#technically...? is the hair effect too subtle...

[vikab]

ending 009 / vague spoilers

endurance match

[mxria502]

Pretty Boy (But he thinks you’re prettier) ˙⋆✮

Summary : It wasn’t your fault Satoru had such kissable skin. But then again, it wasn’t like Satoru wasn’t as down bad either.

"Baby, you're killing me here-" Satoru whined beneath the sheets, eyes half closed as the morning light filtered through the cracks of the window - bringing forth the dawn of another arduous day of sorcery. "This is how I die, an overdose of the most lethal substance of them all."

"Oh yeah?" You grinned, dragging your lips between his collarbones. Your hair splayed across his chest, the strands tickling his skin with every subtle rustle of your pyjamas against his bare torso.

"Yeah," Satoru crossed his arms beneath his head, leaning back with a shift of his shoulders. He cracked an eye open, a lazy smile making its way onto his face. "your kisses. They're a national crime. First they stole my heart, then proceed to have the audacity to make me addicted to them."

Satoru pressed a hand upon his heart, shuddering with mock horror. "I just can't live without the feel of your lips anymore and it's all your fault. You've made me a horrid, needy man-"

"You're such a sap." You cut off Satoru, your sweet giggle ringing in a way in his ears that Satoru swore was almost as good as kifukifu (okay, maybe even a little better).

"And you're a feral maniac, but you don't see me complaining." Satoru titled his neck, showing off the purple hues that decorated his otherwise porcelain skin.

"You didn't look like you wanted to complain last night." You muttered against the juncture of Satoru's throat, puffs of your breath meeting skin.

Satoru looked down at you, soft and sweet and kind and warm with the scent of his cologne clinging to his shirt you were wearing and all those things he'd never believed he needed or even wanted in his life, his heart doing those little backflips in the stronghold of his ribs - that sensation he simply never could manage to quell around you.

"If I ever complain about a good hickey from you, shoot me because I deserve death by that point-" Satoru tightened the grip of his arms around your waist, his thumb rubbing circles into the soft sliver of skin it found.

The sensation of the subtle calluses of his thumb, borne from all the paperwork Satoru would whine about up and down, sent a thrill through your sleep addled heart.

Because he was yours, wasn’t he? Bedhead, blue eyes, drama King and all.

“If you stare any longer, you’re going to burn a hole into my face, baby.” Satoru smirked, his signature smugness unable to resist making its way onto his face - adding a horridly charming effect to those cerulean eyes that never failed to steal your breath away even after three years with him.

“You wish, I was just-”

“Nuh uh, nothing!” He squeezed your cheeks roughly, mussing up your hair.

“Oi, watch the hair!” You grumbled, swatting at his hands.

Satoru laughed, pearly teeth flashing with mirth as he grabbed your arms. “C’mon, don’t mess up the goods here!” With an effortless manoeuver of his lanky legs, he flipped you under him.

Your back hit the plush sheets with a thud, accompanied by Satoru’s palms landing on either side of your head. His chest rose and fell in an unsteady rhythm, white hair falling haphazardly around his face.

Satoru’s gaze trailed over every inch of you, from the subtle freckles that lined the column of your throat to the faint scars along your midriff revealed by your shirt, well his shirt technically (if one chose to focus on schematics), riding up.

So beautiful.

You, in all your glory with the faint remnants of drowsiness from your slumber, were simply too much.

Satoru had heard countless compliments about his looks over a million times over in a million ways from a million different people.

But if he could let you in on a little secret, he thought you were way prettier.

“What’re you looking at?” You chuckled, squirming a bit. “Do I have something on my face?”

Satoru leaned in closer, brushing his nose against the crook of your neck. “Yeah. Beauty. You’ve got it all over.”

You bit back a laugh, already knowing what to expect from your boyfriend. “I swear to god, you’re ridiculous!”

You grabbed Satoru’s face and peppered a flurry of kisses all over him, staring at his lips and all the way up to his forehead before beginning all over again.

