April

18+ Minors DNI with my NSFW stories, English isn’t my first language as they all say (I’m serious) requests are open! Pls don't translate or repost my work, thank you!

[hannie-berrie]

MASTERLIST

fluff : ☁️ smut: 🔞 (MDNI) audio: 🎶 Alphabet: 🎨 Reactions (scenarios): 🧩 text exchange: 💬

Weak Hero Class 1-2

Hu Yetao (Chuang Asia/NexT1DE) M reader

&team

TXT

☁️ TXT as love languages

Tenlee (WayV)

☁️ You paint my world (kinda suggestive)

Boys 2 Planet / ALD1

☁️ Zhou Anxin Quiet Rivalry

more coming..

Christmas serie

☁️ K of &team Underneath The Mistletoe

Valentines serie

🔞 Jo of &team A special day's promise

[hannie-berrie]

the way I need Maki like I never had before, these pictures he dropped, OH HE KNOWS what he's doing

[hannie-berrie]

MAKI'S NEW POST IM EATING MY BEDSHEETS

[hannie-berrie]

Heeseung left Enhypen..? Let's all just die.

I'll make a fanfic in his honour, I love him with all my soul im so devastated right now.

[hannie-berrie]

OMG NO AUTHOR NIM WHERE ARE UUUUUUUUUUU ITS BEEN A MONTHHHHHH ATLEAST LET US KNOW IF YOURE DOING GOOODDDDDDD

Ahhh I’m falling behind on Anon messages… 😞 thank you for your worry anon you’re so sweet! I love writing I wish I had more time, I’m been more consistent recently tho!

When you sent this message I had just returned home after being kicked out for a long period of time.. lol 🥲 Lots was going on but things got much betterrrrr, love you anon!🫶🫶🫶

[hannie-berrie]

academic rivals to lovers / enemies to lovers with anxin? preferably angst and hurt comfort

thank uu

OFC omgg you give me so many ideas, I’ll make this one on the longer side with 3 chapters (all in this post!) hope you like it ♥️

Quiet rivalry

pairing: Alpha Drive One Zhou Anxin x Reader

Warnings: none

Genre: Top Student! Anxin and Top Student! Reader, Academic Rivals to .. something very similar to lovers! Forced to interact by proximity and school project, except he falls first, and probably harder 𓏲ּ𝄢

Wc: 5.7k

Chapter One ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

In the lecture hall, attention drifts before it settles. It moves like a living thing, drawn toward certain presences without asking why.

You arrive just before the room fills, the air still holding the faint echo of earlier voices. Anxin is already seated a few rows ahead, angled slightly toward the window, light catching along the edge of his notebook.

You notice him without meaning to.

There is nothing ostentatious about the way he occupies the space. No performance, no visible effort to be seen. And yet, once your eyes find him, they resist leaving. Perhaps because he seems so entirely at ease, as though excellence has never demanded anything from him beyond showing up.

You take your seat and open your bag, careful not to look again too quickly. It would feel like betraying yourself.

The rivalry, if that is what it is, has no origin you can point to. No first conversation, no explicit challenge. It exists instead in the margins: in exam rankings, in the pause before grades are released, in the way your name and his seem destined to appear near each other, separated by the narrowest of distances.

You have never spoken.

The professor begins, voice filling the hall with practiced authority. Slides advance. Pens move. Around you, students slip into focus, their lives briefly aligned by the same expectation. You write diligently, your attention sharp but restless, aware of Anxin in the same way one is aware of weather, present, influential, impossible to ignore.

At some point, he shifts his gaze, not enough to be obvious, but enough that you feel it. The sensation lands low and unexpected, like a dropped object you hadn’t realized you were carrying.

You keep your eyes on the page.

When the lecture ends, the room loosens its hold. Conversations spark and fade. Chairs scrape softly against the floor. Anxin stands, slings his bag over his shoulder, and disappears into the current of bodies moving toward the exit. You wait a moment longer than necessary before following.

Outside, the day is generous. Not radiant, not demanding admiration, but open in a way that feels permissive. The air carries a mild warmth, the kind that asks nothing of you except that you exist within it. You unlock your bicycle and push off, letting momentum take over as the campus drifts behind you.

The path curves gently, trees lining the road in quiet agreement. You pedal steadily, thoughts unraveling in time with the movement. You think about the lecture, about the points you understood and the ones that felt slippery. You think, unhelpfully, about how quickly Anxin had been writing, about how untroubled he had looked.

It irritates you, the ease of him. Not because you believe he doesn’t work hard, you suspect the opposite, but because his effort never seems to announce itself. Your own diligence feels louder, heavier, as if it demands witnesses.

The river appears alongside the road, surface dark and unbroken. You slow, letting the repetition of pedaling become something meditative. The water moves without hesitation, never second-guessing its direction. You imagine what it would be like to feel that certain.

At home, you lean the bicycle against the wall and step inside. The familiar quiet greets you, steady and contained. You make tea, letting the kettle come to a boil while you loosen the knot of your thoughts. This is the part of the day that belongs only to you, the interval between obligation and rest.

You sit at the table with your notebook, flipping back through your notes. You underline. You annotate. You mark what needs revisiting. The margins fill with reminders written in your own careful hand. Your grades matter to you more than you let on, not because of competition, but because they feel like scaffolding. Something solid to lean on when doubt sets in.

Still, the comparison intrudes.

You imagine Anxin’s notes, clean and organized, concepts settling into place like he had been doing this with passion. You resent the image even as you recognize its unfairness. You do not know how he studies, how many nights he stays awake, what he sacrifices. You only know the result.

That night, you set your alarm earlier than necessary. You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, thoughts looping in quiet insistence. You replay the lecture, the fleeting awareness of his gaze, the way your focus had faltered despite yourself.

You tell yourself it is ambition. That this is what rivalry feels like when it goes unspoken.

Yet beneath that explanation, something else waits, something that doesn't yet own a name. A curiosity. A pull. The sense that whatever exists between you and Anxin is not sustained by opposition alone.

Tomorrow, you will return to the lecture hall. You will take your notes. You will measure yourself against the standard you believe he sets.

And for now, that is enough.

Chapter Two ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

They assign the project on a day when the room feels smaller than usual.

It is one of those seminars where participation is mandatory and silence is noticed. Chairs are arranged in a loose circle, forcing eye contact, forcing presence. You take a seat with the faint sense of being exposed, aware that there is nowhere to disappear to if your attention falters.

Across the room, Anxin is already there.

Not directly opposite, nothing so neat, but close enough that your eyes meet more than once before the professor even begins. The recognition lands quietly. He listens with his head slightly tilted, eyes resting on the professor but drifting now and then, as if the room contains something he is trying not to look at directly.

You tell yourself it is not you.

You look down at your notes, irritation prickling beneath your calm.

The professor clears their throat and begins outlining the assignment. A semester-long project. Research-heavy. You listen carefully, already calculating. Scope. Timeline. Criteria. Your mind works quickly, efficiently, because it has learned to. This is how you stay afloat.

The professor speaks of scope, of methodology, of how they will grade not only the final product but the process: division of labor, collaboration, the ability to synthesize. Words like rigor and precision fall from their mouth as if they are blessings.

Then the professor says the word partners.

Your stomach tightens. You remain still.

Names begin to be read aloud.

Pairs form like sudden weather. Students shift their chairs, exchange quick greetings, already negotiating who will do what. When your name is spoken, you feel it land on you like a weight placed carefully.

A moment later, Anxin’s name follows.

The air changes.

A few people glance between you, subtle and curious. Others whine that the top students are put together.

You look down at your notes, as if the paper can protect you from being seen.

Then you feel it.

Anxin turns around fully in his chair, not a quick glance, not a careless flick of the eyes. He turns his head until he is facing you completely, and his gaze meets yours with a steadiness that feels like an admission.

Not of rivalry, of awareness.

For a moment, you cannot move. The look is too direct, too unguarded to dismiss as coincidence. His expression is calm, but there is something in it that does not belong to calmness alone, something curious, almost cautious, as though he has been waiting for this pairing... what were you even thinking.

You hold his gaze longer than you meant to before shaking yourself back to earth.

It is only when the professor clears their throat again that the moment breaks.

