. If that’s the reason why women don’t seem to want anything more than a one night stand.

He doesn’t get it. He used to be King Steve and now he can’t even get a call back? What the fuck is that about? He goes on a date almost every night and still somehow the only action he gets is with his hand.

The “you suck” side of Robin’s board is so full that she had to get another one and what started as a harmless joke has now made Steve start to think badly about himself. He used to have so much confidence and now it’s withering away bit by bit with each rejection.

He thinks all hope is lost until you walk in to Family Video. You’re all smiles as you ask him for a suggestion and he’s convinced it’s all a prank. It’s going too well if he’s being honest. You’re laughing at his jokes and genuinely seem interested in what he’s recommending. He’s now wondering if Robin put you up to this so he’d stop complaining to her about being single.

He decides it doesn’t matter and that he’s going to play along because you’re pretty and now he’s following you around the store like a lost puppy, holding a large stack of tapes that you’ve handed to him. Normally, he hates when people treat him like he’s their personal shopper but he’s going to let you do whatever you damn well please. You might as well tell him to jump because he’ll ask how high.

“Is this one any good?” You ask, holding up a tape to him and he audibly gasps. He didn’t think anyone hadn’t seen the movie so the fact that you haven’t is genuinely shocking to him.

“You’ve never seen the Princess Bride?” He’s acting like he just witnessed you commit a crime. Sure, you’ve heard of the movie and listened to people rave about it, but there’s something about it that turns you off.

“No,” you shake your head and Steve plucks the VHS from your hand and heads over to the counter with you following him.

“I can’t allow that. You’ve gotta watch it. It’s one of the best movies of all time. So, I’m renting it to you.”

“Well, maybe we can watch it together.” Are you…flirting? He hasn’t been flirted with in so long that he’s having a hard time telling whether it’s that or you’re just being friendly.

“Y-yeah. I’ve got whole movie theater in my basement. We can watch it there.” That’s become his make out spot when everyone found out about skull rock, but this time, he just wants to watch a movie with you.

“It’s a date,” you glance at his name tag to get his name. “Steve. Can I call you, Stevie?”

“You can call me anything you want.” He internally cringes at his words, but you seem so into it that he can’t possibly take them back.

“Well, I’m y/n, but you can call me anything you want.” The line completely goes over his head as all he can focus on is your name. He’s heard so much about you and now that he can put a face to a name, he finally understands.

You’re new to Hawkins and it’s clear that you’re the talk of the town as everyone seems to want a chance to either be you or under you. And he can see why. You’re sweet and very easy on the eyes. You’re probably the most stunning woman he’s ever seen and you’re flirting with him? He’s wondering if this is some sort of cruel prank.

You set your purse on the counter then pull out a notebook and pen from it before setting them both on the counter in front of him. “Here, write down your address and I’ll write down my number and you can call me whenever you’re available.”

He’s scribbling down his information so quickly that he’s afraid you can’t read it. But you read over the words without a word then scribble down your number before ripping off the piece and handing it to him. You then put your things back into your purse before pulling out some cash to pay for your rental.

“Oh, he’s always available. How does tonight sound?” Robin has inserted herself into the conversation and Steve really wishes she hadn’t. He can get a date all by himself thank you very much.

“Stop helping me,” he whispers to her and he really hopes you can’t hear him.

“Tonight is perfect,” you smile and Steve swears he’s already in love with you. “Call me when you get off?”

“Oh, he’ll be getting off, alright,” Robin says under her breath and Steve is quick to elbow her in the stomach.

“Seriously, stop,” he turns to her to give her a glare and you honestly just find their whole dynamic to be funny, like siblings. Steve slides the VHS across the counter to you along with your change and as soon as you’re gone, he’s going to let Robin have it.

They’re so engrossed in their conversation that they haven’t even noticed that you’ve left your purse. The bright pink thing is sitting there in front of them they’re not even aware, too caught up in their silly conversation.

“I’m helping you get laid and this is how you repay me?” She asks, leaning against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I don’t need your help,” he tells her as he heads over to the cart of returns to put them away and Robin follows.

“Clearly you do. Or else I wouldn’t have had to step in.”

“I was fine. I’ve still got it.” He honestly doesn’t know how he even got a date with you since he almost always flounders now. Maybe this will be the one that finally sticks.

“Good for you, dingus, you scored a date with the hottest woman in town. Maybe this time I’ll actually be able to put a tally in the “you rule” column.”

Robin knows that it’s a cruel joke to make when he’s so sensitive about the whole thing, but she can’t figure out why. Even thought hasn’t been and will never be attracted to him, she totally understands the appeal. He’s sweet and funny and much more intelligent than people give him credit for. She doesn’t know why he can’t seem to find someone to settle down with when that’s really all he wants.

She knows he’s not as happy as he lets on, that he’s much more lonely than he tells people he is. That he always goes out with his friends or is over at her house because his is far too big to be alone in.

That’s why he’s always got a girl in his bed so he won’t be going to sleep alone, but that’s how he always wakes up as they always leave him before he’s awake.

It’s not fair, she thinks. That everyone has seemed to have found his person but not him. He’s such a fucking catch so it just doesn’t make sense. She’s really hoping that maybe you’ll be the one.

“Fuck off,” he shoves her away with a laugh. He’s being a good sport about the whole thing, at least that’s what everyone thinks. No one knows that sometimes he’ll go home and have a good cry in the shower because of how alone he feels. And he feels so fucking pathetic for it, but it's the only way he knows how to cope.

The bell above the door jingles, signaling that a customer has entered the store. Steve and Robin turn to see Dustin carrying a stack of VHS tapes he's going to return. He's got a bright smile on his face as usual as he makes his way over to the counter where Steve meets him.

“Everyone’s coming over tonight to watch Star Wars if you guys wanna join,” Dustin says as Steve returns the movies to the system.

“I’ll be there, but Steve has a date,” Robin replies, patting Steve on the shoulder in a congratulatory manner.

“Right, with your hand, a sock, and a bottle of lotion, just like every night?” Dustin is wearing a knowing look and Robin is grimacing in disgust while Steve’s cheeks turn bright pink.

“No,” Steve glares. “With a girl. We’re going to watch the Princess Bride.”

“What’s her name?” He’s asking in a way that makes it seem like he doesn’t believe Steve, but he does. Dustin just likes to give him shit any chance he gets.

“Y/n.” Steve’s tone is smug and Dustin scoffs in response because now he really doesn’t believe him. There’s no fucking way that he scored a date with you of all people. Maybe back in his “King Steve” days, but definitely not now.

“Y/n as in y/n l/n? No way dude. She’s way out of your league.” Dustin is laughing now as if he’s just heard the most funny joke.

“Gee, thanks, Henderson.” Steve grabs the tapes now that he’s put them back in the system, then turns his back, heading for the break room because it’s time for his thirty. He doesn’t have time for this.

He can hear the two of them still yapping as he closes the door. He reaches for his punch card, punching that he’s on his break then grabs his lunchbox from the fridge before sitting down at the table with a sigh.

“She gave him her number and everything. And let me tell you, she’s even hotter than they say.” Robin had never seen you in person until tonight and she totally understands why everyone is head over heels for you.

“Don’t believe me?” She asks, eyeing the purse on the counter that you had apparently left.

“This could be anybody’s,” Dustin glares at her just as you enter the store again. All of the air is sucked out of his lungs as he’s come to the realization that you are in fact real.

“Totally forgot my purse,” you tell Robin with a little laugh as you grab the thing from the counter, slinging it over your shoulder. You then turn in Dustin’s direction, staring at him with your signature bright smile. “And who might you be?” You ask, and Dustin’s mouth goes bone dry as he looks up at you. You really are hotter than they say.