Satoru smiled, drunk off your touch and the very essence of life you keep breathing into what would have otherwise been his cold, isolated life. “Kiss me all you want, it’s all yours anyway.”

“Mmh, I know.” You nipped his earlobe, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from Satoru.

Satoru bent his elbows a little more, pressing his chest against yours. He trailed a hand over the side of your body, tracing the dips and hollows he’d spent so long loving upon that they’d become more familiar than his own.

His grin stretched wide, your personal Cheshire cat. “But as much as I do adore your clear awe at my stunning visage,” Satoru paused, brushing a stray hair of your face.

“One more cocky word and I’m heading to the guest room.” You crossed your arms but the twinkle in your eyes said otherwise.

“No way, you love me too much.” Before you could get a word out, Satoru plopped right onto you, chest against chest.

“And this is how you choose to reward it, by suffocation.” You deadpanned.

“I call it a bombardment of affection.”

”One of these days, you’re going to break my ribs-”

“Who? Me? Your charmingly down bad boyfriend????” Satoru swivelled his head around comically.

“No, I meant the menace who keeps stealing my underwear.” You snickered, moving your hand up and down his back soothingly.

“That was one time.” Satoru stretched and plopped beside you, pulling you atop him. “And I have no regrets, by the way. Ten out of ten, would do it again.”

“You’re ridiculous.” You repeated, basking in the secure hold of his arms and chest like a cat in the sun.

“Yeah. I’m your ridiculous though.” Satoru glanced at your lips, his eyes lingering on the way they parted with every word and huff and beaming smile.

He leaned in closer, fingers tangling in the back of your head. You fell silent, electricity crackling between the minuscule space between your lips.

When Satoru kissed you, it wasn’t all tongue and teeth. It was as tender as the caress of a petal, inevitable every morning like the pull of the tides against the shoreline and if you asked Satoru, more vital to his entire existence than oxygen.

He coaxed your lips to part and deepened the kiss, both your chests rising and falling rapidly.

“I love you.” Satoru gasped into the kiss, as if he’d down if he didn’t get those words out. “Love you, love you, love you so so so much-” He enunciated each word with yet another kiss.

You squealed in surprise at the onslaught of affection, giggling at the tickle of his hair pressing into your cheek. “I love you too.” You breathed out, smiling in a way that made Satoru want to bundle you up in the sheets and coo over you all day.

“Say it again.” Satoru blinked up at you, hearts practically dancing in the blue of his eyes. “Please?”

“I love you.”

Another kiss.

“Again?”

“Love you so much, Toru.”

Satoru shuddered like he’d attained an otherworldly state from a nickname alone. “I know, I know, I love you too.” He flashed a smile almost blinding in its intensity.

He smooched you again, unable to bring himself to stop. “But say it one more time? For me?”

“I love you soooo much.” You dragged each syllable out and Satoru lapped it up like it was ambrosia.

“But I love you most.” Satoru declared, burying his face into your chest. He inhaled your scent, the faint lingering warmth of your body wash and his eyes drooped a bit.

“No, I love you most.”

“No, I love you most.”

“No me-”

“There is no way you’re going to win this, I love you the mostest.”

You rose a brow, your lips aching from all the smiling. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It so does.” Satoru huffed, face buried in your tender chest.

“Does not.”

“Does.”

“Does not.”

“It does, it does, it does-”

Safe to say, when Ijichi rang to inform Satoru about his schedule for the day, the call remained unanswered. Satoru had heard the ring of his phone, of course, but it could wait. There were still a few more minutes left.

Besides, anything could wait for you. The duties of the strongest could be set aside for a little while.

Because as much as sorcery was his strong suit, his love for you overpowered it. Just a tad bit.