Anxin stands and crosses the room, stopping beside your chair. Up close, the details of him sharpen: the clean lines of his handwriting visible through the open notebook he carries, the faint scent of rain or soap or something unplaceable. He looks at you as though you are not merely his partner but a problem he has been studying privately.

“Looks like we’re paired” he says.

His voice is even, but it holds something softened.

“Yeah” you reply. Your tone is controlled, though your pulse has begun to misbehave. “Seems so" you tried casually adding only to sound colder.

You shift your chair to make room. He sits beside you, for practicality, but you're acutely aware of the small distance that now separates you. Close enough to share papers. Close enough to notice the faint scent of detergent on his sleeve, clean and unremarkable in a way that makes it difficult to place.

The professor continues speaking, but the words slide past you. You are suddenly conscious of your hands, of where you place them on the table, of how easily they could brush against his if you are not careful.

You write anyway. You always write.

When the seminar ends, students begin to leave in clusters. You and Anxin stay behind for a moment, gathering your things slowly, as if neither of you wants to be the first to move.

He speaks first.

“We should meet soon” he says. “Before everyone else takes the best sources.”

You nod. “Agreed.”

A pause.

He watches you carefully, as though waiting for you to say something more.

“I can handle the literature review” you add. “I’ll compile sources and organize the citations.”

He blinks once, a small reaction that would mean nothing if you hadn’t already begun to learn him.

“I was hoping you’d take that” he says.

It is not the words, exactly. It is the way he says them, the remark lands with unexpected warmth. You cannot tell if it is genuine appreciation or strategic relief.

“And you?” you ask, keeping your voice steady.

“I’ll do analysis and structure,” he replies. “And we’ll write the conclusion together.”

“Okay.”

You end up walking to the library without discussing it, the decision made silently. The path there is crowded with students and bicycles, but you feel as though you are moving through a private corridor of your own making.

Inside, the library is cool and dim, a world built for concentration. You claim a table near the back where the light is softer and the noise muted. Books pile up quickly, growing into uneven towers between you. The space feels charged, as though the air itself is paying attention.

Academic journals. Reference texts. A few pages printed and stapled. You spread your notes across the table with careful order, as if the arrangement can calm your thoughts.

Anxin watches the way you organize everything.

He does not comment, but his gaze lingers a moment too long. When you look up, you catch him watching you with an expression that is difficult to read, something between maybe.. curiosity, admiration, maybe restraint?

“What?” you ask, sharper than you intended.

He looks away almost immediately, but not fast enough to pretend he wasn’t looking.

“Nothing” he says. “Just… you’re serious about this.”

The remark is quiet, almost gentle.

You frown. “Of course I am.”

He nods slowly, as if the answer satisfies something in him.

You work in parallel at first, comfortable in silence. Pages turn. Pens move. Occasionally, one of you slides a book across the table, wordless. The efficiency is unsettling. You are not used to collaboration feeling this seamless.

The quiet becomes intimate without your permission.

At one point, you slide a book toward him. Your fingers stop just short of touching his notebook. The movement is small, but your awareness of the gap between you feels enormous.

Anxin takes the book, then pauses with it half-open.

“This author,” he says, “argues the opposite of what most professors prefer.”

You glance at the page. “I know. That’s why it’s useful.”

He looks at you again. “You’re not afraid of disagreeing.”

You shrug. “I’m afraid of being wrong.”

The confession escapes you too easily, perhaps because the library feels like a place where truth is allowed.

Anxin’s gaze softens. “You’re not wrong often” he says.

The compliment lands carefully, as though he is testing how he, himself, feels about saying it.

You look down at your notes to avoid the heat rising in your face. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it to be nice,” he replies.

That is the first time you hear something in his voice that resembles irritation.

You glance at him again. He is watching you with soft eyes and a steadiness that makes you feel suddenly exposed, as though he can see through your composure and straight into the part of you that never rests.

The moment is gratefully interrupted by footsteps.

A classmate approaches, calling his name too brightly.

“Anxin! I’ve been looking for you.”

They stand at the edge of your table, talking quickly about shared friends, some upcoming events or study group meetings.

You sit quietly while they speak, hands folded around your pen.

Anxin answers politely but without enthusiasm. He glances at you once, briefly, and the glance feels apologetic, as though he regrets the interruption.

When the classmate finally leaves, the air between you has shifted.

Not ruined.

Just altered, as if the interruption has underlined something neither of you wants to name.

You return to the work, but the silence is no longer neutral. It presses.

A week passes.

Then another.

Days pass, and the project becomes a constant presence. You meet often, between classes, after lectures, sometimes longer than planned, leading into late evenings. You start to recognize the way he walks toward you before he sees you, the slight change in his expression when he realizes you’re already there. It is subtle, but it is there. The more time you spend together, the harder it becomes to maintain the clean lines of rivalry you once relied on.

He grows quieter around others, but when it is just you, his words come easier.

And sometimes, you catch him smiling at something you said, as if he forgot for a second that he is supposed to be composed.

You begin to notice the small things. The way he pauses before answering difficult questions, not from uncertainty, but from care. The way he listens when you speak, attention focused and undivided. You find yourself anticipating his reactions, adjusting your explanations to meet his understanding.

You hate how much you notice.

You hate how much it matters.

One afternoon, you sit in the lecture hall waiting for the professor to arrive. Students chatter around you. You review flashcards, pretending to be absorbed.

Anxin walks in late, hair slightly damp from the weather outside. He scans the room once, and when his eyes find you, something in his face eases, as if tension has slipped out of him without his permission.

He sits a few seats away. Close enough.

You do not speak, but you feel him there like a second heartbeat.

The professor arrives, and the lecture begins.

Halfway through, the professor pauses to announce something.

“Before we continue” they say, “I want to recognize one of our students. Anxin has received the departmental award for academic excellence, along with a scholarship.”

Applause fills the room.

Anxin stands briefly, polite smile in place. He nods once in acknowledgement, shakes his damp hair from embarrassment of his physical state and the attention onto him, then sits down again.

You clap along with everyone else.

Your hands move automatically, but inside you, something twists.

You had worked just as hard, hadn’t you? Hadn’t you earned the same recognition?

You should be happy for him. You are, in a way. But jealousy is not logical. It does not ask permission. It rises anyway, bitter and bright.

You stare at your notes, pretending to read, while your thoughts sharpen into cruel little points.

Of course it’s him. It’s always him.

When class ends, a few students swarm him with congratulations. You pack your bag quickly, intending to leave before you have to look at his success up close.

Instead, he rushes to walk out with you he breaks the silence. “You seemed quiet.”

“I’m fine,” you reply too quickly.

He studies you for a moment, head tilting slightly, as though considering whether to push. “If it helps,” he says, “the award doesn’t change anything.”

You laugh softly. “Easy for you to say.”

He stops walking. Fully this time. You take a few steps before realizing, then turn back to face him. He looks at you with an intensity that makes your breath catch, head turned completely, attention unmistakably yours.

“I know” he says. “But I mean it.”

Something shifts then, subtle but irrevocable. The rivalry does not disappear, but it loosens its grip, revealing something more complicated beneath.

You force your expression into something neutral. “Congratulations.”

His eyes flicker over your face. He studies you too closely, as if he can read what you are trying to hide.

“Thank you...” he says, then adds, quieter, “Are you mad?”

The question catches you off guard. Not because it is wrong, but because it is too perceptive.

“No,” you lie.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t accept it.

He just looks at you for a moment, head turned fully toward you again, gaze steady and unflinching.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he says.

Your throat tightens. You glance away.

The hallway noise fades behind you, or maybe you simply stop hearing it.

“I’m not pretending” you say, but your voice is softer now, less convincing.

Then he catches himself, as if realizing he has spoken with too much feeling.

“you’re not behind, I mean, not in the way you think.”

The words settle in you, unwelcome in their comfort, because comfort from him feels dangerous. It feels like it could soften you into needing it.

You shift your bag strap higher on your shoulder, needing something to do with your hands.

“We should finish the project,” you say.

His gaze lingers on you, almost reluctant to let the moment go. Then he nods.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “We should.”

You walk together, not speaking much. The campus around you feels too loud, too bright. The wind moves through the trees with casual indifference, unaware that something has begun to tilt.

Later, you meet in the library again to finalize the draft. It is late, and the building has thinned out. Your laptops glow on the table, pages open, citations stacked like bricks.