“D-“ he clears his throat before trying to introduce himself again. “Dustin.”

“Dustin,” you repeat and his name sounds so angelic coming from your mouth. “That’s cute. Well, it was nice to meet you Dustin and I'll see you, Rob,” you wave at her from over your shoulder like you’re old friends and yeah, she’s going to be thinking about that for a very long time.

You flee the store yet again and Dustin’s eyes are following you as Robin opens a magazine, staring down at the page to hide her blushing cheeks. He’s trying to figure out how he can become four years older while Robin is crossing her fingers that you’re also into girls.

They both know it’s pathetic, especially since you’re going out with Steve tonight, but they can’t help it. There’s just something about you that draws people to you, like they’re all sailors being lured to their deaths and damn if that isn’t a good way to go.

It’s the way you carry yourself, as if you don’t have a care in the world. And you don’t. You just go around with all of that confidence and maybe that’s why everyone either envies or wants you. You never pay attention to that, though.

None of them truly know you and they don’t care to either. You’re just something pretty to look at, someone who will look good on their arm, but the second they get you into bed or even hang out with you with everyone watching, they’ll leave you in the drop of a hat. Because really, all they want is for you to make them look good.

But Steve? He actually treated you like a person. He wasn’t falling all over you, just genuinely trying to help you find a movie. You’re not usually one to randomly ask someone out, in fact, the whole thing made you super nervous. But he was so eager to agree and that made you feel like your usual self again.

You've heard a lot about Steve. You know his reputation and how he's very popular with the ladies, so you're surprised that he's available on a Saturday night. You figured that someone else would have already snatched him up and put a ring on it. You're both about that age now so it's honestly surprising that he's single. How has no woman in Hawkins come to their senses and married this man? You suppose you should be grateful since you're the lucky woman he's invited over tonight.

Steve exits the break room as soon as his break is over still thinking about you and how he still can't believe how you actually asked him out. The prettiest girl in Hawkins. Maybe he really does still have game.

He makes his way over to Robin feeling more confident than he has a long time. She's scribbling something down in a notebook and he lets out a deep sigh. He was really hoping that she would have gotten bored of that stupid game by now. But apparently not.

As always, his love life has just become a joke to everyone. Because it's just so funny that poor Stevie can't get a date. He'll die alone while everyone else will end up with someone. That's just his fate, he thinks.

The rest of the night goes by so slowly. It's almost painful for Steve to look at the clock, watching the minutes tick by at a glacial pace. He has never been so eager to go home, actually wanting to be there for the first time in a long time.

He's so close to asking Robin to close up for him because he just realized he doesn't have anything to eat or drink besides shitty beer and a pizza that's been in his freezer since he was a kid. But he decides that he'll just hurry to the store on his way home because he's already had her close for him more times than he can count.

"Would it offend you if I picked out your outfit for tonight? Because no offense, Steve, but this,” Robin refers to his outfit. "Is just not going to cut it.”

“Gee, thanks, Rob.” He's already nervous enough and doesn't need Robin making him second guess what he's going to wear even though he was already going to anyway.

“I'm just saying, would it kill you to switch it up every once in a while?”

“Are you of all people seriously trying to give me fashion advice right now?”

“What's that supposed to mean?” She crosses her arms over her chest as she leans against the counter, fixing Steve with a glare. He doesn't actually mean it, he just suddenly feels a lot of pressure about tonight and he's taking it out on her.

"Nothing, I'm just nervous, alright?" He runs a hand through his hair and just by the look on his face, she can see that he's telling the truth.

"Thought you didn't get nervous." She's smiling smugly now and Steve really doesn't appreciate it.

He ignores her and rounds the counter, making his way over to the door, turning the sign to signify that the store is now closed. He's now counting the minutes until he's able to go home, actively watching the hands on his watch tick, tick, tick by.

"I haven't done this in a while, alright?" He asks as he locks the door. "I'm a little rusty."

"A little?” She scoffs and Steve rolls his eyes.

“Alright a lot.”

“You need to relax. It’s just a date.” But it’s not, not to Steve. He thinks this could actually be something and he hopes he doesn’t blow it this time.

“So are you getting out of here or what?”

“What?” The question genuinely catches him off guard. He didn’t think she’d actually want to close for him since she’s done it so many times in the past.

“I can hold down the fort. Go get the girl, Steve.” He smiles widely, before pressing a kiss to Robin's cheek before hurrying out the door to his car. For once, he actually thinks he has a chance and he’s totally going to take it.

[firefly--bright]

head over heels!

jean kirstein x fem!reader, modern a.u., b99 a.u.

summary ; detective kirstein has a nice ring to it, you think, and jean thinks you light up the dingy apartment that you had turned into your home. warnings ; not proofread </3 too tired a/n ; this has been in the drafts for so long i miss my man. i will be making a part two/series of this, but for now, meetcute to quench your (and my) thirst :3 taglist ; @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @mrsnobodynobody , @hopeless-anti-romantic-again , @jeanscremebrulee , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @xakilicious , @katestrophes , @gojo-ana , @ppushable, @candleohappiness , @zombiefiedskeivy , @1ovede1uxe , @sevriizy , @toscapaeron

✿ masterlist is in pinned post! ✿ enter my taglist! ✿ requests for headcanons are open! ✿

middle tile art creds @/sonagee on twitter!

“this is fucking disgusting, horseboy,” eren says, stepping into the suspiciously smelling apartment building, his boots scruffing up against the poorly maintained floors. 

jean snatched the green juice back from him. “fuck off, Yeager. it's called being healthy on duty.” 

“yeah?” eren scratches behind his ear, “take a sip, then,” 

jean scoffs. “You take a sip.” he retorts, childishly, holding up the picture of their current victim - a woman in her late thirties, blonde hair that barely touched the top of her shoulders, a mole under her left eye. Their carpeted footsteps stumbled through the narrow hallway and jean gulped down the urge to gag. Not because of his green juice, but because of the smell of… ammonia and what jean guessed to be rust in the air. At least, he hoped. 

Eren knocked on the door infront of him, three loud raps against the quiet afternoon air - suspiciously quiet for being in the city, but jean rolled his shoulders back to appear more intimidating. “Pdp,” eren called out, bored. Turning to jean, he mumbles, “do you smell that?” “yeah, probably your fucking perfume.” before the door opens, cutting off anything eren wouldve liked to argue. an abysmally loud creak pierces through jeans ears and he winces, his eyes shutting involuntarily.

“hello miss,” eren speaks directly to the person infront of him, the door letting out the smell of apples and…cinnamon? was he smelling it right? suddenly the smell in the hallway was just an echo, and jean opened his eyes to find you in front of him, hand on the door as if you're physically keeping it in place, and you're speaking. you're saying something but jean can't hear. 

a detective with six years under his belt, sixty something arrests - sixty seven, not that he's counting, of course, but eren only has sixty six - and he gets flustered over a girl. 

granted, a very pretty girl.

“sorry about the door,” you say, knocking on the heavy wood, “everything in this building is dying.” 

“speaking of,” eren says, small smile on his face as he turns towards jean with his palm upturned. jean blinks. what does he want? 

“oh,” jean hands him the picture of the victim - Elizabeth Schafer - “have you… seen her anywhere, around here, maybe? or…or y'know, ever?” jean stutters through his sentence, making two questions of a statement that was supposed to be just one. out of his periphery, erens smirk gets more demeaning. a bait to tease jean until the end of time, again.

you hum in thought. “she was the upstairs guy’s girlfriend,” you say, shrugging, “I used to talk to her sometimes. is she…” you trail off, keeping the word as heavy as death away from the comfort of your box apartment. jean could only nod with pursed lips, glancing down at his feet. 