[goldpilot22]

i told myself i wouldn't post any of these until i'd named her but i don't care. this is childe right after they got that injury. they're just thrilled they survived what a dumbass child

[mariejuli]

competition (the book is winning)

Michael Olise x Fem!Reader

sy: when olise just wants to spend time with his girlfriend, but a suspense book keeps stealing all of your attention during your summer trip.

a/n: pls i really hope u like it! idk why but i had such a hard time writing something set in summer. maybe it's bc here in brazil it's winter rn, so it's kinda difficult for me to get into the vibe 😭 honestly i was kinda out of ideas bc someone asked me for a cute olise + summer story, but then this idea randomly popped into my head. maybe it's bc i'm reading a suspense book rn too lol. anyway, i did my best and i hope u enjoy it 🫶 sorry if it's not exactly what u expected sorry if there are any writing or translation mistakes

It had been your idea.

That was the detail Olise wasn't letting you forget. Not with words, because he hadn't said anything yet, but with that expression you could feel without even lifting your eyes from the page. The expression of someone who had planned an entire trip, requested time off weeks in advance, built a mental list of everything he wanted to do with you somewhere that wasn't the walls of your flat and who was now sitting in the passenger seat watching his girlfriend ignore him in favor of three hundred and forty-two pages of paper.

The book had appeared at the beginning of the trip almost by accident. You'd seen it on your want to read list for months, the kind of title that shows up in an algorithm and lodges itself in memory, and you'd thought: just for the drive, just to make the hours go faster, just until we get there.

That was four hours ago.

Now you were in the hotel room, the window open onto somewhere with palm trees and a breeze and a smell of summer that came in soft waves, and you were lying on your stomach across the bed with the book open in front of you, completely, irretrievably inside a murder plot that had absolutely no intention of releasing you.

Michael had unpacked his bag. Taken a shower. Gone out to the balcony for twenty minutes and come back with two ice creams, one of which had melted while he waited for you to notice. He'd set yours on the bedside table with the quiet resignation of someone filing evidence.

You'd said thank you without turning your head.

He'd stood there looking at you for a second with that expression. Then eaten his own ice cream standing up, leaning against the wall, staring out the window with a patience that was visibly costing him something.

The first attempt was subtle.

He lay down beside you, on his side, chin resting on his hand, and stayed quiet for a stretch of time you couldn't measure because you were on the chapter where the protagonist had just discovered the butler wasn't who he claimed to be. Olise went so still you almost forgot he was there — almost, because he was close enough that the warmth of him reached you in a constant, familiar way, the kind of presence you learn to feel before you see it.

Then he tilted his head and pressed his lips to your shoulder. Just one kiss, soft, slow enough to have intention but brief enough to be ignored if you really tried.

You turned the page.

He waited. Then did it again — this time at your neck, just below the line of your hair, the kind of place he knew exactly the effect of. You felt it, because it would have been impossible not to, but the butler was escaping through the back window and you needed to know where he was going.

"You're ignoring me," he said finally, his voice low and dangerously close to your ear.

"I'm reading," you corrected, with the serenity of someone who is technically correct.

A pause. You could picture his expression without needing to look. That specific blend of amusement and indignation he could never quite keep separate.

"I know you're reading. That's the problem."

You folded the corner of the page to mark it — a gesture that made him make a sound of genuine disapproval, because Olise had strong opinions about the physical condition of books — and turned enough to look at him. He was exactly as you'd imagined. Too close, with those eyes that had the inconvenient habit of always looking slightly amused even when he was trying to seem wounded.

"Michael, it's a thriller. I'm at the best part."

"You said that an hour ago."

"Every hour has a better best part than the last."

He looked at you for a second. Then lay back with a sigh that contained the full tragedy of a deeply wronged man, and you turned back to the book with the corner of your mouth attempting something you didn't let it finish.

The second attempt was less subtle.

You'd migrated to the balcony with the book because the light was better, sitting on the sun lounger with your legs folded, and Michael had appeared with two glasses of juice as if this were a peace offering you should acknowledge. You'd taken the glass, had a sip, and returned to page one hundred and eighty-six without pausing.

He'd stood there for a moment, both glasses in hand, looking at you with the expression of someone who's just realized the strategy needs revising.