You point out a flaw in his analysis.

Not because you want to win.

Because you cannot stop yourself from wanting the work to be perfect.

He studies the section, brows knitting slightly, and then he looks at you.

“You’re right” he says. “Again.”

The word again is said softly, almost fondly.

You pretend not to notice.

“You always catch what I miss” he adds.

You scoff lightly. “You miss things?”

His mouth curves in something like a smile. “Only when you’re around.”

Your breath catches.

He seems to realize what he said only after it’s already spoken. A faint flush rises at his ears, subtle but real. He looks down at his notes, as if the page can save him from his own honesty.

You stare at him for a moment too long.

The room feels smaller.

Your voice comes out quieter than you intend. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does” he says, still looking down. “I just didn’t mean to say it like that.”

The admission is almost helpless, and it strikes you with a strange tenderness.

You should respond with something sharp. Something witty. Something that restores the distance.

But you don’t.

Instead, you return to your laptop, fingers hovering above the keyboard, unable to type.

When you finally submit the project, the relief is not clean. It is tangled with something else, something unresolved.

As you leave your late night hours of studies, Anxin walks beside you. His shoulder nearly brushes yours, and you feel the closeness like a question.

He stops in the hallway.

You stop too, turning back.

His eyes find yours immediately. There is no hesitation now, no pretending not to look.

“I’m glad we got paired,” he says.

The simplicity of the statement makes your chest ache. Not because it is dramatic, but because it is true.

You nod. “Me too.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. The space between you feels delicate, suspended, as though the wrong word could shatter it.

Then someone passes by, laughing loudly, and the spell loosens.

Anxin exhales and looks away, as if collecting himself. When he looks back, his expression is softer.

“See you at the final,” he says.

“Yeah,” you reply. “See you.”

You walk away, but you feel his gaze following you longer than it should.

And as you move through campus, you realize something that unsettles you, you are no longer competing with him the way you used to.

You are waiting for him. Not for his failure. Not for his praise.

For his attention, the kind he gives you when he forgets he is supposed to be untouchable.

The realization makes your stomach tighten with fear.

Because if he can affect you this easily, then the exam will not be the only thing that can break you.

And somewhere deep down, you already know he will be the one to notice when you start to fall.

That night, sleep comes unevenly. Your thoughts circle, return, spiral. You replay the night, the conversation, the way his voice had shifted when he spoke about making mistakes in your presence. You tell yourself it means nothing, that proximity breeds illusion.

Still, the feeling persists.

Chapter Three ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Results are released on a day that feels too ordinary to hold them.

Outside, you ride your bicycle toward campus. The tires hum softly against the road. Trees pass by, their branches thin and restless in the wind. People move around you with headphones on, carrying coffee cups, talking about weekend plans, living inside futures that feel casual and unearned.

You envy them.

Not because they are happier, necessarily, but because their bodies seem to belong to them. Their steps look unburdened. Their laughter sounds like something that costs nothing. They are not carrying the weight of a final exam in the center of their chest as though it were an organ.

The morning air is mild. The sky is a pale, indifferent sheet. It is the kind of weather that refuses to dramatize anything, the kind that makes even your anxiety feel almost embarrassing, as if you are overreacting to a world that does not appear to care.

Your bicycle glides past familiar corners of campus, past the benches where students sit and scroll, past the trees whose branches lift and settle again with a lazy patience. The campus looks the same as it always does, and you wonder if this is what adulthood is: discovering that your life can be collapsing internally while the outside world continues with perfect composure.

You lock your bicycle and walk across the grounds with your phone in your hand, thumb hovering, as though you are about to open something dangerous.

The grades have been posted.

No one told you directly. There was no announcement. No dramatic message. Just the quiet spread of rumor, the way information travels in universities, like smoke, like gossip, like illness.

A group of students stands near the building entrance, clustered together with the nervous closeness of people about to witness something unpleasant. Their faces are tilted toward their screens, brows pinched, mouths slightly open. Some laugh with relief. Some look as though they might throw up.

You pass them without speaking.

Inside, the hallway is cool and bright. The fluorescent lights give everything a harsh clarity. Your footsteps sound louder than they should, echoing along the polished floor. The building carries the faint smell of paper and floor cleaner, a sterile scent that always makes you think of test booklets and administrative offices, of things that get stamped and filed and turned into permanent records.

You stop near a window and open the portal.

The page loads slowly.

You watch the little circle spin, patient and merciless.

For a moment, you imagine that the website will crash. That it will refuse to tell you. That the universe might grant you one more hour of ignorance, one more hour of not knowing whether you are about to be proud of yourself or ashamed of your own effort.

Then the results appear.

At first, your mind does not accept them. You read them the way you might read a stranger’s name on a letter, with the vague belief that it cannot possibly be meant for you.

But it is. You did well. Not perfect. Not remarkable. Not the kind of score that makes people gasp and whisper and rewrite their assumptions about you.

But you did well enough that your chest loosens.

You did well enough that the tightness you have been carrying for months finally begins to dissolve, not all at once, but gradually, like a knot being untied with careful hands.

A breath leaves you. You hadn’t realized you were holding it.

You stare at the numbers again.

You scroll down to the class ranking before you can stop yourself. Your thumb moves with a familiarity that feels almost shameful. You tell yourself you shouldn’t look. You tell yourself it no longer matters.

And yet you look anyway, because the old instinct still lives in you, quiet and stubborn, like a bruise you keep pressing.

You find his name.

Anxin.

Of course he is near the top.

The sight of it does not stab you the way it used to. It does not ignite that sharp jealousy, that bitter voice that always insisted you were behind, always insisted you were failing even when you were doing fine.

This time you simply look at it and feel something strange.

A calm. A kind of weary acceptance.

Because it does not matter the way you thought it would.

You are not first. He is not ruined.

The world has not rearranged itself around the ranking.

You are still you. And he is still him.

You lean your head back against the wall, eyes closed, letting the hallway noise pass through you like distant rain. Somewhere nearby, someone laughs. Someone swears softly. Someone says, “I can’t believe it” in a voice that sounds half ecstatic and half broken.

You open your eyes again.

The screen is still glowing in your hand.

You did fine. You did more than fine.

And instead of feeling triumphant, you feel something deeper.

You feel like you can finally stop fighting the idea that you are not enough.

The realization arrives quietly, you have spent so long treating your grades like a verdict on your worth that you forgot what they were supposed to be.

A measure of effort. Not a measure of you.

Your shoulders drop slightly. The hallway suddenly feels too small.

You begin walking without knowing where you’re going, moving through the building with the slow daze of someone released from a long captivity. Students pass you in groups, talking too fast, holding their phones like talismans. A girl wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie. A boy is grinning like he’s won something personal against the universe.

You don’t blame them.

You understand.

You step outside.

The air hits your face, cool and honest. The sky remains pale, uninterested in your inner drama. The trees are still. The campus continues. People sit on the grass as though the world is not made of deadlines and consequences.

It is almost unbearable, how ordinary everything remains.

You walk toward your bicycle.

And then you hear your name.

Not shouted.

Not urgent.

Spoken with a quiet familiarity that makes your spine straighten.

You turn.

Anxin stands a few meters away, phone in his hand, screen still lit. His expression is composed, but his eyes are not. There is a slight intensity in them, the kind you have come to recognize: that direct attention that seems to fall on you like a weight, not oppressive, but undeniable.

As if he has been looking for you.

He begins to walk closer.

You notice the smallest hesitation in his pace, as though he is deciding something with each step. He stops in front of you, close enough that you can see the faint tiredness in his eyes, the shadow beneath them that makes him look less untouchable than he usually does.

For a moment neither of you speaks.

Then his gaze flickers to your face, searching, careful.

“How was it?” he asks.

Not the exam.

Not the grade.

Just: how was it.

The question is too gentle to be rivalry.

You blink. “I did okay.”

He nods slowly, as though he expected nothing else. As though anything less would have been unthinkable.

His mouth parts slightly, like he wants to say something more. He doesn’t.

Instead he looks at your phone, still in your hand, and then back at you.

“You look like you can breathe again” he says.

The words are quiet, almost absent-minded, as if he didn’t plan them. As if they slipped out before he could polish them into something safer.

You stare at him, caught off guard.

Then you let out a small laugh, not because it’s funny, but because it’s true.