“yeah… if you know the victim, we have a couple questions to ask you,” eren said, filling in the gap left in Jean's inner, panicky monologue. should he compliment you? that wouldn't make sense, would it? you're just wearing pyjamas, he'd come off as a creep. so what should he do? just ask the questions like a professional, hoping that you'd see his stoicism as mildly attractive and ask him for his number? or should he poorly attempt small talk as he usually did when he saw pretty people across the bar near the 104th, which seemed to work only on two percent of the people he tried to talk to.

“sure!” you say, interrupting his thoughts, your eyes flash to his briefly, and his heart almost skips a beat. biologically almost impossible, but then why did the English language make it up? whatever. his mind is going in uneven circles, his skin crawling with warmth. he hates this. “do you guys wanna come inside till then? if it'll take a while?” you ask, thumb pointing behind you in invitation. 

eren glanced at jean, and he regretted the moment he signed up to the Paradis 104th where he'd be assigned to detective eren Yeager, like a turbulent marriage, and erens expression reflects it because he knows what jean is thinking about. looking back at you, ignoring how hard jean’s heart is beating out of his chest, he smiles wide enough for it to be considered slightly cocky, a bit too all-knowing, and says, “sure, your house smells better than the whole building.” 

jean hates to admit it, but he hates how much better eren is at talking to pretty people than he is. jean may have more arrests (just one, but it still counts), but eren knows how to charm people into talking, fool them by being their friend to get an unknowing confession. 

they work well that way, jean thinks as he steps inside your apartment, holding the door open with his back, his ears turning warm at how you say “thank you,” to him, as if holding the door open was a big deal. 

the door closes shut almost as soon as jean steps in, and you continue your conversation with eren, telling him how you had to combat the bad smell somehow so you purchased almost a lifetime supply of candles with coupons you had scavenged. soft music that jean guessed sourced from your bedroom, seeping out into the small living space. jean looked around as eren kept asking you questions. he should shut the fuck up, but then again, jean didn't know how to fill in the gaps of the conversation. 

“i was gonna make some hot chocolate right now,” you mention, slipping away into your kitchen - if it could even be called that - and pulling out three mugs from your cabinet, without even waiting for confirmation. your easy smile made jean dizzy. he could use some hot chocolate right now. “would you guys like some?” you asked, but the answer was already assumed because your hands moved towards the fridge before he could say “yes, yeah. sure.” 

good. casual. eren bumped his elbow into Jean's arm, prompting him to say something interesting, but all jean could muster up was a side eye with a scowl to his partner. 

“you said you knew the victim?” “you've got nice taste in music-” the both of them said, jean trying to take the professional route while eren opted for something immature.

you didn't seem to be bothered. your hands moved on their own, breaking apart a bar of chocolate and putting it in a pot with a little bit of milk. you glanced up at them, smiling even wider at the weirdly thoughtful compliment - dammit, eren - “thanks, it's a playlist my friend made for me. and I mean…I didn't know her that well, just as an acquaintance. she was really nice though. one time, she helped me with the groceries, my hands were full and the paper bag was ripping from the bottom so I had to hold it-” you held your hands infront of yourself like you were holding an invisible baby - “like this. and she helped me carry my other bag upstairs.” you said, hardly looking at the both of them. eren continued to glance around, seeing the way you decorated your place. books, posters, plants, pictures. a small tv, an open drawer with stationery almost spilling out of it. candles, two of them, lined up against your small window, and the smell now mixed together with melting chocolate and brown sugar and cardamom in a pot you were brewing. it was beautiful. 

your hands moved like habit over the small stove, and jean gravitated towards the counter. he could almost feel erens snark from where he was, still observing your apartment from a little ways away. 

jean cleared his throat, an attempt to get your attention. put on his best im-here-to-help face, and asked, slightly trembly, “do you need any help?” with his hands on his hips because he didn't know what else to do with them. 

you turned your head to him with a smile, “not really. I'm almost done, detective…” “kirstein.” his voice broke - “jean. jean kirstein. just jean. is fine.” he said. pathetic. god he wanted to die. 

you didn't seem phased, not even a laugh at his voice crack, and turned back to your mixture in the pot. “alright, jean. kirstein. detective.” you looked back at him, “which mug would you like?” as if that was a hard decision. but jean looked at it as if it was, scrutinizing the three mugs infront of him. 

one; dark green with yellow polka dots. cute. the next was a light blue with a white strip going around it, something handwritten that he couldn't quite read across the white band. the third; a clear one with small white and yellow flowers over it. there was a thin crack running on the bottom of the mug - something that told him that this was the most used out of your collection. good. he wouldn't touch it then. 

he pointed to the green one. “this,” 

you smiled. “final choice?” he nodded once, sure of himself, and he almost forgot that this wasn't his house he was in, “I like the colour.” 

“hmm, I can tell.” you said, and he blinked, furrow in his brows as he glanced at you. your strained the hot chocolate into the mug, “you're wearing it,” 

“ah. right. good observation.” “thanks, I could steal your job,” he laughs softly, “please don't, I can't afford to be fired right now,” you look at him with a smirk that he wants to capture in his brain forever.

“okay. I'll spare you. here,” you say, pushing the cup towards him. before he can take a sip, however, you're already walking towards eren with his own cup - the blue one - and jean inwardly cheers at his correct solve of the clear one being your favourite. 

“thanks,” he says, blowing over the steam with soft, gentle breaths. you wave your hand dismissively. “eh, it's nothing. anyway, sit.” you say, lightly demanding, and jean crosses the room in large strides to follow your order. eren has a perpetual smirk on his face. jean wants to smack it away. you sit on the chair next to the sofa, folding one leg under your thigh with your cup in your hand, and jean would be scared of you spilling it if it wasnt for your surprising steadiness. maybe he was just easily impressed with everything you did.

eren sips loudly from besides him, making jean scrunch up his features and look at him with disdain. He did this just to get on his nerves, he's sure. 

“jesus, that's good,” he praises, making you raise your head with a small, knowing smile, “thanks, it's my recipe.” you say, shrugging as if you’d already gotten this compliment multiple times and knew the exact way to handle it. jean didn't know why but the thought made him warm. maybe he had a type - people who were sure of themselves. or maybe it was particularly you, he wasn't sure. you had a charm to you, a familiarity he couldn't quite place. familiar enough for him to know he'd seen you somewhere in the city of thousands of people, unsleeping, bustling, crowded. but then there were pockets of warmth - your apartment being one of them, with your body situated comfortably on your chair - that reminded him of what hes doing this for, that reminded jean of old friends that he no longer held contact with. he couldn't put his finger on it. 

“-it was an easy solve. child's play, to be honest,” eren said, eyes closed with his chest puffed up with pride, describing a story that jean barely listened to but knew that he'd heard it a million times before. 

he rolled his eyes. “the only type you can solve.” he said. your shoulders shook with a poorly contained laugh, making jean smirk into his green, polka-dotted mug, inhaling the scent of sweet chocolate. “shut up horseboy.” 

“horseboy?” you asked, tilting your head with your eyes slightly squinted at him. not really judging, more of a curious questioning, ears perked up with interest, and jean almost groaned in embarrassment. 

