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hello! i'm prada. 18. she/her. writer. black-american. multi-stan.

౨ৎ this blog runs on tate mcrae [ nobody's girl ]

period sex with Jimin

warnings ! - unprotected sex, period sex, dirty talk, jimin's so gentle tho

an: love making stuff like this, cause men are pigs, but jimin, love him

***

The rain had been falling for hours, a steady rhythm against the window that matched the slow, lazy pulse of the evening. The apartment was dim, lit only by a few scattered candles and the soft glow of the television playing some show neither of them was watching. You were curled up on the couch, tucked under a blanket, a heating pad pressed against your lower belly. Jimin was beside you, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns on your thigh through the fabric of your sweatpants.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice low and soft, the kind of voice that always made your chest ache with affection.

You nodded, shifting to look at him. "Just... crampy."

He hummed, his hand sliding up to rest over the heating pad. "Want me to get you anything? Tea? Chocolate?"

You smiled, leaning into his side. "No, I'm fine. Just want you here."

He pressed a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering. "I'm not going anywhere."

That was the thing about Jimin. He was patient. Not in a performative way, but genuinely, deeply patient. He understood your body, your rhythms, your moods. And he never made you feel like a burden, not even now, when you were bloated and cramping and moody.

The evening stretched on—his thumb rubbing circles over your knuckles, the quiet hum of the rain, the way he pulled you closer when you winced from a particularly sharp cramp. He whispered about his day, about something funny that happened at practice, about the way the light caught the raindrops on the glass. It was gentle. It was sweet.

But you could feel the shift in the air when his hand wandered lower, just a fraction, his fingers brushing the waistband of your sweatpants. His touch was hesitant, questioning.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, his eyes searching yours.

"A little," you admitted. "But I want to. I want you."

He searched your face, looking for any sign of discomfort. When he found none, he leaned in, kissing you softly, slowly. His lips were warm, tasting faintly of the honey tea he'd been sipping. The kiss deepened, his tongue sliding against yours, and you felt the familiar heat coil in your belly, mixing with the dull ache of your cramps.

"Tell me if it's too much," he murmured against your mouth.

"Mhm."

He eased you onto your back, his body pressing against yours, careful not to put too much pressure on your stomach. His hands slid under your shirt, palms flat against the sensitive skin of your waist. You shivered, arching into his touch.

"Let me take care of you," he whispered, his lips trailing down your jaw, your neck.

You nodded, your fingers threading into his hair as he tugged your sweatpants down, baring your thighs. He paused, looking at the dark red stain on the pad of your underwear. There was no disgust in his eyes, only a soft reverence.

"Beautiful," he said, low and sincere.

He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then higher, his lips brushing over the fabric. You gasped, your muscles tensing.

Slowly, he pulled your underwear down, his hands warm and steady. The air hit your wetness, the blood, the arousal. He didn't hesitate. His tongue swept through your folds, tasting you, tasting the iron and salt and your own slick. A shudder ran through you.

"Jimin..."

He hummed against you, the vibration making your hips jerk. He licked and teased, his tongue curling around your clit, dipping into your entrance. The sensations were heightened, more intense than usual, the extra sensitivity from your period making every stroke feel electric.

"You're so wet," he groaned, lifting his head just enough to look at you. "And so fucking hot like this."

You whimpered, reaching for him. "I need you inside me."

He crawled up your body, his lips brushing yours. "I know. I've got you."

He positioned himself between your legs, his cock hard and leaking against your thigh. He ran the tip through your folds, coating himself in your slick and blood, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Yes."

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch. The stretch was familiar, but the added slickness made it easier, deeper. You gasped as he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours.

"Fuck," he breathed, his forehead touching yours. "You feel... different. So good."

He began to move, slow, deep strokes. The sound was wet, obscene, the blood easing the way. He kept his pace steady, mindful of your cramps, watching your face for any sign of pain.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice a low rasp. "Take it all. Take me."

Your nails dug into his back as he adjusted his angle, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur. The copper scent mingled with his cologne, with the rain, with the heat of your bodies.

"Don't stop," you begged.

"I won't. I'll fuck you until you come, baby."

He picked up the pace, his thrusts harder, deeper. The dirty talk spilled from his lips like a prayer.

"Love how your pussy feels wrapped around me, even when you're bleeding. Showers me in your blood. Makes me feel like I'm claiming you."

You sobbed at his words, at the rawness of it all. Your body tightened, the pleasure building despite the ache.

"Jimin, I'm close."

"Come for me. Let go. I've got you."

He drove into you, and the orgasm ripped through you, hot and sharp, your walls clenching around him. He groaned, his rhythm faltering as he spilled inside you, deep and hot, filling you.

He stayed there, breathing hard, his lips pressed to your temple. The world was quiet except for the rain and your shared breaths.

"Thank you," you whispered.

synopsis: having the biggest crush on your best friend, Lara Raj, while she's completely oblivious.

tags: fem!reader, best friends to... maybe more?, pining, mutual physical affection, fluff, reader is so down bad

hey siri... play I Wanna Be Your Girlfriend by girl in red

Some people say you know when you're in love.

You don't.

You know when Lara steals fries off your plate and it somehow feels like the highlight of your week.

You know when she throws an arm over your shoulders in the hallway because "you're warm."

You know when she calls you first after every bad day.

You know when she smiles at you from across a crowded room and suddenly everyone else disappears.

That's what you know.

And unfortunately...

She's your best friend.

Which is probably the worst possible person to fall in love with.

—

"You've been staring at her for, like, five minutes."

You blinked.

"What?"

Your other friend pointed discreetly across the cafeteria.

"Lara."

"I wasn't staring."

"...You literally smiled at her while she was drinking chocolate milk."

"I was thinking."

"About?"

"...Chocolate milk."

"Sure."

Heat crawled up your neck.

Across the room, Lara caught your eye immediately.

She grinned.

Then waved both hands dramatically over her head like she'd spotted a celebrity.

Your heart betrayed you instantly.

You waved back.

She laughed.

You looked away before you completely melted into your lunch tray.

Your friend sighed.

"You're hopeless."

"...I know."

—

Lara had always been affectionate.

That was the problem.

She hugged everyone.

Linked arms with everyone.

Played with everyone's hair.

Rested her head on everyone's shoulder.

...Except she didn't.

Not really.

She did those things mostly with you.

Which made absolutely no sense.

"Come here."

You looked up from your notebook.

She was standing beside your desk after class.

"What?"

"I wanna braid your hair."

"...Why?"

"'Cause I'm bored."

"...That's not a reason."

"It is to me."

Before you could protest, she gently turned your chair around.

Her fingers disappeared into your curls with surprising care.

You closed your eyes.

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

"You have pretty hair."

"...Thanks."

"It's really soft."

"Mm."

She hummed behind you.

"You know..."

"What?"

"I think if I ever had your patience I'd learn how to braid mine better."

"You absolutely do not have my patience."

"I know."

She laughed.

"So you'll keep doing it for me."

"...Sure."

"You spoil me."

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

"...Only a little."

"You spoil me a lot."

"...Yeah."

"I like it."

Your heart genuinely forgot how to function.

—

Friday nights belonged to the two of you.

Movies.

Takeout.

Blankets.