“I can” you admit.

He watches you for a moment longer than necessary.

His eyes hold yours with an attention that feels almost too intimate for a campus walkway. There is no sharpness in it, no calculation. If anything, he looks as though he is relieved.

Not because he won.

Not because you lost.

Relieved because you are standing here, whole.

You tilt your head slightly. “And you?”

He shrugs, but the movement is restrained, almost reluctant. “I did what I usually do.”

It sounds like arrogance until you hear the tiredness underneath.

You realize, suddenly, that he is not celebrating either.

He does not look victorious.

He looks… quiet.

The same quiet you feel.

Like the competition has finally burned itself out, leaving behind only the truth of what it cost.

You look at him carefully. “Does it feel different to you too?”

Anxin’s eyebrows lift slightly, as though he didn’t expect the question.

He hesitates.

And for the first time, you see him searching for words, not because he lacks intelligence, but because the truth is not academic. It cannot be solved with the right answer.

“Yes” he says finally.

You wait.

He glances away, briefly, toward the trees, toward the open campus, toward the ordinary world that keeps moving. Then his eyes return to you, and the look in them is softer than you’ve ever seen.

“I thought I would care more.” he admits.

The sentence lands with a quiet weight.

You swallow. “About being first?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

When he does, his voice is calm, but there is something vulnerable beneath it.

“About any of it.” he says.

A breeze moves between you. It lifts a strand of hair across his forehead. He doesn’t fix it. He doesn’t seem to notice.

For a moment, you both stand there in the open air, and the rivalry that once seemed like the most important thing in your life feels suddenly distant, like a childhood obsession you’ve outgrown.

You glance at him again.

He is watching you. Not quickly. Not accidentally.

He is simply looking at you, as if he has decided that you are worth the risk of being obvious.

It makes your heart tighten.

“You’re staring” you say, trying to make it light.

He doesn’t deny it.

Instead, his mouth curves faintly, the smallest smile, and his gaze remains where it is.

“I know” he says.

The honesty makes your skin warm.

You look away first, not because you want to, but because holding his eyes feels like holding something that might shatter if you grip too hard.

When you look back, he is still there, still close.

Still watching.

And you realize with a quiet shock that the competition has been replaced by something else.

Something less exhausting.

Something that does not require winning.

You speak before you can talk yourself out of it.

“I don’t want to do this anymore” you say.

His eyes sharpen slightly. “Do what?”

“This.” you repeat, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. "The competition. That's not what I want.." "anymore" you whisper quieter than the wind, which he could definitely not catch.

Anxin’s expression shifts.

For a moment, you think he might disagree.

But then his shoulders loosen, almost imperceptibly, as if he has been waiting to hear those words.

“I don’t want it either” he says.

The simplicity of it makes your chest ache.

You study his face, searching for the usual edge of rivalry, the usual quiet arrogance. It isn’t there. What you see instead is something almost tender, restrained but real, like emotion pressed under glass.

He glances down at your bicycle beside you, then back up.

“Do you have somewhere to be?” he asks.

You hesitate. “Not really.”

His gaze lingers on you again, and there is a brief flicker of something that looks dangerously like hope.

“Then come with me,” he says.

Not as a command.

Not as a confession.

As if the invitation itself is the only thing he dares to offer.

You stare at him. “Where?”

He exhales softly, the hint of a smile returning.

“Anywhere,” he says. “Just not a classroom.”

The words feel like a door opening.

Not to romance exactly, not yet, but to the possibility of it. To the quiet understanding that what has been growing between you cannot be contained inside lecture halls and rankings and silent glances.

You nod.

“Okay” you say.

Anxin’s expression softens so visibly that it almost startles you. The look is brief, almost involuntary, like a crack in his careful composure. But you catch it.

You catch the way his eyes brighten slightly, the way his mouth relaxes as though he has been holding himself too tightly for too long.

He took your hand and you walk together across the campus.

The day remains ordinary. The sky remains pale. Students pass you, talking about their futures, about their weekends, about things that seem both trivial and precious. The grass is dotted with people lying in the sun as if time is endless.

And for the first time in months, you feel the weight of academics lift off your shoulders, not because it has disappeared, but because you are no longer alone inside it.

Anxin walks without rushing, matching your pace naturally. Every so often, you feel his gaze flick toward you, as if he is making sure you are still there.

As if he is still surprised that you chose to stay.

• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •

it's past midnight I really hope I wrote fine, I grinned half of this and reviewed it just now ahh, don't wanna make anon wait longer though

[dearhyul]

younger did it better ౨ৎ٠ ࣪⭑

your boyfriend, ohyul, is younger than you. only a two-year difference. you are always insecure about the age gap, as your friends usually joke about it whenever you are hanging out with them. it's been seven months already; you and ohyul have been in a relationship, but you and he have never done anything beyond making out, though sometimes ohyul has been hinting about doing more.

you lie on the sofa, waiting for your boyfriend to prepare some food to eat as supper before sleep. the television is on, your eyes are glued to it, but your mind isn't present. busy thinking about your friend's stupid joke about the age gap.

"baby?"

it takes ohyul twice to call you. once he arrives with a bowl of cereal and almond milk, you immediately scoot a little, giving him space to sit beside you.

"sorry, i was daydreaming."

ohyul looks at you, a soft sigh escaping from his lips. he knows you are thinking about something you shouldn't. he puts the bowl away before moving closer to you, eliminating the space between you and him so that you can only feel and hear his breathing. he brings his hands to yours, his thumb caressing your dorsum.

"are you thinking about the age gap again?"

you reply with nothing but leaning your head on his chest. your one and only comfortable place to lean on. your home. ohyul instantly wraps your figure in his warm embrace.

"what's wrong with dating a younger guy?"

ohyul hums in response. he knows it. he has told you multiple times to ignore those criticisms, but it seems like those criticisms have become a parasite in your head and keep eating at your mind.

"well, there's nothing wrong, though. you just tell them that younger did it better."

ohyul states nonchalantly. you take a quick glance at him. a fleeting smile appears on his face. what is he trying to say? you think.

he pulls your hoodie's string slowly toward his face, making you lean closer to him and pulling you from your original seat. you breathe improperly once his lips brush slightly against yours. his gaze goes back and forth between your lips and eyes, making you even more nervous.

"according to my research, younger guys have a strong libido."

you're fucked.

a mischievous smirk paints his face, amused by your twitchiness. you can't deny the fact that you easily turn on when your boyfriend teases you like that, implying that he knows more about mature things than you, caressing your thighs and eye-fucking you in public.

"wanna prove me right?"

he asks, half-whispered, as he slowly pins you down against the sofa. you feel suffocated, your legs trembling, and you're wordless, lips sealed together, unable to comprehend the current situation.

you need it. you need to do more than just make out, and you have for a long time, but you're timid; your shyness is blocking your desire. without thinking much, you nod your head, cheeks flushed pink, embarrassed by your own need.

ohyul gives you a beaming smile. finally seeing you agree to have sex with him, along with your pink cheeks, straight away hardens his dick. he can't wait to show you what he is capable of.

without wasting any seconds, he positions himself between your legs, and his hands quickly move your shorts, revealing your pink underwear. your cheeks feel hotter than before. you immediately cover your private part, only for ohyul to push your hand away.

"it's mine. never hide it from me."

ohyul then removes your underwear before removing his pajama pants and tank top, making you gasp at his toned abs, which complement well his flushed tip that your eyes can't help but immediately stare down at.

"will it hurt?"

you ask hesitantly since it's your first time. he kisses your forehead before mumbling to you that it's going to be okay.

he manages to enter you smoothly since you're already wet. his thrust goes slower at first, trying to synchronize with you, and he wants to make you comfortable. when your nails start to dig into his back, his thrust goes faster and deeper. a faint moan escapes from your lips as you raise your hips, wanting him deeper inside you.

"i need more... please..."

"i thought you were shy?"

ohyul teases you as his hands travel up to your boobs, squeezing them before his fingertips fidget with your nipples. your body can't hold the sensation from his dick and his slender fingers messing around inside you and on your boobs. his stainless steel ring only makes your nipples harden and become even more sensitive until your faint moan shifts into something loud and uncontrollable.

"does this feel like i'm too young for you?"