“he looks like buchwald-” “don't,” “-who got a medal of valour the same day as him-” “Yeager I swear to god-” “- and outranked jean,” “he didn't even fucking do his job.” jean said, settling into the couch - which he hoped would engulf him wholly - in embarrassment, cheeks ablaze. 

you snorted out a laugh, which spurred jeans next statement, “yeah? we'll atleast I didn't get my eye almost pecked out on stage-” “that was a targeted crime of passion!” “no it wasn't. you had bird food on your fucking hair-” jeans smile widening when he heard your burst of laughter, “-which made even more birds enter the damn place,” “it wasnt even my fault!” 

“you're both accomplished detectives-” you started, your voice broken by a laugh, “- and yet you couldn't stop animals from ruining your ceremonies?” 

“act of passion,” eren muttered, scowl on his face. jean smirked, weaving a hand through his hair, and your eyes on his face made him lick his lips consciously, “act of passion alright. the birds loved you.” “i hate them.” eren said, and you breathed through a small laugh, eyebrows scrunching in slight disbelief. cute.

“unrequited love always hurts,” you speak, taking another sip of your drink, palm covering the heat of your cup, much like jeans. “you said this was your recipe?” jean asked, a prompt for you to start the origins of your hot chocolate concoctions. “well, a little, I was trying to make chai, but I didn't have tea leaves. i did have chocolate, though, and the weather was just right for it, so I thought a substitution wouldn't be too bad. and it wasn't, and it turned out good enough for my college roommates to wake up from their after lunch naps and ask me for a sip,” you take another gulp, “and now it's the most go-to thing they ask me to make. honestly, I should charge them for it.” you say, shrugging.

jean smiles. “you should. if you sold these on the street I would pay good money for them.” you hum in response, “my goods are better than to be sold on the streets, detective.” 

Jean's eyes widen. did he offend you? fuck. he didn't mean to, “I mean, like, if you- you know if you, opened a shop, or a cafe, or something. i would come there. every morning. or like, the day, just for this. if you…wanted, uh, to.” he said, his hands sweating, making him wipe the free one on his pants. eren snorted inconspicuously. 

your smile softened. “i was messing around, jean.” 

oh. your said his name like he thought it was meant to be said. how? was it warm in your apartment? warmer than he'd like? heat crawled up his neck and he took a deep breath in, nodding, breathing out a laugh that he thought would suffice, “I know that. i was joking too,” he said, digging his grave deeper. 

eren cleared his throat. 

“getting back on track,” he said. jean nodded, refusing to make eye contact with you, who still had a small smile over the interaction. “did you see Elizabeth anytime before noon yesterday?” jean picks his head back up, placing the now only half-full mug on the small coffee table infront of him, fishing out a small black notebook from his pant’s pocket, uncapping the pen hooked onto his front pocket. 

“right. i saw her i think, in the morning? at around seven, I just came back from walking around the block, and she was….she looked kinda uncomfortable?” you spoke, concern laced in your features. jean wondered if knowing the outcome of the interaction made you think about her even more now, but then you continued, “maybe…I mean I could've asked her how she was - I usually do, or, did, I guess, when I bumped into her, but… I don't know, she didn't seem like she'd be in the mood to talk. and then my neighbour… I don't know their relationship status. maybe it's, like, a situation ship that got out of hand or a friends with benefits situation - I don't know, but she didn't… like both of them got really awkward one time when I asked them in the elevator,” you explained, shaking your head, your hands waving in the air with the progression - or divergence - of the story. 

he knew he should be paying attention. really, he is paying attention, but most of it is captured in every movement of your hands, every adjustment in your shoulders. 

eren nodded to your descriptions. “so, that's all?” your eyes wandered up to the ceiling in thought. “kinda. i mean, treger - her… uhm, friend? followed after she got out the apartment, but he wasn't like, chasing her. just calmly walking behind her. and then I didn't see him. or wait-” you said, sitting up straighter, brows furrowed a bit more seriously this time, and jean leaned forward to listen, his elbows resting on his knees. your eyes locked in his for the next part and jean tried not to overthink that action. “no, yeah, I saw him later… at night? i mean, I came home from work…and then I saw him on the staircase, kinda, just, with his head in his hands. uhm… I asked him if he was okay, I thought - I kinda guessed something happened between them? like, maybe they broke up or she's mad at him or something, and then he just looked at me for a good five seconds. and didn't say anything, just stood up and left. i didnt think much of it cause he's kinda…weird? i mean, not in a degrading way, unless he actually committed a crime, then I do mean it in a degrading way,” jeans lips twitched at the way you said it, a little rambly, just a little out of breath, your eyes looking right at him as if his partner wasn't even present in the room. 

“but… I don't know. he's had this sort of…vibe around him. i don't go out of my way to talk to him, is all.” you say, shaking your head before taking another sip of your hot chocolate. jean notes how you sip slowly, savouring every bit, and how while he was half done with his cup, yours was only quarter empty. 

eren nodded slowly, and jean looked at him knowingly. this was useful, good information. “that's very helpful,” eren said, nodding to you. you shrugged. “anything else I can answer?” 

eren looked at jean impatiently, questioning. jean’s jaw locked in place, and he shook his head a little - a silent conversation. 

ask her for her number, horsey. 

no. 

why?

unprofessional? are you insane?

come on! she seems interested in you, too. 

whatever, man.

jean looks back at you, shaking his head. “nah, I think we're done.” 

“unless you see something weird.” eren says, perking up in his seat as jean stands up, “here's my number.” his partner says. 

what a bitch. jean scowls, permanent, unwiped disgust on his face. 

“oh,” you say, a little surprised, glancing at jean, and then handing eren your phone. “sure thing.” 

he types in his number, every digit a nail in Jean's coffin, a grating noise in his skull. divert her attention. away from Yeager and his fucking pretty green eyes. 

he clears his throat. “thank you for the hot chocolate. I'd still pay for it,” he says, calling back to your earlier interaction, which makes you smile and laugh softly. “it's alright. next time.” you say, shrugging, and jean gulps under the connotation of it all.

“there.” eren says, handing your phone back to you. “eren Yeager.” you repeat, reading his name from your phone. And then, with another biologically unexplainable heart-skipping beat, you look at jean while pointing your phone towards him, the keypad open, “and jean kirstein? Detective? Just jean?” you say, a little teasing, but jean cant help but find the endearment in your voice. Rolling his eyes with a smile, he says, “yeah. Detective jean kirstein,” and holds your phone, afraid of breaking something that belongs so closely to you, and puts his number with a smiley face after his name. Just a little treat.

Eren’s eyes are out of their sockets, and jean tries not to let the image of it all affect him, but he cant because he wants to ingrain this, tattooed under his eyelids so he can see it every night before going to bed, the picture lulling him to sleep and keeping his slow blinks some company - eren with his jaw slackened, eyes wide in surprise, brows flown upwards, and you, infront of him with your phone in your hands asking, though indirectly, for his number in your phone. Your. phone. 

“Right.” he says, handing you your phone back, a small smile playing on his lips. A beat of comfortable silence passing between you, eyes locked, before eren opens up his smelly mouth and says, “alright, we’ve got to go.” making you turn at his direction, humming in agreement. 

“Thanks,” jean mutters, finally, and you glance at him with a smile. “Youre welcome, detective.”

[claudaze]

𓏲 ˖. ♡̷̸ 𝗪𝗔𝗬𝗩 when you squirt #01

cw. ⋮ smut .ᐟ mdni. ﾒ 筆記 this has been rotting in my drafts for way too long lol. i kept tweaking it every time thinking “ugh it’s not hitting yet” 💧 trying not to make it feel stiff or repetitive ( ew ), so if it finally reads the way i imagined in my feral little mind.. yay !!