Usually at Lara's house because her parents adored you and insisted on feeding you every single time you visited.

Halfway through the movie, Lara quietly scooted closer.

Normal.

Perfectly normal.

Then she rested her head against yours.

Still normal.

Then she reached for your hand beneath the blanket.

...

Normal?

"I have cold hands."

She laced your fingers together.

"There."

"...Better?"

"So much."

You stared stubbornly at the TV.

Nothing had happened.

Nothing.

You absolutely weren't internally screaming.

—

"You'd make someone's girlfriend really happy."

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Lara looked over from where she was painting your nails.

"...You think?"

"Yeah."

She smiled softly.

"I hope so."

Your stomach twisted.

"I mean..."

She blew gently across your nails.

"I've never really dated anyone."

"You've had people interested."

"They're... okay."

"Just okay?"

"Mhm."

"You turned all of them down."

"I know."

"...Why?"

She shrugged.

"I've never liked them back."

Your heart did one hopeful little flip.

"What if the right person asked?"

"I'd say yes."

"...Immediately?"

She thought about it.

"...If it was someone I already loved."

Loved.

Loved.

You stared at her.

She looked completely focused on fixing your thumbnail.

Oblivious.

Completely oblivious.

—

"You two are basically dating."

Lara nearly choked on her drink.

"What?"

Your classmates looked between you.

"You literally hold hands."

Lara laughed.

"So?"

"You cuddle."

"So?"

"You wear each other's hoodies."

"So?"

"You have matching phone wallpapers."

Lara blinked.

"...We do?"

"You made them."

"Oh."

She smiled sheepishly.

"I forgot."

Everyone collectively groaned.

One friend buried their face in their hands.

"You are unbelievable."

Lara looked at you.

"What?"

"...Nothing."

"...Why's everyone looking at us?"

You forced a smile.

"No idea."

If only she knew.

—

One afternoon, rain trapped the two of you beneath the school entrance.

"I forgot my umbrella."

"So did I."

Lara sighed dramatically.

"We're doomed."

"It's literally rain."

"It'll ruin my hair."

"It already ruined mine."

She looked at you.

"...Still pretty."

Your brain stopped.

"What?"

She looked confused.

"I said your hair still looks pretty."

"Oh."

"You okay?"

"Mhm."

"You froze."

"...Just tired."

"Liar."

She bumped your shoulder.

"You always get weird when I compliment you."

"I do not."

"You absolutely do."

"...Do not."

"You blush."

"I don't blush."

"You literally are right now."

"...It's hot."

"It's raining."

"...Humid."

She laughed so hard she had to lean against you.

You silently prayed for divine intervention.

—

Your favorite thing about Lara wasn't her smile.

Or her laugh.

Or the way she'd randomly burst into song in grocery stores.

It was this.

The quiet moments.

The ones nobody else noticed.

Like sitting on the floor of your bedroom doing homework.

Neither of you talking.

Just existing together.

Comfortably.

She eventually nudged your foot.

"...Can I ask something?"

"Sure."

"Would we still be friends when we're old?"

You looked up.

"...Obviously."

"No matter what?"

"No matter what."

She smiled.

"Promise?"

"I promise."

She held out her pinky.

You hooked yours around it.

"Now it's legally binding."

"...That's definitely how that works."

"Mhm."

—

There were days you almost told her.

Days when she looked at you with those impossibly warm brown eyes.

Days when she laughed so hard she accidentally fell into your lap.

Days when she called you pretty just because.

Days when she whispered, "You're my favorite person."

Those were the hardest.

Because every single time...

You almost answered with—

I'm in love with you.

Instead—

"You too."

Always.

"You too."

—

Near the end of the semester, the school hosted a festival.

Music echoed across the field.

Food trucks lined the sidewalks.

Students wandered around in little groups.

Lara found you almost immediately.

"There you are!"

She slipped her hand into yours without thinking.

"I've been looking everywhere."

"You texted me thirty seconds ago."

"Exactly."

"You are so dramatic."

"And yet..."

She squeezed your hand.

"...you still came."

"I always come."

"I know."

She smiled in that soft, secret way she only ever smiled at you.

"Thanks."

The lights overhead flickered on as the sun began to disappear.

For a second...

Just one second...

You wondered.

Maybe.

Maybe everyone else wasn't imagining things.

Maybe there was a reason she only reached for your hand.

Maybe there was a reason every hoodie she owned somehow ended up in your closet.

Maybe there was a reason she always searched for you first.

Maybe...

Maybe you weren't the only one who couldn't imagine a future without the other.

Lara tugged gently on your intertwined hands.

"C'mon."

"Where?"

"I wanna go on the Ferris wheel."

"You hate heights."

"I do."

"Then why?"

She smiled.

"'Cause you'll be there."

Your heart skipped.

"...You'll hold my hand if I get scared, right?"

You looked down at your fingers already woven together.

"...Yeah."

"Promise?"

You squeezed her hand.

"I promise."

She beamed.

And if your heart lingered in the possibility of maybe for a little longer than usual...

Well.

—warnings ! fluff, platonic friendship, kissing, teasing, hugs, girls supporting girls <3

— hey siri! play "we can't be friends (wait for your love)" by Ariana Grande ! ᥫ᭡

Sophia

The room was quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioner. You were both stretched out on her rug, laptops open, but you hadn't looked at a screen in ten minutes. You were looking at the way her eyelashes caught the light.

"Soph?" you whispered, your voice barely audible.

She hummed, turning her head to look at you. "Yeah, y/n?"

You didn't answer. You just shifted, closing the gap until you were mere inches away. You saw her eyes flicker down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, a silent question passing between you. You leaned in, hesitant, and she didn’t pull away—she just let out a shaky breath.

"Wait," she murmured, her hand coming up to gently press against your chest, not pushing you away, but grounding you. "If we do this, it’s not just a 'best friend' thing anymore. You know that, right?" She searched your face, her expression vulnerable. "Because if you’re sure… I’ve been waiting for you to do this for a year."

Lara

"You’ve got something," Lara said, her eyes narrowing playfully as she sat on the edge of the sofa.

"What?" you asked, leaning in closer to check your own reflection in her eyes. "Where?"

"Here," she murmured. She reached out, but instead of brushing your face, she hooked a finger under your chin, pulling you forward until your noses were brushing.

You took the hint and leaned in, eyes fluttering shut, ready to close the distance. At the last second, Lara tilted her head, her lips grazing your ear instead. You felt her smirk against your skin.

"Nice try, y/n," she teased, her voice dropping into that low, dangerous tone that always made your heart race. "But you’re gonna have to be a lot bolder than that if you want a kiss from me. Try again, but actually mean it this time."

Daniela

You were both breathless, having just finished a freestyle session in the studio. You were slumped against the mirrors, shoulder-to-shoulder, trying to regulate your breathing. You looked at Daniela—hair messy, skin glowing—and the impulse just hit you.

You lunged, a quick, impulsive peck against her lips.

Daniela froze, her eyes going wide as saucers. You panicked, immediately pulling back and throwing your hands up. "Oh my god, I’m so sorry, that was just—I don't know why I did that, ignore me, I'm just tired—"

Before you could finish your frantic apology, Daniela grabbed the collar of your shirt and yanked you right back. The second kiss was firm, deliberate, and lasted much longer. When she pulled away, she was grinning, her face flushed. "Don't apologize for that," she laughed, breathless. "Just do it again."