[hannie-berrie]

omlll I've been loving Louis fluff fanfics 😭💖 he's literally my baby, those bsf!Louis fits are the bestsssss ahhh

[hannie-berrie]

I'm cooking up an Anxin request I got back in August.. 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 I can't keep up but I'm choosing all the requests I feel inspired by. It will be a longer fit to compensate! I'm halfway done, it's like 2000 words for now

[hannie-berrie]

&TEAM

fluff : ☁️ smut: 🔞 (MDNI) audio: 🎶 Alphabet: 🎨 Reactions (scenarios): 🧩 text exchange: 💬

ALL OF &TEAM

🧩 &team's reaction to you coming in with a stunning outfit

EJ

nothing yet

K

☁️ Underneath The Mistletoe

Fuma

nothing yet

Nicholas

🔞 Not home yet

Yuma

nothing yet

Jo

🔞 A special day's promise

Harua

☁️ You're my peace

Taki

nothing yet

Maki

nothing yet

[hannie-berrie]

𝓱𝓮𝔂 .. 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝔀𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓮 𝓪𝓷 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 𝓳𝓸 𝓯𝓲𝓬 .. 𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂 𝓶𝓾𝓬𝓱 𝓪𝓹𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓲𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓯 𝓪 𝔂𝓮𝓼 .. omg i sound like such a goon 💔 but yea smth freaky w jo involving kisses, tongue kisses, marking (him receiver), with !submissive jo and !dominant fem reader, and errr possible sexual overstimulation w or w out blowjob but he’s into it (him receiver)

the goons yearn for bottom jo 💜

yes im 18 yes im turning 19 in like 5 months 🥹🥹

Hello love, anything for you! Also no worries we are close in age 💋 I turned your idea into a little Valentine’s Day twist hihi, hope I fulfill your request well ♥️🥀

A special day's promise

pairing: &team Jo x F reader

Warnings: MDNI

Genre: Smut, Shy bottom. Jo! Top. reader Valentine's Day theme, surprise Jo with new lingerie, use of the name "mommy" once, overstimulation, masturbation, blow job (m receiving)

The living room is quiet in that comfortable way you’ve grown used to low music humming from Jo’s phone, the lamp by the couch that tied everything into Jo's apartment. He’s sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, long legs stretched out, sleeves rolled up as he fiddles with a pencil and something half-finished in his hands. Some small, thoughtful doodles. He always does that to decompress at the end of his day.

His dark hair has fallen into his eyes again. He shakes his head every so often, a small, unconscious motion, as if hoping gravity will behave this time. It never does. A strand slips back down, brushing his cheek, softening his face even more.

He doesn’t hear you at first.

You join him the living room, stepping quietly, almost like you were trying not to ruin a surprise. You had put on lingerie you had just bought. The choice feels… dangerous. Feminine, deliberate, unmistakably meant for him. Valentine’s Day, after all. You had planned this a long time ago, "you're evil" he would always say.

Jo looks up when the floor creaks.

And then....

Oh.

His golden-brown eyes widen instantly, that darker ring around them making the way his pupils dilate painfully obvious. He freezes like he’s been caught doing something scandalous, hands going slack in his lap. His mouth opens, closes. Pink blooms across his cheeks so fast it’s almost impressive.

“You....” He swallows. Tries again. “You’re… h-hi.”

You smile, a smile that he knew was content with his reaction, and walk closer. Each step seems to short-circuit him more. His shoulders draw in slightly, but his eyes can’t stop tracing you, like if he looked away, you'd disappear.

“You didn’t hear me come in?” you say accusing.

“I- no- sorry, I was just—” He gestures vaguely to the paper in his hands, then seems to remember himself and drops it beside him. His fingers flex, restless. Always restless when you’re near.

You stop right in front of him.

Up close, you can see the way his breath has gone shallow, how his lashes flutter as he looks up at you. He has to tilt his head back just a little, and that alone makes something warm curl low in your stomach.

“Is this… okay?” you ask, voice gentle.

Jo’s answer is immediate, even if his words aren’t.

He nods. Once. Pretty lashes flickering rapidly. Then again, more emphatically. “Y-Yeah. I mean—yeah. It’s more than okay. It’s-” He attempted swallowing his nervousness away, failed attempt that only grew a bigger knot in his throat. “You look… incredible. I—God. I don’t even think that’s a strong enough word.”

His hands hover for a second, clearly unsure where to go, before settling carefully at your waist. Like he’s asking permission even now, months in the relationship. His thumbs brush back and forth, slow and grounding.

“I kept thinking” he admits quietly, eyes flicking down and then back up to your face, “that… that everyone’s keeps looking at you and I know that’s dumb, but—”

“It’s not dumb,” you say.

His shoulders relax a fraction at that.

“I just—” He exhales. “I get jealous. Not in a bad way. Just… only I get to see you like this because you’re with me. And I still can’t believe that sometimes.”

You lean down, fingers sliding into his hair, pushing that stubborn strand away from his eyes. He shivers at the touch, visibly. His blush deepens, spreading down his neck.

“You don’t have to believe it” you murmur. “You just have to let me prove it.”

That does it.

He stands up quickly, too quickly, and nearly bumps his forehead into yours. He mutters a quick, breathless apology, hands immediately coming up to steady you. They linger there. On your arms. Your back. Tracing, roaming, like he’s memorizing you all over again.

“I love you, you're beautiful” he blurts out, sudden and earnest, voice cracking just slightly.

The room goes quiet.

He freezes again, panic flickering across his face. “oh- sorry, I didn’t mean to just.. say it like that, I just-”

You kiss him before he can spiral.

It’s soft at first. A question. You kiss him with a grind you can't remove off your face. His hands tighten instinctively, pulling you closer, and when he kisses you back it’s all warmth and reverence and want he doesn’t quite know how to handle. He melts into it, lips moving slowly, deliberately, like he’s savoring every second.

His hands slide down again, thumbs brushing dangerously close to places that make your breath hitch. He notices immediately, and his lips curve into the faintest, shyest smile.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he confesses. “Trying not to. Failing. I kept imagining what tonight would be like.. it's a special day and I really wanted to spend it only with you.."

You pressed a kiss to his jaw, then his neck, bitting on the skin a little, lingering just long enough to make his knees weak. Your voice, when you speaks again, is low and tentative, like you're standing at the edge of something he wants very badly.

“We can stay in tonight, I never wanted to go to that stupid company gathering anyway.

You take his hand and guide him toward the couch and he follows without hesitation.

As you settle together, you hover over him, air-sitting on his lap, his arm slips around you naturally, fingers tracing slow, absent patterns on your spine that promise more. And you broke his rhythm when you pressed your crotch really hard onto his.

“Happy Valentine’s Day” you murmur. “I’ve got a good something planned for you… if you listen well”

The way he looks at you then, shy, hungry, utterly devoted, makes it very clear.

He wasn't gonna say no to you tonight.

Your lips catch his in a hungry manner, and his body loosens into your touch, eye shutting and his hands dropping from your body, letting you take control over him. He fully trusted you, you could betray him right now and he would be so oblivious, lost in the feelings of you.

His pretty pink lips soon turned purple as you kept fighting his mouth and he oh so quietly whined into you. Your hands waste no time unbuckling his belt and he jolts a little. Lips kissing their way down to his neck, nibbling at the skin again but leaving darker braises.

The more Jo let you have full access to him, the more eager you grew and you made it very clear by the way you were handling him. Once his belt was out of the way, one hand reached to wrap around his neck and the other slide under his underwear without a warning.

"Urg.. fu-fuck" Jo's head gently rolled back and his lips dropped in a pretty "o" shape.

Your thumb moved circles on his tip, with retrain from the tightness of his pants. Jo couldn't handle the teasing and wiggled to lower them enough that you could slip his cock out.

"mhm Jojo's doing so good for me hm? Might get a reward if he keeps moaning like a good boy"

To that he moaned louder. Enough that someone in the next room could've heard him. His shirt that was slightly moved up showed his abs tightening and his breath stuttered thru the tightness around his neck.

You let go of his neck and tip and kneeled down to the ground in front of him

"Don't let g- oh"

Jo didn't have time to complain that your lips were sucking on him and he gripped the couch for dear strength.

You were pitiless, head bopping just right and with strength, he whimpered messily under his breath. Still trying to keep it down, always worried to be too much.