ⵌ 𝗸𝘂𝗻

kun is so calm, so put-together all the time that it almost feels wrong when his voice drops to that low murmur and his touch gets commanding. he starts slow, always slow, careful with his fingers, warm palms coaxing you open like he’s done this a hundred times. and he probably has. because kun is experienced. he knows exactly what to do, how to touch you, how to build your body into that sharp, breathless edge. and when you start falling apart, when your thighs tremble and your voice breaks, he knows, he knows what’s coming.

but when you squirt for the first time under him, it still surprises him. not visibly, kun’s not the type to lose control, but his eyes widen slightly, mouth parting as he watches the wetness burst out, soaking his hand, his wrist, dripping down onto the bed like liquid surrender. and then he smiles — slow, deep, fucking devastating — like he’s never been prouder of anything in his life.

“that’s it,” he whispers, wiping his soaked fingers on your inner thigh before diving right back in. “look at the mess you made, baby. you’re amazing.” and there’s something dangerous about the way he says it. like your body obeying him this way has unlocked something in him, a new kind of hunger, a deep possessiveness that didn’t exist before.

he holds your hips still when you squirm, shushing you with kisses, coaxing you through the overstimulation with fingers too skilled, too patient. and it’s maddening. it’s perfect. he’s making you do it again, just to see how much more you can give him. he doesn’t tease. he doesn’t laugh. kun looks at you like you’re art — soaked, ruined, shivering beneath him, and all he does is whisper, “i want to see you like this every night.”

i genuinely think he gets soooooo turned on by your reactions. not because they’re hot ( they are ), but because he knows he did that. also i just KNOW he’d be such a praise-heavy dom but in the most collected, subtle, dad-coded way possible.

ⵌ 𝘁𝗲𝗻

he’s the reason this entire thing exists tbh. i love one (1) chaotic slut. ten takes it personally. like the second he figures out he can make you squirt, he has to chase it. has to see it, feel it, taste it, like it’s a test of his worth. he starts off with that trademark mischief, teasing lips and filthy words, fingers playing with you like he’s already won. but when it happens, when your body jerks, your breath stutters, and the wetness gushes out in a sudden, soaking rush — ten just stares for a second. eyes glazed, mouth slightly open, chest heaving like he’s the one who just came.

and then he loses it. grinning, muttering a breathless “fuck—look at you.” and suddenly, he’s obsessed. fingers pressing deeper, palm grinding against you, trying to trigger it again just to watch it happen. he’s laughing now — low, wicked — not mocking, but delighted. so fucking pleased with what he’s done. it’s messy, and loud, and chaotic, and that’s exactly why he loves it. he cups the mess, licks it off his wrist, rubs it into your skin like he wants to mark you with it.

he gets creative with it. tells you not to hold back. moves you closer to the edge of the bed. even jokes about needing a towel next time, but there’s heat in his voice when he says it, like he doesn’t want to stop until the sheets are ruined and your thighs are shaking. his voice dips into that sexy rasp and suddenly he’s panting out, “you’re fucking perfect like this. i’ll paint with you if i have to. wanna cover the whole bed in it.”

he’s not even being metaphorical anymore. ten’s artistic brain just clicked into overdrive and now he’s looking at your wrecked body like you’re a masterpiece. every tremble, every gasp, every squirt like brushstrokes he created himself.

ⵌ 𝘄𝗶𝗻𝘄𝗶𝗻

winwin is not normal. i don’t care what anyone says. he’d absolutely ruin you in silence and then act like he didn’t just make you see god. respectfully terrifying. there’s something eerie about the way winwin handles it, eerily calm, almost cold with how quiet he stays. his fingers move with a purpose, deeply, methodically focused.

he’s watching you come apart with this unshakable stare, eyes locked on your face like he’s studying the exact second your control slips. it’s not even about the act for him, it’s about knowing he caused it. that he did something so visceral, so uncontrollable, it broke through whatever resistance you had left.

when you squirt, the first time, he doesn’t react the way you expect. he doesn’t stop or falter, his jaw sets, the muscles in his forearm flex where it rests against your thigh, and his eyes flick downward to the mess coating his hand like he expected it. like he wanted it to happen and now that it has, you’ve just confirmed something for him.

and god, he’s smug about it. not outwardly, but he keeps going, fingers curling in a slow rhythm that makes your legs shake, and you can feel the shift in the air. like he’s already wondering how far you’ll go for him if he just keeps pushing. he doesn’t speak. doesn’t have to. his mouth brushes your ear and you catch the faintest breath of a command, soft, level, quiet enough to be chilling: “again.”

ⵌ 𝘅𝗶𝗮𝗼𝗷𝘂𝗻

i really think he’d slap your thigh and go “you hear that?” like he knows you’re embarrassed and wants to push it further. menace disguised as a ballad singer.

xiaojun starts off cocky ( 😊 ) teasing words and soft chuckles as he fingers you open, murmuring things like “so wet already?” like it’s nothing new. but when it happens, when your body arches and you squirt all over his hand, his wrist, the sheets beneath, he freezes. just for a second. eyes wide, lips parted, utterly stunned. like he knew it was possible but didn’t actually believe it until he saw it. until he felt it hit him.

the awe bleeds into something darker, needier. he doesn’t laugh anymore, he moans, low and shaky, pressing kisses to your inner thigh like he’s overwhelmed. “you’re... fuck, baby,” he whispers, and you can hear the way it wrecked him. the pure reverence in his voice, like you just unlocked a part of you he didn’t know existed. and now that he’s seen it, he can’t forget it. he keeps repeating your name, dragging his tongue along your folds, chasing every drop like it’s sacred.

it’s not just the act for him, it’s what it means. that he drove you to that point. that he made you feel safe enough, desperate enough, ruined enough to let go like that. and now he’s clinging, mouth warm against your stomach, whispering, “you’re amazing. you’re so—i don’t even have words.” and he doesn’t REALLY. xiaojun loses all composure and suddenly wants to worship you, like he didn’t mean to fall this deep but now he’s on his knees and already halfway addicted.

ⵌ 𝗵𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘆

hendery is chaos in the best way. the type to make it fun, hot, overwhelming and weirdly emotional somehow. i fear him deeply. he’d high-five your orgasm. he is way too excited when it happens. the second he feels your body tighten, that rush of heat and wetness that spills out, uncontrolled, he grins. wide, boyish, utterly delighted. “whoa—holy shit, did you just—?” his voice is a mix of awe and absolute glee, like he just found out he has a superpower. he doesn’t stop. doesn’t even slow down.

if anything, he ramps it up, thrusting into you with his fingers, pushing harder, chasing the high like it’s a fucking game. he’s shameless about it. dripping fingers held up to his mouth, tasting it with a playful hum like a chef sampling a dish. “you taste unreal,” he tells you, kissing your cheek like it’s some casual compliment while your legs are still twitching. and he doesn’t let you recover. he’s already shifting his position, rubbing circles into your clit again, whispering, “let’s do that again. i wanna see how far you can squirt.”

but there’s an edge to him, too — a flicker of obsession behind the playful tone. like he likes how unhinged you look beneath him, how undone. he watches your body with a kind of greedy hunger, memorizing the way you tense, the way you cry out, how pretty your thighs shake from the overstimulation.

you get the sense that hendery thrives off chaos, and when you’re this messy, this sensitive, this wet, he’s in his element. he’ll keep going until the sheets are soaked and your mind is blank. probably laughs when you try to crawl away, calling after you with a teasing, “where are you going, baby? we’re not done yet.”