Yoonchae

You were huddled under a blanket, the horror movie on screen totally forgotten. You had been inching closer for the last half hour, and now, you were brave enough to just go for it. You leaned in, heart hammering against your ribs.

Yoonchae saw you coming. Her eyes widened, and in a flurry of movement, she brought both her hands up to cover her mouth, looking at you over her knuckles, face turning bright red.

"Yoonchae?" you whispered, confused.

She peeked over her fingers, her eyes watering with suppressed laughter and pure, unfiltered nerves. "You can't just do that!" she squeaked, hiding her face in your shoulder. "You have to give me a warning! My heart is literally going to jump out of my chest, y/n, you’re so unfair!"

Megan

Megan was in the kitchen, casually chopping vegetables while you sat on the counter, watching her. You were so tired of the "just friends" boundary. When she turned to grab a spice jar and found herself trapped between your knees, you took the opening.

You placed your hands on her waist, pulling her closer, and tilted your head up.

Megan stopped moving completely. Her hands hovered over the cutting board, her gaze dropping to your mouth, then flickering back to your eyes, searching for a joke. When she realized you weren't pulling back, her expression softened, turning almost fragile.

"Y/n," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper. Her ears turned a deep shade of red, a stark contrast to her usual cool demeanor. "If this is a prank, I'm going to be so mad at you." She leaned in, her forehead resting against yours. "Tell me you’re not joking."

Manon

The car was silent, the city lights outside blurring into streaks of neon as Manon drove. You were in the passenger seat, staring at her profile, at the way she looked so composed even in the dark.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Manon asked, her voice calm, not taking her eyes off the road.

"Can’t I look at my best friend?" you countered, leaning toward her.

"You can," she said, finally turning to look at you for a split second before her eyes dropped to your lips. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face. "But we both know that's not why you're leaning over here."

—distant, self-destructive!Heeseung x emotionally exhausted!fem!reader [REPOSTED! tumblr like deleted it or smth]

—warnings ! toxic relationship dynamics, arguments, emotional manipulation undertones, breakup/makeup cycle, jealousy, regret, heavy angst, hurt/comfort themes, shouting, tears, no explicit content

— hey siri! play “love the way you lie” by Rihanna ft. Eminem ᥫ᭡

The air in the apartment felt heavy, like it was waiting for the next argument to shatter the silence. You sat on the edge of the sofa, watching the rain streak against the window, but your mind was stuck on Heeseung. He had been home for ten minutes, yet he hadn't said a word to you. He just paced the room, his jaw tight and his gaze fixed on nothing.

This was the cycle you were trapped in. You loved him, but you were so tired of constantly trying to fix things that he seemed intent on breaking.

"Are you going to look at me, or just ignore me all night?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. It was an exhaustion you couldn't shake anymore.

Heeseung stopped pacing and turned, his eyes cold and distant—a stark contrast to the boy who used to look at you like you were his whole world. "I didn't realize you were waiting for an audience," he snapped.

"I’m waiting for my boyfriend," you replied, your heart sinking as the familiar sting of tears pricked at your eyes. "I’m waiting for the person who actually cares that I’m sitting here."

He laughed, a short, bitter sound that didn't reach his eyes. "Oh, here we go. Is this where you tell me I’m the villain again? That I’m the reason everything is falling apart?"

"You're not even trying to deny it," you said, standing up. Your legs felt shaky, but you needed to stand your ground for once. "You leave, you come back, you act like I don't exist, and then you expect me to just be okay with it. I’m done, Heeseung. I’m just so, so done."

He crossed the room in two strides, invading your personal space. His intensity was overwhelming, the kind that used to make you feel protected, but now just felt suffocating. "Don't say that," he muttered, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low pitch. "Don't you dare say you're done."

"Why?" you shouted, the frustration finally boiling over. "Why do you want to keep us in this mess? You hurt me, I cry, you pretend you didn't do anything, and we repeat it the next day. I can't breathe when I'm around you anymore."

Heeseung looked away, his grip on his own arms tightening. For a second, you saw a flicker of something—regret, maybe? Or just the same old cycle resetting itself. He was good at making you feel like you were the crazy one, like your feelings were just another thing for him to manage.

"You're exhausted," he said, his tone softening just enough to make your heart ache. It was a classic move. He knew exactly which strings to pull to keep you right where he wanted you. "You’re just tired, that’s all. We’re both tired."

"I'm tired of us," you insisted, though your voice lacked its earlier bite.

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray hair from your face. It was a tender gesture that felt like a lie given how he had treated you all week. "Let's just go to sleep," he whispered, steering you toward the bedroom. "We'll talk in the morning. Everything feels better in the morning."

You knew it wouldn't. You knew tomorrow would be the same. But as you let him lead you away, you felt that familiar, heavy blanket of resignation. You were trapped, and for tonight, you were too tired to fight your way out.

The morning brought no relief, only the grim reality of the night before. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting harsh lines across the bedroom floor. You woke up to the sound of Heeseung slamming the bathroom door, a clear sign that the temporary truce of the previous night had already expired.

You sat up, rubbing your face as a dull headache throbbed behind your eyes. Every bone in your body felt heavy, weighed down by the constant emotional tug-of-war. When you finally walked into the kitchen, Heeseung was leaning against the counter, staring into a mug of black coffee. He didn't look up when you entered. The tenderness from last night was completely gone, replaced by his usual cold, impenetrable wall.

"Are we really going to do this again today?" you asked, leaning against the doorframe. Your voice sounded hollow, even to your own ears.

Heeseung took a slow sip of his coffee before finally looking at you. His eyes were bloodshot, and dark circles shadowed his pale skin. He looked just as wrecked as you felt, but instead of seeking comfort, he chose armor. "Do what? I’m just standing here. If you’re looking for a fight, find someone else to pick it with."

"I don't want a fight, Heeseung! I want a conversation!" You walked over to him, desperate to break through the static between you. "You shut down, you push me away, and then you act like I'm the one initiating the drama. I can't keep living on eggshells."

He set his mug down on the counter with a loud clack. "Then don't. No one is forcing you to stay here and analyze every single thing I do."

The words felt like a physical blow to the chest. No one is forcing you to stay. It was his favorite weapon—reminding you that you were choosing this misery, shifting the guilt entirely onto your shoulders.

"Is that what you want?" Your voice cracked, the tears you had been holding back finally spilling over. "Do you want me to leave? Because if you don't love me anymore, just have the decency to say it to my face."

For a split second, Heeseung’s expression cracked. A flash of pure, unadulterated panic crossed his features, shattering his cold facade. He moved forward, his hands instantly gripping your shoulders, tight enough to bruise but desperate enough to make you stop moving.

"Don't say that," he hissed, his voice trembling with a sudden, volatile mix of anger and fear. "Don't you ever say I don't love you. You know I do. You know you're the only thing I have."

"Then why do you treat me like I'm your enemy?" you sobbed, hands pressing against his chest to push him back, though he wouldn't budge. "Why do you make me feel so small?"