Your hand found its way into your own panties, not missing the opportunity to match your rhythm to his. Jo's eyes widened at the seen, he couldn't believe you were so.. experienced? He was breaking under your touch, his legs shaking a little at the sudden overstimulation.

"ahhh m-fuck mommy you're so good"

You blushed at the sudden nickname, he had never called you that before and you never imagined enjoy hearing it coming from him.. so much.

Your pace quickened and when his back arched slightly you completely let go of him.

"n-no! So close.." his hand found its way to his length and pumped himself a few times as tears build up in his eyes.

You pushed his hand away,

"Don't touch" and he cried out, pretty pink dick twitching and pre-cum dripping down.

"Please.." Jo gave you the prettiest teary eyes you had ever seen, his hair all messy and the biggest blush on his face.

"Please what?" Jo's eyes lowered at his shy throbbing dick that felt so vulnerable and needing of touch.

"use your words, pretty."

Jo swallowed hard once again and the words slipped out

"Please please me, please suck me off a little longer" his voice trembling and you couldn't help but feel sympathy, this time.

"Should I let you finish? Will you be good for me?"

"yes, please, please make me finish I-"

Jo was so vulnerable, so ruined. And your lips reattached themselves to him as he let out the prettiest cries from overstim. Soon reaching his climax and a strong load shots into the back of your throat.

Quiet "please"s still forming on his lips, too fucked out to do anything but beg.

His body falls deeper into the couch and you kissed his forehead. Finally gentle with him again, but he loved it all, the mean version of you just like the soft one.

Time had flew, good thing you weren't going out tonight 💕

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Thank you for requesting!

[hannie-berrie]

shi idk where the last thread was uhhh make him very very shy

Hi love! I have finished writing your request, now making my final adjustments so it should come out soon💞 hope you like it!

[hannie-berrie]

I fear I've never wanted a man the way I want Hirota Riki 🙏

[hannie-berrie]

I need this specific white hair Maki to dirty talk so bad icl I'd be kicking my feet and shit 💔 He looked soerrr good in that episode oml

[hannie-berrie]

&team's reaction to you coming in with a stunning outfit

pairing: &team x F reader

Warnings: Euijoo’s scenario is suggestive!

Genre: Fluff! A little suggestive for some

Fuma

Your outfit: A fitted ribbed long-sleeve top that hugs every curve, paired with tight high-waisted jeans and boots that make your legs look incredible.

The second you walk into the room, Fuma doesn’t bother pretending he’s not staring.

He’s sitting on the couch with his legs spread in that relaxed, dominant way he always does, forearms resting on his thighs, and the moment his eyes land on you, his posture doesn’t change, but everything else does.

He lets out a deep, unfiltered noise from his chest. A low “hoh—” followed by a slow exhale.

No shame. Not even a second of it.

His eyebrows lift, lips part just a little, and he leans back, spreading his legs even wider like he’s settling in to take you in properly.

“Well, damn,” he rumbles. “Come here. Lemme see you.”

You walk closer and his gaze drops down your body with the smooth confidence of a man who never pretends he’s not appreciating what’s in front of him. His eyes move from your neckline, to your waist, to your hips in those tight jeans, and he nods once, like he’s approving something very important. All that with a smile on his face.

He grunts again. “You look good. Too good.”

He pats his knee in a slow, deliberate gesture. “Turn around” he says simply. “Do that for me.”

The directness sends heat crawling up your neck, but you do it.

And the noise he makes, a deep, satisfied “mmm-hm” feels like it vibrates in the air.

“Yeah” he murmurs. “I knew those jeans were trouble.”

You face him again, frowns like he’s trying not to grin too big.

“You know what you’re doing” he adds. “Don’t even pretend sweetheart”

His hand reaches out and grabs your wrist gently but firmly, guiding you a little closer between his knees. His gaze is warm, heavy, appreciative, not hungry, but deeply, openly into you.

“I swear” he says quietly, tilting his head to look up at you with that soft intensity he gets, “you walk in here looking like that and expect me to sit still?”

He laughs under his breath, low, amused, fond. Big-bear warmth wrapped in a man who fully, shamelessly loves having his beautiful and pretty lady in front of him.

“You look perfect, sweetheart. Absolutely perfect.”

K

Your outfit: A fitted black mini dress with thin straps, hugging your waist perfectly, paired with sheer tights and a delicate silver necklace he bought you.

You step out of the bedroom and Kei looks up mid-sentence, then goes still.

Not “pause for a second” still. Like his whole brain shuts down still.

A subtle breath leaves him, the kind he only lets out when something hits him right in the chest. His eyes soften first, that warm, glowy look like he just witnessed something sacred, but the rest of his reaction kicks in fast.

“…come here” he says, voice lower than usual.

He tries to stand up confidently, like it’s no big deal, but there’s a tiny crack in his composure — the way his hand slips off the armrest for a second, the way his jaw flexes because he can’t believe you look like that.

You walk closer and his eyes track every step like you’re made of something rare.

“Are you serious right now?” he murmurs, reaching for your hand but holding it so gently it makes you melt. He’s bold normally, but something about you looking this good shifts him into that soft, protective mode he can’t control.

His thumb brushes your waist, almost reverent.

“That dress” He exhales a tiny laugh, shaking his head. “How am I supposed to act normal around you lady?” He smiles at your lips.

He pulls you closer by the hips, but with that careful touch he always uses with you, like he’s afraid to wrinkle the fabric or overwhelm you.

“You’re too precious” he says under his breath, eyes not leaving you for even a heartbeat. “I swear, you’re gonna be the end of me.”

He’s trying to maintain that confident stance, shoulders straight, chin up! but you can literally see him melting. The glow in his eyes only gets brighter the longer he looks.

And then he adds, much softer,

“Turn around for me… please.”

The please is his last shred of self-control snapping.

Nicholas

Your outfit: A soft satin cami tucked into a flowy skirt, light makeup, and a small necklace he once joked “looked better on you than anything else in the room.”

You step into the room and Nicholas looks up, and everything else stops.

Literally. His hand pauses mid-motion, his words die in his throat, and his eyes settle on you with a softness that almost steals your breath before he speaks.

“…wow.”

It’s quiet. Private. A word meant only for you.

He stands up slowly, like if he moves too fast, he’ll ruin the moment. His eyes drag over you, not hungrily, but with this deep admiration that makes your stomach flutter.

“You did this on purpose” he says, a teasing smile curling at the corner of his lips. “Don’t lie.”

You shrug. “Maybe.” Nicho laughed brightly like he always does.

He walks closer, not touching you yet, but the air between you warms instantly. Nicholas has a way of closing distance without saying anything, like the gravity around him changes just for you.

His fingers gently brush the strap of your satin top.

Just a touch. Barely there. But with the intimacy of someone who knows he’s allowed to.

“That’s dangerous” he whispers, leaning in just enough for only you to hear it. “You know what you look like, right?”

You raise a brow. “Tell me.”

He laughs softly, the kind of laugh that’s more breath than sound, the kind he only ever gives you. He leans closer, forehead almost touching yours.

“You look like mine.”

It’s whispered. Possessive, but sweet.

His eyes move to your lips, then back to your eyes, that teasing glint sliding back in. “And tell me how I’m suppose to go on about my day when you walk around the house like this?”

He lifts your chin with two fingers, slow, affectionate, entirely focused on you as if nothing else in the world exists.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, “What that does to me”

He finally sets both hands on your waist, thumbs brushing the fabric of your skirt like he’s memorizing it. His head dips to your temple, voice soft but undeniably warm.

“If we go out like this,” he says slowly, “don’t be surprised if I don’t let anyone else look at you.” A teasing smile returning.

He kisses your forehead, gently.

“Because I’m already having a hard time sharing you with the room.”

Euijoo

Your outfit: A pastel knit cardigan falling off one shoulder, a simple tank under it, and a short skirt that sways when you walk.

The moment you step into the room, Euijoo’s brain just… stops.

Like, genuinely stops.

His eyes widen first, big, round, sparkly,— and then his jaw follows, dropping a full centimeter like he forgot to hold it up.

“H- Hi o-oh my”

He blinks.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Like he’s trying to reboot.

You take a step closer and his posture gets even funnier, shoulders lifting a little, hands awkwardly hovering like he doesn’t know where to put them, eyes glued to you with absolutely no shame but also zero ability to hide how flustered he is.