ⵌ 𝘆𝗮𝗻𝗴𝘆𝗮𝗻𝗴

it throws him at first. yangyang doesn’t expect it — he’s confident, sure, but when you suddenly squirt around his fingers mid-rhythm, gasping and shuddering, his brain short-circuits. his movements stall, eyes wide, mouth slightly open like he can’t believe what just happened. and then he looks down, sees the mess on his hand, his arm, the sheets, and something SHIFTSSSS.

he swears under his breath — low, guttural — and you watch his whole demeanor change. the cockiness returns, but now it’s darker. heavier. “fuck, you squirted for me?” he says, almost to himself. like he can’t stop thinking about it even as he starts moving again, sliding his fingers back in, slower now, like he wants to feel every inch of you react.

he gets possessive fast. his mouth finds your neck, his hand grips your thigh, and there’s this growled whisper that sends chills down your spine: “only i get to see you like this, right?” and it’s not really a question. IT’S A CLAIM. he wants to be the only one who gets you this wet, this wrecked, and he’s already planning to chase that feeling again. he starts paying more attention to what makes you gasp, where to angle his fingers, how to build it up just right, like he’s learning the exact combination to make you fall apart for him on command.

he’s breathing hard, murmuring praises that get more explicit the closer you get again, and the look in his eyes is wild. if you squirt again — and you will — yangyang’s going to kiss you through it with a hand on your chest and a voice that trembles from how turned on he is. you’ve broken something open in him. and now he’s going to ruin you on purpose.

note : he would 100% film it ( w your permission, obviously ), just to rewatch it like game highlights. he’s the worst kind of menace — the one who gets humbled, then turns it into a core memory. i’m also scared of him :')

[band--psycho]

Poly!141 x Reader - You Look Like Yourself But You're Somebody Else (Prologue)

This is something that has been sat in my drafts for a long while!

I hope you all enjoy this! 💛

Please be kind, reblogs are always welcome and greatly appreciated! Thank you for all the continued support💛

Requests are open so if you have any ideas/requests, you're more than welcome to send them over (thank you to everyone who's requested a story so far, I'm working my way through them!)

I do not give permission for any of my works to be copied or translated onto this site or other platforms!

COD Masterlist / Poly!141 Masterlist / Join My Taglist

Warnings: Brief mentions of torture, feelings of guilt, mentions of betrayal

(Credit to the original owners of these pictures from Pinterest)

John was just about to drift off to sleep, he could feel his eyelids closing involuntarily as the exhaustion of the team's most recent mission caught up to him. He was too tired to even move, so just stayed sitting in his armchair allowing sleep to slowly take over him.

That was until his phone began ringing, the brightness of the screen illuminating a small area around him in the otherwise completely dark room. 

He sighed, muttering some curse words under his breath as he slowly opened his eyes to see who the caller was; there were very few people who would call him this late and three of them were upstairs asleep. 

It was Kate. 

Which was slightly surprising, seeing as she’d only just helped his team with their latest mission, he assumed she’d be home, with her wife, asleep at this hour. 

“Kate? Is everything alright?” John asked, his voice slightly deeper than normal due to his own exhaustion.

“I’m fine, John,” Kate said calmly, but despite her tone, John knew that something was wrong, why else would she be calling at this hour.

“I um…I have some news I think you should hear,” she continued, only making John's panic increase.

“Go on,”

“We found her, John,” 

Four words. 

That’s all it took. 

Four words that woke him up immediately. 

He knew who Kate was referring to. 

He didn’t need to hear your name, to know it was you. 

“Where?”

“An abandoned military base not far from London,”

London? 

How did you get back to London? 

You’d been so close all this time? 

There were so many questions rushing through his mind…but none of them were as important as the one that left his lips, “Is she alright?” 

He knew it was a stupid question, you’d been missing for the best part of a year; of course you weren’t going to be alright, but you were alive. That’s all that mattered. 

Kate didn’t answer his question right away though, the silence on the other end of the phone was almost deafening, until she finally spoke, “It looks like she’s working for them John,”

“What?” His tone was filled with confusion, regardless of how much time had passed, you weren’t a traitor. 

“She wouldn’t betray us, Kate,”

“It’s nearly been a year John, everyone has their breaking points,”

He winced slightly at her words; the idea of you being tortured flashing through his mind. 

“Shepherd won’t put you and your team on this, you’re too close to her.”

“Who do you think he’ll send?”

Again, it was another stupid question for John to ask, there was only one other team that Shepherd would send to ‘deal’ with you.

“Graves and his shadows,” Kate confirmed, and just her confirmation alone was enough to make John's blood run cold. 

Not only because of his team's history with Graves and his shadows but because John knew that he’d shoot you on sight, no questions asked. 

It’s what a good soldier should do. 

Probably what he would do if it wasn’t you…

But he couldn’t just shoot you, not after everything you’d been through together…not after he failed in his duty as your partner and Captain to protect you. 

He loved you, and he was aware he was letting his emotions of love and guilt cloud his judgement, but he needed to at least give you a chance to explain, to make sense of what was happening. 

“How long can you stall them for?” His question would’ve caught some people off guard, but Kate wouldn’t have called him so early without the intention of delaying giving news to Shepherd. 

She was giving him and his team that chance to help you, because before you went missing, she was one of your closest friends and John knew that she wanted this all to have a logical explanation as much as he did. 

“A few hours, it gives you a bit of a head start at least,” she answered, hearing the solemn tone in her voice.  

“Thanks, Kate,”

A few hours was better than nothing and with that thought in mind he rose to his feet and walked out of the living room.

“John, just be careful, I know how much you and the others care about Y/n…I do too, but if she’s a traitor…” Kate paused for a brief moment, the words she was about to say tasting like poison in her mouth, “…you know what you need to do,”

If being the very crucial word in that sentence. 

With that, John hung up the phone and ran up the stairs to wake the others 

He knew you weren’t a traitor. 

Maybe you were tricking the enemy into believing that you were on their side; being a type of double agent so to speak. 

It would make sense.

What didn’t make sense was why, if you were so close to home, you hadn’t reached out to any of them…

Tagging:

@xacatalepsyx @mermaniaa @fangirlfandomss @book-dragon03 @dulcecreatura @sunrise-willarive @amniotic115 @imdeadontheinside786 @asterionex @pinkyyoshi @yaradigital @euriiverse @eternallyvenus @midnight-shadow-cafe @mrstelford @barbersjoy @littlejoyfulthings

[lostlikesaebyeok]

Would you be willing to write the idol saebyeok x idol female reader where a sex tape of them gets leaked??? Or maybe where sae gets jealous because for a movie the reader has to do a sex scene??

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𝒌𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒂𝒆-𝒃𝒚𝒆𝒐𝒌 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

✧˚·̩͙﹕𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: kang sae-byeok x fem!idol!reader PT 5

✧˚·̩͙﹕𝒂𝒖: idolverse / celebrity au

✧˚·̩͙﹕𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆: angst → jealousy → hurt/comfort → established relationship

✧˚·̩͙﹕𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: sex tape leak, discussions of media invasion, emotional jealousy, possessive!sae, suggestive content, light smut references, mention of sex scenes, angst but with resolution, established relationship

✧˚·̩͙﹕𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚:

the world sees too much.

first the tape, then the headlines, then the “what’s next?” questions neither of you want to answer.

sae-byeok doesn’t say it out loud, but you know the idea of someone else touching you, even for a scene, sets her off.

she’s not good at asking for comfort. she’s good at burning.

but you’ve always been hers, even when the cameras roll. especially when they don’t.

you two were never really good at hiding.

not from the cameras, not from the fans, not from the way sae-byeok’s fingers lingered just a second too long on your wrist backstage. not from the way you looked at her like she was your last cigarette in a city with no lighters.

and for the most part, the world loved you for it.

you were the industry’s worst-kept secret. two idols, two girls with blunt tongues and tired smiles, two hearts beating like war drums behind designer clothes.

so when it happened. when the leak hit the forums at around 5 a.m. when fan accounts started tweeting in all caps, when the trending tags exploded with your names, it didn’t feel real.

not at first.

you were the first to see it.

you were alone in the dorm’s tiny bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet lid with your knees pulled up to your chest, scrolling through mentions like you always do after promotions. the headlines screamed "leaked private video of idols sparks outrage and support," but it was the still frame that made your heart drop: the soft curve of your own jaw, sae-byeok’s mouth against your shoulder, the hoodie you always wore pulled halfway off. grainy. stolen. horrifyingly intimate.

you didn't cry.

instead, you locked the screen and stood in the mirror staring at yourself like you might disappear. the music of distant traffic filled the silence. your fingers trembled.

you didn't know how long you'd stood there before sae-byeok came in, eyes dark, already knowing.