"Because I'm messed up, okay?!" Heeseung suddenly shouted, his voice echoing off the kitchen walls. He let go of you, turning around and slamming his fist onto the countertop. The sudden violence of the gesture made you flinch, taking a step back.

He caught your flinch, and a look of deep self-loathing crossed his face. He dropped his head, his shoulders shaking as he let out a ragged breath. "I’m messed up. I ruin everything I touch, and I’m terrified that I’m going to completely ruin you, too. So I push. I push because it's easier to drive you away than to watch you realize I'm not worth it."

It was a confession, but it was wrapped in the same old manipulation that always dragged you back. By playing the victim of his own mind, he effectively stripped you of your right to be angry. How could you blame him for hurting you when he was clearly hurting so much more?

"Heeseung…" you whispered, your anger evaporating, replaced by that tragic, familiar wave of sympathy.

He turned around, his eyes shining with unshed tears. He looked incredibly vulnerable, like a little boy lost in the dark. He stepped back into your space, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist and burying his face into the crook of your neck. He clung to you like a lifeline, his entire body trembling.

"Don't leave me," he whispered brokenly against your skin. "Please. I’m sorry. I’ll be better, I swear. Just don't leave."

Your hands hesitated in the air before slowly coming down to rest on his back. You hated yourself for how easily you caved, for how quickly his tears wiped away hours of your own suffering. You knew this was part of the cycle. The breakup, the breakdown, the desperate makeup.

"I'm here," you whispered back, closing your eyes as you let the toxic warmth of his embrace pull you under once again. "I'm not leaving."

For now, the storm had passed. But you knew, with absolute certainty, that the clouds would gather again soon.

The quiet that followed his breakdown was always the most dangerous part. It felt like the aftermath of a natural disaster—the air was clear, the danger had passed, but you were still standing in the middle of the wreckage.

Heeseung didn’t let go of you for a long time. He kept his arms wrapped around your waist, his breathing gradually slowing down until it matched yours. To anyone else, it would look like a moment of deep, romantic healing. To you, it felt like handcuffs. He was holding onto you to keep himself anchored, completely oblivious to the fact that he was drowning you in the process.

"Let's get out of the house," Heeseung murmured against your shoulder, his voice rough. He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his eyes pleading. "Let's go get some food. Just you and me. No fighting."

You managed a weak nod. "Okay."

An hour later, you were sitting across from him in a booth at a quiet diner down the street. The rain had stopped, leaving the city outside looking damp and gray. Heeseung was acting completely different now. He was attentive, sliding the menu toward you, asking what you wanted, and reaching across the table to squeeze your hand.

It was his way of making amends without actually addressing the problem. If he could just act like the perfect boyfriend for a few hours, he could convince himself—and you—that the screaming match in the kitchen had never happened.

"You should get the pancakes," Heeseung said, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You love the ones with the berries."

"Yeah, maybe," you said softly, trying to force a smile back. But your chest felt completely hollow. You looked at his hand resting over yours. His skin was warm, his grip gentle. It was the same hand that had slammed onto the counter in a rage just ninety minutes ago. The whiplash was dizzying.

As the food arrived, the silence between you became suffocating. You picked at your food, your appetite entirely gone, while Heeseung tried his best to fill the silence with mindless chatter about a movie he wanted to see or a song he was working on. He was trying so hard to pretend everything was normal that it made you feel completely invisible. Your pain didn't fit into his narrative of a "good day," so it had to be ignored.

Then, his phone buzzed on the table.

Heeseung glanced down at the screen. You caught the name before he quickly flipped the phone face down—it was a guy he used to run around with, someone who only ever brought trouble into Heeseung's life.

"Who was that?" you asked, your voice automatically tightening. The fragile peace in your chest instantly vanished.

"Nobody. Just a work thing," Heeseung said quickly, his posture stiffening. He took a sudden interest in his coffee, refusing to meet your eyes.

"Heeseung, I saw the name," you said, the exhaustion returning with a vengeance. "You told me you stopped talking to him. You promised me you were staying away from that crowd."

"And I am," he snapped, his voice losing its warm, attentive edge in a fraction of a second. The switch flipped so fast it made your head spin. "It’s just a text. Why do you always have to interrogate me the second my phone lights up? Do you not trust me at all?"

"How am I supposed to trust you when you lie to my face?!" you whispered-yelled, conscious of the few other patrons in the diner. "You text them, you go out, you come home looking like a ghost, and I'm the one who has to pick up the pieces when you break!"

Heeseung’s eyes darkened, that familiar, cold barrier slamming right back down between you. "I don't need you to pick up anything for me. I didn't ask for your help."

"Then stop running back to me when everything blows up!" You pushed your plate away, the tears threatening to spill over yet again. You were so tired of crying. You were so tired of this diner, this conversation, this life. "You use me as a safety net, Heeseung. You treat me like garbage, and then the second you think I'm going to leave, you cry and tell me you need me. It's cruel."

Heeseung stared at you, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle twitch. He didn't look sad anymore. He looked angry—furious that you were calling him out, furious that his perfect, distraction-filled afternoon had been ruined by the reality of what he was doing to you.

"If I'm so cruel," he said, his voice dangerously low and quiet, "then why are you still sitting here?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. It was the ultimate trap. If you stayed, you proved that you would tolerate his behavior. If you left, you broke the promise you had made in the kitchen just an hour ago.

Before you could answer, Heeseung stood up, throwing a few dollar bills onto the table. He didn't look at you as he grabbed his jacket.

"I'm going for a walk," he said coldly. "Don't wait up."

You sat frozen in the booth as he walked out of the diner, the bell above the door chiming mockingly behind him. You watched through the window as his tall figure disappeared down the gray street. You were completely alone, trapped in a cycle you didn't know how to break, loving a boy who was using your heart as a shield against his own demons.

The walk back to the apartment felt longer than it ever had before. The gray sky hung low over the city, threatening another downpour, and the damp air chilled you to the bone. By the time you unlocked the front door, the silence of the empty rooms rushed out to meet you. It was a suffocating kind of quiet—the kind that forced you to sit alone with your own thoughts, with the echo of his words still ringing in your ears.

“If I’m so cruel, then why are you still sitting here?”

You dropped your keys on the counter. The metallic ring felt inappropriately loud. Walking into the living room, you pulled a knit blanket around your shoulders and curled up on the sofa, pulling your knees tightly to your chest. You stared at the front door, half-expecting it to swing open, half-dreading the moment it actually would.

Hours bled into one another. The afternoon light faded into a murky twilight, and still, the apartment remained dark and empty. You didn't bother turning on the lamps. The darkness felt safer, like a physical barrier between you and the rest of the world.

Your mind kept drifting back to the beginning—to the days when Heeseung’s intensity felt like passion, not a cage. He used to hold your hand like he was afraid you’d float away. Now, it felt like he held onto you just to drag you down into whatever dark place his mind wandered into. You realized, with a sickening jolt in your stomach, that you had become addicted to the relief of the makeup phase. You endured the screaming, the cold shoulders, and the isolation just to feel that fleeting, desperate moment where he cried in your arms and told you he couldn’t live without you.

It wasn't love. It was survival.

It was past midnight when the lock finally clicked.