“Oh my god,” he whispers, almost to himself. “You’re… you’re… oh wow.”

He tries again, clearing his throat dramatically like he’s about to say something smooth.

He is not.

“You- you’re so, oh my- you’re so pretty”

He presses a hand to his chest like he’s steadying his heartbeat, which, honestly, he probably is.

His eyes trail from the cardigan slipping down your shoulder, to the tank underneath, to the skirt. He swallows so loudly you actually hear it.

“Oh no” he mutters softly. “That’s so— that’s so cute. Why…? What’s the occasion?”

You tilt your head. “Do I need an occasion?”

He laughs, flustered and breathy, running a hand through his hair like he needs to physically cool himself down.

“It’s just” he not-so-subtly pulled a pillow onto his thighs “You look like a dream, baby”

His knees actually wobble a bit.

Then you take one small step closer, and he visibly folds, shoulders curling in, mouth falling into a helpless smile, cheeks pink, eyes absolutely glued to your neckline like he forgot subtlety is a thing.

His hands pulled on the pillow obviously hiding his little secret.

“I can’t even talk” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m trying so hard right now.”

“You’re also hard” You giggle and it almost takes him out.

He places both hands on his cheeks to hide how hard he’s blushing.

“Don’t laugh, I’m serious!! you look so good I’m gonna melt into the floor.”

You tug your cardigan a little lower off your shoulder.

He makes a sound.

A real sound.

A tiny, choked little “oh—” like you personally ended his entire soul.

His eyes couldn’t help but jump from your low off shoulder top to your mini skirt, and he could feel himself burning, down there.

Then he adds, quietly, with a shy, silly little smile:

“And I’m literally drooling. I’m not even gonna pretend.”

Yuma

Your outfit: A fitted black mini skirt hugs your hips, paired with a soft off-shoulder sweater that subtly reveals your collarbones and the necklace he gave you.

Yuma was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling on his phone, but now it’s forgotten in his hand because you’re wearing that outfit, the fitted black mini skirt hugging your hips, the soft, off-shoulder sweater that dips just low enough to tease the shape of your collarbones, and the necklace he bought you glinting right at the center of your chest.

He swallows. Hard.

“Wait! hold on,” he mutters, almost under his breath, because he genuinely needs a second.

He gets up slowly, like approaching a wildfire, eyes dragging up your body and back down again. He isn’t shy about looking, but there’s something intense about it, like he’s memorizing every inch, like he wants to keep it burned into his mind and no one else’s.

His hand lifts as if to touch your waist… then drops. He tries again, fingertips brushing the hem of your sweater this time, and he lets out this breathy, almost frustrated laugh.

“You can’t…” He stops, shakes his head, tries again. “You can’t just show up looking like—like this and expect me to act normal.”

He points at your necklace, then your shoulders, then your skirt, completely flustered and absolutely losing the battle to stay composed.

“I mean, look at you,” he says, voice low, a little strained. “Everyone else is gonna stare. I already hate that.”

His jaw tightens for a moment, not in anger, but in that quiet, possessive way he can’t hide.

He steps closer, close enough that his hand finally rests on your waist with a slow, careful squeeze, thumb smoothing over the fabric like he needs to feel you to believe what he’s seeing.

“But… god, you look incredible,” he admits, softer now. “Too good. I don’t even know what to say.”

Then he drops his gaze, murmuring almost too quietly:

“Can you just… stay close to me tonight?”

He’s trying to be composed, but he’s smiling a little, that shy, stunned smile he only ever shows you, because even with the jealousy and the desire tangled together, he’s just insanely proud that you’re his.

Jo

Your outfit: A cream-toned top skims your figure in the most flattering way, balanced by a light skirt that drifts around your legs with every step. The look is effortless, tender, and undeniably charmin

Jo’s halfway through tying his hoodie when you walk in wearing your new outfit, that soft, fitted top that hugs your shape just right, paired with the flowy skirt that swishes around your thighs every time you move. It’s simple, pretty, romantic… exactly the kind of thing he secretly adores on you.

He looks up.

And instantly forgets how to breathe.

His hands drop from his hoodie strings, his face goes bright red in half a second, and he actually lets out a tiny, stunned:

“…oh my!”

Then another.

“My- baby oh my…”

He steps forward automatically, like he’s being pulled, his smile spreading without him even noticing. His eyes are stuck on you, your silhouette, your neckline, the way the outfit flatters every single thing he loves.

“Angel… baby” He laughs under his breath, flustered and glowing. “You look like an angel”

He reaches out but hesitates, his hand hovering over your waist like he’s afraid he might melt if he touches you. When he finally does, it’s soft and gentle, thumb brushing a slow arc over the fabric.

“You look…” He stops, shakes his head, tries again.

“You look unbelievable. I mean, like, actually. I’m not kidding. I think my heart’s doing something illegal right now.”

He’s talking more than usual, the way he only does around you, words spilling out in a warm rush because he genuinely can’t hold them in.

“Love, this outfit—” He gestures vaguely at all of you, flustered beyond recovery. “It’s just… it’s so you. Pretty and soft and—God, I’m gonna combust.”

His eyes keep flicking from your face to your waist to your neckline, then back up again, cheeks glowing the whole time.

“Turn around for me? Please?” he asks shyly, then immediately laughs at himself, covering his face for a second. “Sorry, sorry—oh my God, I’m so down bad.”

You laugh, Jo gets so talkative when it comes to showing you in praises.

When you do turn, he actually grabs the back of a chair for balance.

Then, quieter, sweet enough to make your knees weak:

“Come here, pretty girl.”

He pulls you into a soft hug, his nose brushing the side of your temple, his voice breathless with awe.

“I love you in this. I love you in everything… but this?”

Another flushed little laugh. “You look beautiful”

Harua

Your outfit: A sleek black turtleneck slips neatly into a flirty pleated mini, striking that perfect balance between polished and playful.

You barely step into the room before Harua freezes mid-scroll, eyes snapping up to you like his whole system just rebooted. His eyes pierce through you. You’re wearing a fitted black turtleneck tucked into a short, pleated skirt — clean, pretty, stylish… and apparently enough to short-circuit him on sight.

His lips part just a little.

Then he stands up way too fast.

“Wait— hold on…” he murmurs, already moving toward you like you’re irresistible, because you are.

He circles you once with his gaze alone, slow, stunned, borderline reverent. And then his hands are on you, not rough, not rushed, just instinctive, like he needs confirmation you’re actually real.

One palm settles at your waist. The other sneaks up your arm, fingers brushing in a way he definitely didn’t think about before doing.

“Why do you look…” He exhales, voice low and warm. “Like this?”

You ask, “Like what?”

He laughs under his breath, flustered but giving in to it, his forehead almost touching yours.

“Like you’re trying to start something.”

He pulls you closer without even realizing how tight he’s holding you. He smells your hair, your neck, the soft fabric of your top, slow breaths like he’s memorizing you.

And he stays there.

Doesn’t move.

Doesn’t want to.

“You smell way too good” he mutters, nose brushing your jaw for just a second. “Seriously. You’re doing this on purpose.”

He acts up in that quiet, intense Harua way, clingy, stubborn, a little needy. His hands won’t leave your waist, your hips, your back. Every time you shift, he adjusts his hold like you’re something he’s scared to lose.

When you try to step back, he tightens his arms and pulls you right back in.

“Nope. No,” he mumbles softly against your shoulder. “You’re staying with me.”

He leans back just enough to look at you again, eyes warm, slightly jealous, definitely obsessed.

“If we go out,” he says, brushing a thumb over the hem of your skirt, “you’re walking in front of me.”

When you raise a brow, he just smiles, a little shy, a lot possessive.

“So I can keep my eyes on you.”

Then, quieter, with a soft little laugh:

“Not letting you out of my hands today. You look… too good. Way too good.”

Taki

Your outfit: A delicate pastel set with a short buttoned cardi and a matching mini that flutters as you move. The whole look feels light, whimsical, and wrapped in fairytale charm.

You step into the room wearing your pretty coloured top and its matching mini skirt that swishes around your thighs. Cute, dreamy, fairytale-soft.

Taki looks up from whatever he was doing.

And his lips parted.

His eyes widen slowly, color rushing straight up his neck to his ears. He blinks once, then twice, like he’s not sure he’s seeing correctly.