“you saw it?”

you nodded, voice cracking. “yeah.”

you two didn't speak for hours.

your managers showed up by sunrise. statements were drafted. lawyers were called. companies scrambled to control the narrative.

but none of it mattered.

not when you kept glancing at sae-byeok like she was about to shatter.

not when sae-byeok kept her hand resting lightly on the small of your back, like she could protect you from a world that only wanted to eat you alive.

“you think they’ll drop us?” you asked that night, curled into sae-byeok’s hoodie, your voice flat.

sae-byeok leaned against the wall, staring out the hotel window. “i think they’ll try.”

“you think people hate us now?”

“no.” she paused. “but i think some people were waiting for a reason to.”

you didn’t respond. you pressed your face into sae-byeok’s chest instead, inhaling that familiar scent of lemon shampoo and stage sweat.

“i feel like my body isn’t mine anymore.”

that broke something in sae-byeok.

she pulled you in tighter, her voice a whisper only you two could hear.

“it’s still yours. always yours. no one gets to take that from you.”

your fans were split.

some called you reckless. some screamed that you were brave. others posted thinkpieces about the double standard, about how male idols bounced back and female ones got crucified.

you stopped checking your socials. sae-byeok deleted her twitter.

you shared a hotel room under temporary protection. two mattresses pushed together like a lifeline. some nights, you said nothing at all. just breathing. just skin. just fingers tracing the parts of each other that hadn’t yet been weaponised by the world.

“we’ll survive,” sae-byeok whispered one night, lips pressed to your collarbone. “we always do.”

“but we’re not the same,” you replied, eyes open in the dark.

“maybe not,” sae-byeok said. “but we’re still us.”

the interview came a month later.

both of you were dressed in black, no makeup. you sat close, knees touching. the host asked carefully rehearsed questions. but it was the unspoken that carried weight. the way you glanced at sae-byeok before speaking, the way sae-byeok took your hand under the table when your voice shook.

“we never wanted to be a scandal and we definitely didn't want that to get leaked,” you said.

“we just wanted to be in love,” sae-byeok added. “like anyone else.”

months passed. endorsements disappeared. one brand cut ties. another posted a rainbow and a heart. your comeback was delayed, then reworked, then announced as a unit project.

on stage again, you two performed like fire meeting gasoline, no apologies, no nerves. just raw, burning connection.

your fans screamed louder than ever. the comments flooded with heart emojis and fierce defenses. even your haters seemed to grow tired eventually.

one night, back in your dorm, you stood at the mirror again, barefaced, wearing sae's hoodie, hair tucked behind your ears.

“do you think we’ll ever forget it happened?” you asked.

sae-byeok came up behind you, wrapping your arms around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.

“no,” she said. “but maybe it won’t hurt forever.”

you turned around and pressed your foreheads together.

“i still love you,” you whispered.

“good,” sae-byeok replied. “because i’d burn the whole world for you.”

the offer came out of nowhere.

your agency had barely finished cleaning up the mess from the leak when your manager dropped the script on your desk with a tight smile.

“it’s a romance. indie film. the director’s young, progressive. they want you, specifically.”

you flipped through the pages. soft, poetic dialogue. long silences. aching tension between the lead and her on-screen lover.

and then scene 48.

int. bedroom – night.

clothes on the floor. mouths open. skin against skin.

you didn’t say anything.

you just stared at it, chewing your lip, knowing exactly how this would go.

“you’re not doing it.”

sae-byeok stood by the window of your shared apartment, arms crossed, her jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscles twitch.

“they didn’t even ask you,” she continued. “they just assumed you’d be okay simulating sex with someone else like– like it’s nothing.”

you sat on the edge of the couch, script in your lap, fingers trembling just a little.

“it’s acting, sae.”

“acting?” she snapped. “they’re gonna put their hands all over you. they’re gonna make you moan into someone’s mouth and– no. no, i’m not okay with it.”

you blinked. “i didn’t say i was doing it.”

she stopped, the fire in her voice suddenly smothered by silence.

you stood slowly, letting the script drop to the floor like it weighed more than it should.

“do you really think i want to do a scene like that after everything that happened?” you asked, voice quiet. “do you think i want to see my body like that again, in someone else’s hands, even if it’s fake?”

sae-byeok’s face crumbled.

all the sharpness melted into something raw and guilty.

“i’m sorry,” she said. “i just... the thought of someone else touching you like that, i saw how much it destroyed you the first time. and i know it’s not the same. i know this is fiction. but it hurts to imagine it.”

you walked over to her slowly, hands slipping around her waist.

“i turned it down.”

“what?”

you nodded, pressing your forehead to hers. “i told them i’d do the role if the scene was rewritten. if it stayed emotional, not physical. and if they didn’t agree, i’d walk.”

sae-byeok’s hands gripped your hips like she was scared you’d vanish.

“you’d give it up? for me?”

“not just for you,” you said. “for me. for us. because love doesn’t always mean proving how far you’ll go. sometimes it means knowing when to stop.”

she exhaled, the breath leaving her like it had been stuck in her chest for hours.

“god, i love you,” she whispered. “even when i’m stupid. even when i get jealous and possessive and scared.”

“especially then,” you said, smiling. “because that’s when you’re the most honest.”

she kissed you, soft, slow, no cameras. no scripts.

just sae-byeok. just home.

the film came out three months later.

you played the lead with aching tenderness. every scene dripped with chemistry, but it was the longing glances and the held hands that stole the show.

the bedroom scene? it was rewritten into a dimly lit conversation under the covers.

no skin. no mouths. just two girls in the dark, whispering like they might never speak again.

fans loved it.

critics basically called it shit in fancy words.

you just called it right.

and when the final credits rolled, sae-byeok was waiting in the lobby of the private premiere, a hoodie over her head, arms crossed, but her smile gave her away.

“you were brilliant,” she said.

you smirked. “jealous still?”

“always.”

you leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “good. keeps things interesting.”

and just like that, you were hers again.

no cameras. no edits. no retakes.

just two girls in love, choosing each other over and over, no matter what the world tried to take.

thank u for reading, angel ♡

i did both requests in one because i thought i could make it tie together!!!