You didn't move. You stayed frozen on the couch, watching as Heeseung pushed the door open. He looked worse than he had that morning. His hair was damp from the mist outside, sticking to his forehead in messy clumps. His jacket was unzipped, and his steps were heavy, almost sluggish, as he kicked the door shut behind him.

He didn't see you at first in the pitch-black living room. He sighed, a sound so deeply exhausted it trembled, and threw his keys onto the table. When he turned toward the hallway, his eyes caught the shadow of your figure on the couch. He stopped dead in his tracks.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the ticking of the kitchen clock.

"You're still awake," he finally said. His voice was completely shot, rough and scraped raw. He didn't sound angry anymore. The venom from the diner had completely evaporated, leaving behind a hollow shell.

"I was waiting to see if you'd come back," you whispered.

Heeseung let out a breathless, bitter laugh, running a hand through his damp hair. "I always come back. You know that. I have nowhere else to go."

"That's not a reason to come home, Heeseung," you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the storm raging in your chest. "I’m your girlfriend, not a default setting because you ran out of options."

He flinched. In the dim light filtering through the window, you saw his shoulders drop. He slowly walked over to the living room, but he didn't sit next to you. Instead, he dropped to his knees on the floor right in front of the couch, sinking down until his head rested against your knees.

It was a posture of absolute defeat.

"I didn't go to see them," he muttered into the fabric of your blanket. "The text. I didn't answer it. I just… I walked. For hours. I didn't know what else to do."

You looked down at the back of his dark head. Your fingers twitched with the familiar, overwhelming urge to reach out and run your hands through his hair, to soothe the ache that you knew was tearing him apart inside. But you kept your hands tightly clamped around your knees. You couldn't do it again. Not tonight.

"Why do you do it, Heeseung?" you asked, a single tear finally escaping and tracking down your cheek. "Why do you push me until I'm ready to break, and then crawl back like this?"

He didn't move for a long moment. Then, slowly, he lifted his head. His eyes were wide, glossy with tears, and completely desperate. In the shadows, he looked terribly fragile.

"Because when you're angry at me, when you're crying because of me, I know you're still looking at me," he whispered, his voice cracking on the last word. He reached up, his trembling fingers gently brushing against your ankle, testing the boundaries to see if you would pull away. "I feel so numb all the time. Everything inside me feels completely dead, except when we're like this. When you hate me, or when you're forgiving me… it's the only time I feel like I'm actually alive."

The confession made your blood run cold. It was the absolute, naked truth of your relationship, laid bare in the middle of the night. He wasn't just hurting you by accident; he was using your emotional agony as a spark to kickstart his own numb heart.

"That's sick, Heeseung," you breathed, the horror of it choking you.

"I know," he choked out, a tear finally spilling over his long lashes. He leaned his forehead against your shin, his grip on your ankle tightening slightly. "I know it is. I told you I’m ruined. I’m a monster to you, but please… please don't make me go back out there alone. I can't breathe out there."

You closed your eyes, a heavy, suffocating weight settling over your chest. You were so tired. You wanted to push him away, to tell him to get off the floor and leave for good. But as you listened to his muffled, ragged breathing against your legs, the toxic, familiar warmth of your shared trauma pulled you right back down into the dark.

You slowly released your grip on your knees, and your hand drifted down, burying your fingers in his damp hair. Heeseung let out a shaky gasp at the contact, pressing himself closer to you, clinging to your legs like a man saved from a wreck.

You had survived another round. But looking out into the dark, empty room, you realized you were losing pieces of yourself every single time the cycle reset.

The next few days passed in a strange, fragile fog. Heeseung was on his best behavior, which was always the most terrifying part of the cycle. It was the calm before the next storm, a period of forced sweetness where you both had to pretend that the terrifying confession on the living room floor had never happened.

He made breakfast in the mornings. He kept the apartment clean. He held your hand while you watched TV, his thumb tracing soothing circles over your knuckles. But the warmth felt artificial, like a fever instead of actual health. You found yourself watching him out of the corner of your eye, constantly waiting for the mask to slip, waiting for the sudden snap that would signal the end of the peace treaty.

By Friday evening, the tension in the apartment was loud enough to hum. Heeseung had been staring at his laptop for three hours, working on a track, his shoulders hunched and his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles jumped.

You walked into the living room with two mugs of tea, setting one down near his elbow. "Hey. Take a break. You've been staring at that screen all day."

He didn't look up. His fingers kept flying across the keyboard, the harsh blue light reflecting in his dull, tired eyes. "I'm busy."

The short, dismissive tone was a spark in a room full of gasoline. You felt your stomach tighten. "Heeseung, it's nine o'clock. You haven't eaten anything since noon. Just sit with me for ten minutes."

"I said I'm busy," he repeated, his voice dropping an octave, losing the gentle edge he had forced himself to maintain all week. "Can you just leave me alone for five minutes? Do you always have to suffocate me?"

The word suffocate hit you like a physical blow. After everything—after staying through his breakdowns, after letting him use your heart as a playground just so he could feel alive—he was calling you the suffocating one.

"I'm suffocating you?" you asked, your voice dangerously quiet. You set your own mug down, your hands shaking. "I'm trying to care for you. I'm trying to make sure you don't starve yourself while you're locked in your own head. If that's suffocating, then maybe I should just stop caring entirely."

Heeseung slammed his laptop shut. The loud snap echoed through the quiet room. He stood up, turning to face you with a look of pure irritation. "Then stop! Seriously, if it’s such a chore to look after me, then just stop doing it. I didn’t ask you to play my therapist, and I didn't ask you to watch my every move."

"You did!" you shouted back, the dam breaking instantly. The exhaustion of the past week rushed to the surface, wiping out any resolve you had to stay calm. "You literally knelt on the floor and begged me not to leave you! You told me you needed me to breathe! And now you're turning it around on me like I'm the one invading your space?"

"Because you take advantage of it!" Heeseung stepped closer, his chest rising and falling heavily. He looked furious, the guilt of his own dependency turning into ugly, volatile anger. "You love it when I'm down there, don't you? You love it when I'm broken because it means you have all the control. You get to play the saint who saves the miserable boy."

The cruelty of his words made your head spin. It was an absolute distortion of reality, a textbook piece of emotional manipulation designed to make you defend yourself instead of holding him accountable.

"How dare you," you whispered, tears of absolute frustration blinding your vision. "How dare you say that to me. I have given up everything to keep this relationship afloat. I have let you tear me to pieces just so you could feel something, and you have the audacity to accuse me of wanting control?"

"If you didn't want it, you would have left by now," he sneered, though there was a sudden, desperate flicker of panic in his eyes as he saw the sheer look of defeat on your face. He was pushing the boundary again, testing to see how far he could stretch you before you snapped. "But you're still here. You're just as addicted to this mess as I am."

The worst part about his words was that a tiny, horrible part of you knew he was right. You were addicted to the cycle. You were trapped in the toxic rhythm of his chaos.

"You're right," you said, your voice suddenly dropping to a whisper. The anger vanished, leaving behind nothing but a vast, empty void. "I am addicted. But I think I'm finally breaking the habit."

You turned on your heel and walked toward the bedroom, your mind entirely blank.

"Where are you going?" Heeseung called out, his tone shifting instantly. The arrogance was gone, replaced by that sharp, familiar edge of panic. He followed you into the room, watching in horror as you pulled a duffel bag out of the closet and threw it onto the bed. "What are you doing?"