“Baby?” He clears his throat, instantly flustered.

He stands up, or maybe jumps, nearly knocking something over, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He tries to look at your outfit but keeps glancing away, cheeks flaming.

“Oh my God” he mumbles under his breath, but it’s soft, almost whispered. “Are these new clothes?”

He rubs the back of his neck, rocking on his heels in that nervous way, trying his absolute best to play it cool.

He fails.

Spectacularly.

Because the longer he stares, the pinker he gets until he’s practically glowing himself.

And then it hits him all at once.

His boyish excitement explodes through the shyness.

“PRINCESS!” he suddenly blurts, the word bursting out like he couldn’t hold it in any longer. “LOOK AT YOU”

He’s so unserious, he steps closer fast, then slows down like he’s approaching something sacred. His hands hover near your waist before he gently takes them, fingers trembling just a little.

“You’re so cute I can’t— I literally can’t think.” He laughs softly, overwhelmed, eyes shining like he’s seeing a real-life fairytale character.

His gaze drops to the cardigan, the skirt, the way everything matches perfectly.

“This outfit…” He presses a hand to his chest dramatically, still bright red. “It’s actually too much. You’re— you’re a whole princess. My princess.”

He gets even shyer after saying that, hiding his face behind his hands for a second.

His smile could almost tear his cheeks, “you look magical.”

When he finally looks at you again, his expression is pure awe, soft, overflowing, tender.

“Did you… dress up for me?” His voice cracks with a little bit of hope at the end.

When you nod, he breaks.

Completely.

He wraps his arms around you carefully, lifting you a tiny bit off the ground before setting you down just as gently, like you’re something delicate.

“I’m gonna give you the world” he murmurs, forehead pressed to your temple. “Anything you want. Just say it.”

Then he pulls back, eyes sparkling with reverence and excitement all tangled together.

“Um… c-could you…” He clears his throat, shy again. “Could you twirl? For me?”

You do, and he actually brings a hand to his mouth, stunned. So dramatic.

“She’s perfect,” he whispers, voice cracking again. “She’s actually perfect.” He claps loud is his hands like he’s a judge who just saw the greatest performance “10 out of 10!!!”

Then, soft and breathless:

“Princess… don’t go outside like this. I can’t— I can’t handle sharing you today.”

Maki

Your outfit: An oversized off-the-shoulder cropped sweater, thigh-high socks, tiny pleated skirt that swishes when you move.

You walk into the living room and Maki’s reaction is instant.

“OH— okay. Wow.” He says it out loud, no hesitation, like his brain-mouth filter evaporated.

He leans back on the couch with his arms spread across the top like he’s settling in for a show, a big slow grin stretching across his face. His eyes drift down and back up, and the smirk that forms is absolutely illegal.

“Well damn, babe,” he says, tongue pressing into his cheek, “you wore that on purpose.”

You pretend to act casual, but he doesn’t buy it for even a second.

He pats his thigh. “C’mere. No, for real — c’mere.”

When you walk closer, his hands immediately find your waist, pulling you in with the confidence of someone who knows exactly the effect he has on you. His fingers slide along the hem of your skirt, playful, testing, but never crossing the line.

“Spin” he says, tapping your hip.

You roll your eyes but do it. He bites back a grin so big it’s basically a feral smile.

“Yeah… that’s insane,” he mutters. “Who told you thigh-highs were allowed around me? ’Cause they’re not.”

His hands roam, not in a dirty way, just touchy, like he can’t help it. Fingers brushing your legs, your waist, your sweater slipping off your shoulder and him gently tugging it down a little more just to see your reaction.

“You’re playing dangerous games” he says, pulling you onto his lap without asking. “But lucky for you, I like dangerous.”

He nuzzles against your neck with that teasing warmth he uses when he knows you’re already flustered.

Then he whispers:

“Next time warn me, okay? Or don’t… actually, don’t.”

Smirk. Tilts his head. Eyes lingering everywhere.

“You look perfect.”

[hannie-berrie]

Underneath The Mistletoe 🎁💋

pairing: K of &team (Koga Yudai) x Gender neutral reader

Warnings: none

Genre: Fluff! You place a mistletoe in the entrance of your living room, and your confused boyfriend wonders why you keep kissing him!

The first time you kiss K, it’s almost an accident.

Almost.

He’s in the kitchen, barefoot on cool tile, sleeves rolled up as he stirs something in a pan that smells like warm spices and sugar. He looks unfairly good doing nothing important. Tall frame leaning against the counter, hair falling on his forehead, focus soft but intent. You hover in the doorway pretending to wait for a drink, pretending your heart isn’t tapping against your ribs.

He glances over his shoulder. “You gonna just stand there and judge my cooking, or you coming in?”

You step forward.

Instead of answering, you kiss him.

It’s quick, just a press of your lips to his, more surprise than intention. His body jolts slightly where it’s warm and relaxed a second before, and when you pull back, he’s blinking at you like his brain hit a loading screen.

“…What was that for?” he asks.

You shrug, already stepping past him and into the living room. “No reason.”

He watches you go, wooden spoon paused mid-stir, lips still parted like you stole the rest of the sentence right out of his mouth.

Weird. But… not unwelcome.

A few minutes later, he finishes up, plates something up for later, and pours you both a drink. When he steps from the kitchen into the living room, you’re curled on the couch like nothing happened.

Right as he crosses the doorway—

You lean up and kiss him again.

Longer this time. Warm. Deliberate.

He lets out a startled laugh into your mouth, nearly sloshing the drink in his hand. “Hey!” He pulls back just enough to steady himself. “Okay, now that one I’m questioning.”

You take the glass from him like stealing kisses mid-task is perfectly normal behavior. “Still no reason.”

He squints at you. The cocky part of him wants to tease you for it. The hopelessly soft part of him is still stuck on how carefully you touched his face, like he was something rare.

You sip your drink. He sits beside you. The air hums.

Ten minutes pass.

Then he has to get back up, he forgot the sauce on the stove. Again.

When he comes back through the doorway for the third time, you don’t waste a second.

Another kiss.

This one lingers right at the corner of his mouth. Soft enough to make his breath hitch. Sharp enough to make his thoughts scatter.

He exhales slowly when you pull away. “Okay,” he says, amused now, suspicious in the fondest way. “You’ve kissed me every time I’ve walked through here. Either I’m incredibly irresistible today or—”

You lift a brow.

“...or you’re up to something.”

You say nothing.

He stands there a second longer than necessary, eyes drifting over you, trying to piece it together. Then his gaze shifts upward.

And he sees it.

Small. Neat. Innocent. Mistletoe. Right above the entrance.

His throat goes dry for an entirely different reason. He looks back at you. You’re trying very hard not to look proud.

“…You planned this” he says quietly, a smile cracking on his lips.

You finally smile.

Kei laughs under his breath, feeling his heart melt under the thought. “You’re evil.”

You only tilt your head. “You walked under it three times.”

He steps back into the kitchen without another word.

Counts to two.

Then steps forward again.

This time, you don’t kiss him first.

He sets whatever he was holding down without looking, closes the space between you in two easy steps, and gently cups your face. His touch is warm, careful, like you’re something that could be hurt by too much pressure.

“You could’ve just asked” he murmurs.

You blink up at him. “Asked for what?”

“For permission to steal all my kisses.”

His lips meet yours under the mistletoe, slow, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and intends to use it on you. His thumb strokes absent circles into your jaw, grounding, reverent, affectionate in the way that makes your heart stumble instead of race.

When he pulls back, his forehead stays pressed gently to yours.

“So” he whispers, “how many times were you planning on trapping me like that?”

You smile. “As many as you’d let me.”

His expression softens instantly.

“Yeah,” he admits, quiet. “As many times as you want, beautiful”

Then he kisses you again.

Right where you put the mistletoe.

[hannie-berrie]

Christmas series 🎄🎅

Starting a short Christmas series, feel free to suggest themes and idols!!! I'm fine with actors and characters aswelllll 🌟

I'll most likely fulfill requests of people I know first because I'm most confident in writing them well. But I'll do my best regardless!

I also accept smut, I can write a wide range of things, feel free to suggest crazy stuff too, no judging in here! One thing I don't do is age play but off mommy/daddy is fine! Will start writing now! Enjoyyy 💖💖