Then he pulled the chair right up next to yours and sat so close your arms touched. Said nothing. Looked out at the sea with a convincing performance of someone entirely satisfied with the situation, his fingers drumming once on his knee before stopping.

You read three paragraphs.

Then you felt his hand find yours with the naturalness of something he did without thinking — fingers threading through yours, his thumb tracing an absent arc across your hand, the kind of touch that doesn't ask for attention but was impossible to ignore. You read the same paragraph twice. Turned the page anyway.

Michael leaned slightly in your direction and looked at the book with a sudden and clearly fabricated interest. "Who's Marcus?"

"The main suspect."

"He doesn't seem trustworthy."

"He isn't."

"She should pay more attention to her boyfriend."

You lowered the book two centimetres and looked at him. He was studying the pages with absolute seriousness, as if he'd made a completely genuine literary observation.

"That was very forced," you said.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied, and the corner of his mouth curved one millimetre, traitorously.

You lifted the book back up. He stayed at your side anyway, hand still in yours, and that part you didn't try to ignore.

Dinner was an unspoken truce.

You went to the restaurant near the hotel, a small table with a candle and the kind of menu that asks for time, and you'd left the book in the room with a considerable effort of will because you knew, with the part of you that still functioned independently of the plot, that Michael deserved at least that much. He'd taken time off. He'd planned every detail. He'd made that face when you appeared at the car with the book in your hand — not angry, never angry, but the face of someone quietly recalculating expectations with a patience that was, if you were being honest, completely unearned.

So you'd left the book on the bedside table and walked out holding his hand and been genuinely present through the whole conversation, and there was something in the way he relaxed, a tension you hadn't noticed he was carrying and that made you feel slightly guilty in a way that was also, strangely, very good.

On the way back, on the street with the palm trees and the low summer lights, he walked with his arm around your shoulders and your head tilted slightly toward him, and he was telling some story about something that had happened at training the week before that made you laugh at the wrong part, which made him laugh too, and there was this moment, this small fraction of space between one thing and the next. Where he stopped on the pavement and turned to look at you with that expression you knew in all its variations.

He raised his hand and moved a strand of hair from your face with a slowness that wasn't necessary, his fingers grazing your cheek before settling there for a second. "Thank you for having dinner with me," he said, and there was something in his tone that was simultaneously sincere and provoking in a way that was very him.

"You're being dramatic," you said.

"I'm being honest," he corrected, and then you rose onto your toes and kissed the corner of his mouth before he finished speaking, which made him go quiet with the satisfaction of someone who'd scored a point without having to ask for it.

But then you went back to the room.

And the book was on the bedside table.

And the protagonist was trapped in a basement with the killer.

You went to the bathroom, came back, and somehow ended up sitting on the bed with the book in your hands before you'd made any conscious decision about it. Michael came out of the bathroom a few minutes later and found you exactly like that — legs crossed, completely absorbed, as if dinner hadn't happened at all.

He stood in the middle of the room for a moment.

Then he came to the bed with a resignation that had something almost majestic about it, and instead of lying down beside you he did something different: positioned himself behind you, legs on either side of yours, and simply wrapped both arms around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder, his nose grazing the side of your neck.

You didn't lower the book.

But the page took longer to turn than it should have.

Olise stayed there, completely still for once, his breathing steady against your neck, and there was something about it — the way he'd simply decided that if you weren't going to come to him, he'd come to wherever you were — that made your heart do something inconvenient inside your chest.

"She's going to get out of the basement," he said, out of nowhere, his voice low and right at your ear.

You raised the book protectively. "You don't know that."

"She's the protagonist."

"Protagonists die."

"Not in this kind of book."

"You haven't even read the book."

"No," he agreed, and you felt him smile against your neck, "but I know you. And you wouldn't read a book where the protagonist dies in a basement in chapter seventeen."

You went quiet for a second.

"Chapter nineteen," you said.

He lifted his head from your shoulder to look at you, and his expression was exactly what you'd expected, entirely self-satisfied in a way that was irritating in direct proportion to how precisely right he was. "So she's almost out."