"I'm leaving, Heeseung," you said, your hands trembling as you grabbed a handful of clothes from the drawer. "I can't do this anymore. I am completely empty. There is nothing left of me for you to destroy."

"No, wait—stop," he said, stepping in front of the drawer to block you. He grabbed your wrists, his grip tight but frantic. His face was pale, his eyes wide and wild. "You're just mad. I didn't mean it. I was just stressed about the music, I swear."

"Let go of me," you said, refusing to look at him.

"Look at me!" he pleaded, his voice breaking. He dropped to his knees right there in the bedroom, holding onto your hands, his forehead pressing against your knuckles. "I'm sorry. I'm a liar, I'm a hypocrite, I'm everything you say I am. Just don't pack that bag. Please. If you walk out that door, I don't know what I'll do."

You looked down at him, your heart aching with a familiar, agonizing pity. It was the exact same script. The argument, the threat of abandonment, and the desperate, weeping apology on his knees.

But as you stared at the duffel bag sitting open on the bed, you realized that if you didn't pack it now, you never would. You would spend the rest of your life on your knees with him, drowning in a gray apartment, waiting for a sun that was never going to rise.

Heeseung’s grip on your wrists tightened, his knuckles turning white as he buried his face deeper into your hands. He was trembling violently now, his chest heaving against your shins.

"Please," he choked out, the word muffled against your skin. "I’ll delete the files. I’ll stop working on the music. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don't look at me like that. Don't look at me like you're already gone."

For the past year, this exact sight would have broken you. The raw vulnerability of a boy who usually wore a bulletproof vest of arrogance was your greatest weakness. It was the ultimate drug—knowing that the cold, distant Lee Heeseung would crawl through glass just to keep you by his side.

But looking down at him now, the high was completely gone. You didn't feel powerful. You didn't even feel comforted. You just felt an overwhelming, crushing sense of sadness.

"Heeseung," you said, and your voice was so quiet, so steady, that he actually froze. The desperate pleading stopped, and he slowly lifted his head to look up at you, his eyes red and frantic.

"I'm not looking at you like I'm already gone," you whispered, a tear finally sliding down your cheek and landing on his hand. "I am gone. I've been leaving for months, piece by piece, and neither of us noticed because we were too busy fighting."

"No, you're here," he insisted, his voice rising in pitch as panic completely took over. He scrambled to his feet, trying to pull you into his arms, trying to force the physical proximity that always blurred your judgment. "You're right here in our room. We can fix this. We always fix it."

"We don't fix it!" you shouted, finally finding the strength to push him back. Your hands slammed against his chest, forcing a few inches of space between you. "We just patch the holes until the next leak springs! Look at us, Heeseung! Look at what we do to each other!"

He staggered back a step, looking at you as if you had struck him.

"You told me on Monday that you use my pain to feel alive," you said, your breath hitching as the horror of that truth settled over you again. "And today, you accused me of keeping you broken so I can control you. We are eating each other alive. This isn't love. It's a hostage situation."

"I love you," he whispered, and for the first time, the words sounded like a plea for help rather than a statement of fact. He looked completely unraveled, his hair messy, his eyes dark and hollow. "I don't know how to exist without you."

"Then you need to learn," you said, your voice cracking.

You turned back to the bed, your hands moving like robots as you grabbed the rest of your clothes and shoved them into the duffel bag. You didn't care if they were folded. You didn't care if you left half your things behind. You just needed to fill the bag. You needed a tangible reason to move toward the door.

Heeseung didn't try to stop you this time. He stood in the center of the bedroom, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides, watching you zip the bag shut. The silence that filled the room was different from the others. It wasn't the angry, tense silence of an argument, or the heavy, comforting silence of a makeup. It was the cold, dead silence of an ending.

You swung the strap of the duffel bag over your shoulder. It felt incredibly heavy, a physical manifestation of the baggage you had been carrying for years.

You walked past him, heading down the short hallway toward the front door. Every step felt like walking through wet cement. Your brain was screaming at you to stop, to turn around, to let him apologize one more time so you could sleep in your own bed. The addiction was pulling at you with massive, invisible hands.

You reached the front door and grabbed the handle.

"If you walk out," Heeseung’s voice carried from the bedroom, sounding terrifyingly flat, "I'm not going to chase you."

You closed your eyes, a bitter, tragic smile touching your lips. It was his final hand. His last attempt to play on your fear of abandonment, to make you turn around and prove your loyalty.

"I know," you whispered to the empty hallway. "That's exactly why I have to go."

You pulled the door open, stepped out into the chilly, dimly lit corridor of the apartment building, and pulled the door shut behind you. The click of the lock resonated through the quiet hallway, signaling the final break in the chain.

You didn't look back as you walked toward the elevator, the weight of the bag on your shoulder finally feeling a little lighter with every step you took away from the dark.

The cold air of the street hit your face the moment you stepped out of the apartment building. The rain had started again, a light, freezing drizzle that blurred the halos of the streetlamps. You pulled your jacket tighter around yourself, the strap of the duffel bag digging into your shoulder, but you didn't stop walking.

For the first block, your heart hammered against your ribs so violently it made you dizzy. You kept expecting to hear his heavy footsteps running down the pavement behind you. You kept expecting his hand to grab your arm, pulling you back into the warmth of the apartment, back into the comfort of the wreckage.

But as you reached the corner of the street and looked back over your shoulder, the sidewalk was completely empty. The front door of the building remained closed.

He had kept his word. He wasn't chasing you.

A strange, hollow sensation washed over you. It wasn't the sharp spike of adrenaline or the hot sting of anger you were used to. It was just an immense, quiet emptiness. The addiction inside you—the part that craved his desperation, his tears, and his frantic promises—began to starve. It hurt, a deep, aching withdrawal that made your legs feel weak, but underneath the pain, a tiny spark of clarity finally broke through.

You walked into a small, 24-hour diner a few blocks away, just to get out of the cold. The bell above the door chimed softly, a mundane, ordinary sound that felt entirely disconnected from the tragedy of your night. You sat in a booth by the window, sliding the heavy duffel bag across the vinyl seat next to you.

The waitress brought over a mug of black coffee without you even asking, giving you a quiet, sympathetic look before walking away. You wrapped your trembling hands around the warm ceramic, staring out at the rain-slicked streets.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Your entire body went rigid. You pulled it out, your thumb hovering over the screen. Your heart begged for it to be a paragraph from Heeseung—an apology, a plea, a confession that he couldn't breathe without you. You were still desperate for the fix.

But when you unlocked the screen, there was nothing. No texts. No missed calls. Just the glowing lock screen, showing the time: 2:14 AM.

Heeseung was letting you go, not out of kindness, but because the game was finally over. You had refused to play your part on the floor, and without your reaction, his cycle had nothing left to feed on. He was back in his dark, numb room, and you were sitting in a brightly lit diner, completely alone.

A single tear slipped down your cheek, dripping into the dark surface of your coffee. You knew the next few weeks would be unbearable. You knew you would wake up in the middle of the night reaching for a ghost, that you would have to fight the urge to pack your things and go back to that gray apartment every single day. The damage he had done wouldn't disappear just because you walked out the door.