♡ tags: @eunchacha @ilovesawbyeokandjjmaybank @saeshairtie @gg0mezz @saphicsaturn @gyuyoungg @lyzem @janegrapefruitttt @reynadeluniverso @laylaheinz @laurenkenss @bleedingwhiteroses222 @maevelovessae

[1997starcandy]

senator john f. kennedy x reader situationship hcs

a/n: this one’s been rotting in my drafts forever. i swore i’d never post it since i hated it but hey, i figured i’d give the people what they want so here you go, a little something from the vault...

it’s the late 1940s. you and then-congressman john f. kennedy begin a complicated, long-lasting, and intermittent affair that spans well into the early 1950s. how the two of you meet? i’ll leave those details up to you. but make no mistake — he is head over heels for you. 

he calls you in the middle of the night from an oyster bar somewhere on the campaign trail — exhausted, tipsy, unsure where he is, slurring on about how much he misses you, begging you to say it back (you do)

late-night walks around georgetown and dates at martin's

fumbling around on the cape

you have to leave for new york for work, and he insists on tagging along. under normal circumstances, you'd have told him hell no b/c you knew his ass needed to stay in washington. but congress is in recess, his family's out of town, and for once, the human dynamo has nothing better to do, so you let him

he teaches you to sail; you crash the boat (oops) and swear it was the boat's fault, not yours. he doesn't argue, but somehow you still end up paying b/c apparently the son of one of the richest men in america never carries cash

you visit his office, which sometimes (okay, often) ends with the two of you making a mess of his desk. when you bring it up, he just shrugs and mutters something about how it "doesn't matter," knowing damn well one of those papers could determine the fate of the whole country

he hails a taxi one night and asks the driver to take you both to a club out of town — despite knowing it's against the rules. the driver gives him a look like he's grown an extra head, but he smooths it over, "yeah, and i'll make it worth your while, pal. don't worry about me — i'm running for the u.s. senate. i'll figure out the fare. now, how's your sense of adventure?" the driver laughs and agrees, and you can only shake your head, laughing too, b/c somehow, jack kennedy can truly charm his way out of anything

you get tipsy on wine one night and start reading his palm like a fortune teller. he plays along, all dramatic gasps and wide eyes

he steals a photo booth strip of you from a bar and keeps it in his wallet. you catch him looking at it when he thinks you're asleep on the train

he starts calling you ridiculous nicknames like "bug" or "spoons." you protest, but he refuses to explain it. years later, you realize it was just because you once had a nervous habit of tapping your spoon when you were thinking, and he thought it was endearing

he's diehard red sox and you're ride-or-die white sox (yikes?)

in 1953, the news breaks: senator kennedy is engaged to jacqueline bouvier. you are... blindsided? you always lived in the uncertainty of your "relationship," which was never formally acknowledged by the two of you. but it always felt meaningful. now, you question everything. you hate how they were right about him all along. the next time you see him, he tries to explain, insisting it's nothing more than a carefully laid out plan, another chess move orchestrated by his father. he needs the perfect wife — catholic, well-connected, a woman who will solidify his public image and put an end to the whispers about his personal life. but you know well he's never done anything he didn't want to do. sure, he may feel the pressure, but he bends only when it suits him. which means, despite everything he's saying, part of him must want this. want her. and that thought alone makes your stomach turn. he tells you he still thinks about you constantly, but he doesn't know how to say more than that. and so, you leave. b/c you know better than to meddle in the life of a married man — worse, a married man who's practically dead set on becoming the next president.

years later, long after his presidency, you miraculously stumble upon an old letter — written in 1953, right after the news of his engagement broke.

____,

i have turned this letter over in my mind more times than i care to admit, writing and unwriting each word before ink ever touched the page. perhaps that is why i have put off writing for so long — because saying anything at all means acknowledging that there is something to be said. and there is. there always has been. 

by now, i expect you have seen the headlines. i will not insult you by assuming otherwise, nor will i attempt to disguise what has already been written. there is little i could say that would change the facts or your own reservations about me — some of which, i suspect, i deserve. and yet, i find that i cannot leave certain things unsaid. 

it is no small cruelty to be so fond of someone in the wrong lifetime. because i am. in whatever way i have ever been capable of love, i have loved you. i cannot say if that has been enough. i have never known how to say it, how to show it, how to make you believe it without needing to explain myself afterwards. but if i had ever felt for even a second that my life were my own — that i could wake up one morning and make a choice without thinking of my father, of the papers, of the senate, of the presidency — then i would have chosen you. a thousand times over, i would have chosen you. 

and so, should you choose never to see me again — a decision i could neither fault nor resent — know that i shall recall nothing but the best of you, for the best of you is all i have ever known and all i will ever allow myself to remember.

yours, always,

Jack 

and the worst part? the letter was never sent and we'll never know why! maybe he tossed it aside, thinking it was futile. or maybe, by some cruel twist of fate, it just never reached you. and now, when all of it is ancient history, you find it. and you can't even be angry anymore. you can't throw the letter in his face. you can't call him a coward. you can't ask, why didn't you send it? because he's gone. and decades later, you're forced to accept a sort of quiet mourning, a love that now lives only as an echo of something that might have been the greatest part of your life.

REF DO SOMETHING. DO SOMETHING!!!

[star-rinalina]

So I got a comment on tiktok that's been rotating in my brain for a bit and I need to yap about it

So for those that don't know, I've got an au where Shadow Milk accompanies the crew instead of Apple Faerie (it's gonna be shadowvanilla ofc). I've been crossposting the comic on all my socials. And on the most recent one, I got a comment saying "You write Shadow Milk so well, you should just write a fanfic at this point." And I thanked them, but I was kinda put off by it? Like I didn't want to bring up something negative since they were being nice. But like, what do they think goes into writng fanfic?

I do write a little, but the skill to make it interesting? To get the readers to experience the emotion I want them too? That takes skill. Did the commenter think that writing is the "easy" option? That if I switched to fic it would get done faster?

For example, I did this section:

The point was to show the canon conversation was happening, but frame the tension between the disguised Shadow Milk and disguised Black Sapphire. Like how would I write this without going:

"Shadow Milk glares at Black Sapphire. Black Sapphire notices and Shadow Milk raises an eyebrow. Black Sapphire gives a nervous smile as Shadow Milk shifts his glare forward, and his hand tightens on his arm."

A talented writer could definitely make that tense and interesting. But for someone who mainly scripts? It would take me so long to figure out a way to work it into something I was happy with. I know how to set the mood visually, with the head tilt and SMC's grip tightening. But how do you do those subtle nods in word form without bland descriptions or elying on cliche?

Or did they mean the opposite? That writing is the "more professional" option and my scriptwriting needed to graduate from the "silly little comic" to a more meaningful artform? It's not an uncommon view our society has.

Or maybe they just prefer the written word to comics idk. But like these are very different mediums and writing a good script =/= writing good books. Like I could nail the dialogue, but if I can't set the scene or describe the visual cues effectively the writing's gonna be shit.

And then this was sitting in my drafts and the announcement that Ao3 is gonna start reposting/clarifying their rules on site etiquette and wow. Master of picking up on shit right when it happens huh?

[madelyncilne]

hi tags! this post is very impromptu and annoying but since @sebegifs (my commissions side blog) has been somewhat shadowed by tumblr, and i don't have any other way to communicate (no ims, inbox, etc.), i'm sort of at an ends with how to approach commissions moving forward. i don't know why i got shadowed and tumblr support is tiresome and a long process, but i just wanted to make a little post to say that i'll most likely be making a new blog, or something of the matter, until i decide what is the best way in approaching such.

that being said: despite this, i'll most likely be posting the packs that are in my drafts here, too, so they get some traction. other than that i guess commissions are on hold, which frustrates and saddens me as right now this is the only form of income/money i have. but! we move! (i guess 😭)

[arn359]

Eh ehm-

What do you think of possessive or uhh yandere orange 👀👀

Yes.

⚠️CW !!! blood and sharp object under the cut

Was going to go for a typical yandere kitchen knife, but cuttur disturbed me. So i chose a cutter.

[lo-sulci]

oh hey spotify, what's th-*starts coughing violently*

[bishy437]

(Un)Helpful guide to understanding Mobei Jun :)

Part 1