But as you took a slow sip of the coffee, looking at your reflection in the dark window, you realized something important. For the first time in a year, your chest didn't feel completely restricted. The air in the diner was clear.

You were broken, and you were exhausted, but you were finally free.

—⤷ [ megan x f!reader ] ⋮ you decide it’s time to stop hiding, but making a notoriously shy megan skiendziel blush in broad daylight might just be your new favorite sport <3

—warnings ! fluff, girlfriends! public affection, reader is bold?, megan is a desperate shy person!, fluff, teasing, kissing, mentions of periods, girls being adorable <3

— hey siri! play "Agora Hills" by Doja Cat ! ᥫ᭡

“I wanna show you off... I wanna brag about it...”

The lyrics looped in your head for the three-block walk from the local convenience store back to the hybe dorms. It was a beautiful, crisp afternoon, and you were carrying a plastic grocery bag filled with an incredibly specific, non-negotiable checklist: three packs of spicy ramen, a family-sized bag of sour patch kids, and two boxes of overnight pads.

Megan was on day two of her cycle, which meant the normally focused, disciplined main dancer of the group had officially morphed into a soft, clingy, and slightly miserable puddle of blankets back in your shared room.

When you kicked the door open with your elbow, you found her exactly where you left her. She was buried deep under your duvet, only the top half of her face visible. Her dark eyes followed you as you set the bag down on the desk.

"Did you get the ones with the wings?" her voice came out as a tiny, muffled squeak from behind the fabric.

"Of course I did, Meg," you smiled, walking over to the edge of the bed. You reached down, gently pulling the duvet down past her chin. Her face was flushed, her hair a bit messy from tossing and turning, and she looked so entirely endearing you felt a literal ache in your chest. "How are the cramps?"

"Horrible," she whined, reaching her arms out from her cocoon. It was a silent demand.

You obliged, crawling onto the mattress and letting her immediately wrap herself around you like a koala. She buried her face into the crook of your neck, letting out a long, shuddering sigh as your warmth hit her.

"You're like a human heating pad," she murmured, her lips brushing against your collarbone.

"I try my best," you laughed, running your fingers through her hair, untangling the small knots. Agora Hills was still playing on a loop in the back of your mind. You thought about the lyric—about wanting to show her off, about being tired of the tip-toeing, the secret glances during content shoots, the careful distance in public.

Being in a global girl group meant privacy was a luxury you rarely had, but today was an off-day. No cameras. No managers trailing five paces behind. Just a rare, free afternoon.

You nudged her shoulder. "Hey. Let's go out."

Megan stiffened slightly against you, lifting her head to look at you like you had just suggested jumping out of a plane. "Out? Like... outside? Y/N, my uterus is currently staging a violent coup, and I'm wearing sweatpants."

"We can put on cute outfits. We'll go to that little hidden cafe three blocks away, get those iced matcha lattes you love, and sit on the patio. The weather is perfect." You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of her nose. "Come on. I want to take my girlfriend on a date."

The word girlfriend always did something magical to Megan. Even after months of being together, hearing it out loud made a faint, pretty pink hue creep up her cheeks. She was notoriously shy when it came to romance—a stark contrast to the fierce, confident girl who owned the stage during music show performances.

"Promise we can come right back if my stomach starts hurting again?" she asked softly, her eyes searching yours.

"I promise. I'll even carry you back if I have to."

Twenty minutes later, Megan was standing in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting a cream-colored knit cardigan over a simple white baby tee and baggy denim. She looked effortlessly stunning, the kind of casual cool that people spent hours trying to replicate.

You walked up behind her, slipping your arms around her waist and resting your chin on her shoulder. "Look at you. How did I get the prettiest girl in the group?"

Megan’s eyes met yours in the reflection, and she immediately looked down, a shy smile tugging at her lips. "Stop it. The others are gonna hear you."

"Let them hear," you said boldly, turning her around in your arms so she had to face you. "I'm tired of being lowkey, Meg. I want to hold your hand today. In public."

Megan’s breath hitched. Her hands came up to rest on your chest, her fingers clutching at your shirt. "Y/N... what if someone sees? What if there are fans, or—"

"Then they'll see that I have an amazing girlfriend," you interrupted gently, your tone firm but entirely loving. "We're just two girls walking to a cafe. It's 2026, nobody is going to care. And even if they do, I don't."

The sheer confidence in your voice seemed to dizzy her. Megan looked up at you, her dark eyes wide and slightly desperate, completely overwhelmed by how intensely you were looking at her. She swallowed hard, her voice a tiny whisper. "Okay."

The walk to the cafe was a masterclass in making Megan Skiendziel blush.

The second you stepped out of the dorm lobby, you didn't just casually walk next to her. You reached down, sliding your fingers between hers, locking your hands together tightly. Megan’s hand was a little tense at first, her head instinctively ducking as she glanced around the quiet street, but you just squeezed her fingers, pulling her a little closer to your side.

"You're doing great, sweetgirl," you teased, using the pet name in a low, smooth voice.

"Y/N, oh my god," she breathed, her face turning a bright, unmistakable crimson. She tried to pull her hand away to hide her face, but you held fast, completely unbothered. "You're being so bold today, what is wrong with you?"

"Nothing's wrong with me. I'm just listening to Doja Cat and feeling inspired," you grinned, pulling her into a small alcove between two brick buildings just before the main street.

Before Megan could ask what you were doing, you backed her up against the wall. It wasn't rough, but it was deliberate. You placed one hand on the brick next to her head, effectively trapping her, while your other hand remained firmly locked with hers.

Megan’s back hit the wall, and she let out a soft, flustered gasp. She looked so beautifully frantic, her chest rising and falling as she looked at your lips, then back up to your eyes. "We're outside," she reminded you, her voice trembling slightly. "Someone could literally walk past right now."

"Let them walk," you murmured, leaning in until your lips were barely a millimeter away from hers. "You're so cute when you're flustered, Meg. Did you know that? Your whole face turns pink."

"You're a menace," she whispered, but she didn't pull away. In fact, her shy exterior was completely losing the battle against how desperate she actually was for your touch. Her eyelids fluttered closed, her chin tilting up automatically, silently begging for the distance to be closed.

You didn't make her wait. You pressed your lips to hers in a deep, lingering kiss. It was sweet, tasted like the vanilla lip balm she always wore, and carried all the warmth of the afternoon sun. Megan let out a soft, contented hum against your mouth, her free hand coming up to tangle into the fabric of your jacket, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

When you finally pulled back, her lips were shiny and slightly swollen, her eyes half-lopen and dazed.

"Come on," you smiled, giving her hand a gentle tug. "Matcha is waiting."

The cafe patio was relatively empty, saved for an older couple reading newspapers in the corner. You ordered for both of you, making sure to ask for extra oat milk in Megan's latte, and picked a table surrounded by large, leafy potted plants that offered just enough privacy from the main sidewalk.

Megan sat across from you, wrapping both of her hands around the iced glass, using the cold condensation to soothe the heat still lingering on her cheeks.

"Better?" you asked, leaning your chin on your hand, watching her over the table.

"Much better," she admitted, taking a sip through the straw. A tiny bit of green matcha foam left a trace on her upper lip, and it was so ridiculously adorable you couldn't handle it.

Without a word, you leaned across the small wooden table. You reached out, your thumb gently wiping the foam away. Instead of pulling your hand back, you let your fingers linger, your thumb smoothing over her bottom lip, then trailing down to cup her jaw.

Megan froze, her eyes darting to the older couple in the corner, then back to you. "Y/N," she whispered, her voice carrying that familiar, desperate shyness. "People."

"They're reading about the economy, Meg. They don't care about us," you laughed softly. You shifted your chair, moving it right next to hers until your thighs were pressed together under the table. You took her hand again, resting your intertwined fingers right on top of the wood, completely out in the open.

A group of teenagers walked past the sidewalk a moment later, laughing amongst themselves. Megan instantly tensed, her instinct to hide kicking in, but you didn't let go. You leaned over, pressing a firm, loud kiss right to her cheek, making a distinct mwah sound.

"Stop!" Megan giggled, a genuine, bubbling laugh escaping her as she hid her face in your shoulder. She was bright red, practically vibrating with a mix of embarrassment and pure, unadulterated happiness. "You are literally insane. Everyone is going to know."

"Good," you said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her into your side. "Let them know. I want the whole world to know you're mine."

Megan went quiet for a moment, her head resting comfortably on your shoulder. You could feel the tension completely drain from her body, replaced by a deep, settled comfort. Her fingers tightened around yours under the table, holding on like you were her anchor.

"Thank you," she whispered into your jacket, her voice soft and full of emotion.

"For what?"

"For being brave for both of us," she said, lifting her head to look at you, her eyes shining with something so incredibly tender it made your heart skip. "I get so scared sometimes. But when you hold my hand like this... I feel like I can do anything."

You felt a wave of warmth wash over you. You leaned down, kissing her forehead, then her eyelid, and finally her lips one more time—a slow, sweet, domestic kiss that felt like a promise.

"Anytime, sweetgirl," you murmured against her skin. "Now drink your matcha before your cramps come back, or I'm holding your hand all the way through the grocery store checkout line next."

Megan let out another beautiful, shy laugh, hiding her face in her hands. "Please, no. I don't think my heart can take any more of your behavior today."

—when you tell your friend you love her <3

—popular, fierce!lara raj x shy!fem!reader

—warnings ! fluff, platonic friendship, reader is painfully shy, lara is loud and protective, teasing, hugs, girls supporting girls <3

— hey siri! play "we can't be friends (wait for your love)" by Ariana Grande ! ᥫ᭡

You almost didn't say it.

The words had been sitting in your throat for weeks.

Months, maybe.

You weren't the kind of person who said things out loud.

You showed them.

You remembered birthdays. You carried extra hair ties. You saved seats in class. You listened more than you talked.

Lara, on the other hand...

Lara said exactly what she was thinking.

If she loved your outfit, she'd tell you.

If someone annoyed her, they'd know within thirty seconds.

If someone was rude to you?

God help them.

"...You're doing it again."

You blinked.

"Hm?"

"The overthinking face." Lara reached over the lunch table and gently poked your forehead. "I can practically hear the gears turning."

Your cheeks warmed.

"I wasn't overthinking."

"You literally were."

"...Maybe a little."

Lara laughed.

"You are so cute."

Your face somehow became even hotter.

The two of you had become an unlikely duo over the past year.

Everyone knew Lara.

Confident. Fierce. Popular.

Everyone knew you too...

Mostly because you were always standing next to Lara.

People never understood your friendship.

Lara never cared.

After school, the two of you walked toward the parking lot together.

Lara was talking animatedly about something that happened during dance practice while you nodded along, smiling at all the right moments.

Halfway there, she stopped.

"You've been weird all day."

"I've... been normal."

"Nope."

She folded her arms.

"Out with it."

You looked everywhere except at her.

The pavement.

The trees.

A squirrel.

Anywhere.

"It's... nothing."

"Mhm."

"..."

"..."

Lara sighed dramatically.

"If you don't tell me, I'm going to assume you accidentally committed tax fraud."

You let out a tiny laugh.

"I don't even pay taxes."

"Exactly. Suspicious."

Another laugh escaped you.

Then silence settled again.

Your fingers twisted around the strap of your backpack.

"I..." you started quietly.

Lara waited.

"I just..."

"...Yeah?"

Your voice became barely audible.

"I love you."

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

"I just... wanted you to know."

Silence.

Your stomach dropped.

Oh no.

That sounded—

"I mean as a friend!"

You practically squeaked.

"I just—I appreciate you and—and you're really important to me and I know I don't say things very well and—"

Before you could continue rambling...

Arms wrapped around you.

"L-Lara?"

She squeezed you tighter.

"So that's what you've been stressing over?"

You nodded against her shoulder.

"I thought you were about to tell me you crashed my car."

"I've never even driven your car."

"Exactly."

She pulled back just enough to look at you.

"You little goof."

You blinked.

"I love you too."

Your eyes widened.

"You do?"

She stared.

"...Girl."

"You are literally my favorite person to annoy."

"I thought that was everyone."

"It is."

She grinned.

"But you're my favorite favorite."

A tiny smile spread across your face.

"I just..." Lara said more softly now. "I know saying stuff like that isn't easy for you."

You looked down.

"It isn't."

"I know."

She gently bumped her shoulder against yours.

"So thanks for saying it anyway."

Your heart felt lighter.

"So..."

Lara smirked.

"You gonna cry?"

"No."

"You look like you're gonna cry."

"I'm not."

"You've got the watery eyes."

"I do not."

She laughed so hard she had to grab your arm.

"There she is."

You rolled your eyes.

"...I still love you."

"I know."

Lara wrapped an arm around your shoulders as you both started walking again.

"And for the record..."

"Hm?"

"You never have to wonder if I love you back."

She gave your shoulder another squeeze.

"I'm always gonna have your back."

This time...

You didn't have to think before answering.

"I know."

───── before you stay.

i'm really happy you're here. before you dive into my stories, here's everything you should know.

✦ this blog is centered around fictional writing only.

✦ every story is written with a female reader unless stated otherwise.

✦ i write whatever inspires me—series, one-shots, drabbles, timestamps, headcanons, and the occasional social media au.

✦ please check the warnings attached to every post before reading.

✦ this is a respectful space. kindness costs nothing.

✦ requests open and close depending on my motivation, but my inbox is always open for ideas, playlists, and conversations.

✦ i won't write topics that involve abuse, assault, incest, or any non-consensual content.

✦ my work belongs to me. please don't repost, translate, rewrite, or use it as inspiration without asking first.

✦ everything here is fiction and shouldn't be taken as a reflection of any idol or public figure.

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───── 천국 . ۶ེ༹༷ ⸝ ⸝ welcome to my little corner.

✿ ◞ ˚. ˖ ۫⸝ ⸝ this archive holds every story i've written, every unfinished thought, and every character i've accidentally fallen in love with. please read the tags and content warnings before reading.

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✦ FEATURED STORIES ◞

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✦ MASTERLIST BY ARTIST ◞

KATSEYE

01. telling your bestfriend!lara that you love her | HERE!

02. pda in public with megan skiendiel | HERE!

CORTIS

coming soon.

ENHYPEN

coming soon.

BTS

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✦ CURRENTLY...

latest writing

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