You closed the book.

Not because he was right. He was, but that was beside the point, but because when you turned to look at him properly, still inside the circle of his arms, with that expression on his face and the smell of summer and hotel and Michael coming from everywhere at once, the murder plot seemed suddenly much less urgent than it had ten minutes ago.

"You were very patient today," you said.

"I was a victim," he corrected, but there was the smile. Always the smile.

You leaned forward and kissed him properly this time — not the corner of his mouth, not a passing kiss, but something with weight and intention, your fingers finding the side of his face with the same calm you'd use to turn the last page of a very good book. He responded with his hand at your waist pulling you closer with a gentleness that wasn't hurry but was presence, and when you broke apart he stayed with his nose against yours for a second, eyes closed.

"Can the book wait?" he asked, his voice quiet and with almost none of the dramatic in it. Which, coming from him, was perhaps the most sincere thing he could say.

You looked at the bedside table. At the book. At him.

"She's almost out of the basement anyway," you said.

He laughed, that laugh that came from his chest, effortlessly and pulled you back into his arms with the ease of something you'd both been doing for a long time and that you hoped to keep doing for a very, very long time.

The book stayed on the bedside table.

You went back for it at two in the morning, with Olise's arm heavy and asleep around your waist. You read the last three chapters by phone light, trying not to physically shake during the good parts.

She got out of the basement.

Of course she did.

[misshoneyimhome]

Second Chance I William Nylander x reader*

:: A one-night stand with William Nylander was technically flawless but emotionally empty. When he corners you for a redo, you're not sure if you're more interested in the redemption or the revenge.

:: A/N: I know, I know - I put a leash on Pablo, as if Willy would ever do that 🙈💕

William Nylander x Reader, one-night-stand, Second Chance, Bruised ego, Mature 18+ Sexual Content: fingering, protected sexual intercourse, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sexual intercourse, cum inside Word count: 3.3K

The bass of the club thrummed in your chest, a primal beat that matched the pulse of anticipation in your veins. You were out with your friends, a rare night of freedom, and you were determined to enjoy it. That's when you saw him.

Leaning against the bar, a drink in his hand, was a man who radiated a casual, unshakeable confidence. He was all sharp lines and easy smiles, his blond hair artfully messy, his blue eyes scanning the room with an air of ownership. He was the kind of handsome that was dangerous.

He caught you looking. A slow, knowing grin spread across his face, and he pushed off the bar, making his way toward you. "Hi," he said, his voice a low, smooth rumble that you felt more than heard. "I'm Willy."

"I know,” you said, before offering your name with a challenge in your smile.

"Of course, you do," he chuckled, not missing a beat. "Can I buy you a drink, or are you going to pretend you're not impressed?"

"I'm not easily impressed," you replied, but you let him signal the bartender anyway.

The conversation was a dance. He was quick, witty, and charmingly arrogant. He teased you about the book you were reading on your phone, and you zinged him right back about the expensive watch on his wrist. It was fun. It was a game. And when he leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear as he asked, "So, are you taking me home, or am I taking you home?" You laughed and decided to end the game.

"My place is nearby," you smiled.

"Then let’s go," he grinned.

-

Your apartment was quiet compared to the roar of the club, the silence filled with the sound of your own breathing and the soft, definitive click of the door locking behind you. He was on you immediately, his mouth claiming yours with a practised expertise that was both thrilling and a little detached. It was like he was following a script, one that had worked a hundred times before.

He was good. Technically. His hands knew exactly where to go, sliding down your sides with the confidence of a man who had memorised this particular map. His lips followed a path designed to elicit a response - a trail of fire down your neck, a teeth-scraping nip on your collarbone that was supposed to make you gasp. It did, but it felt like a reflex, not a reaction. There was no discovery, no genuine connection. It felt more like an act, as he moved with an athletic grace, his body a beautiful instrument playing a solo you'd heard before.

In the dimmed lights of the bedroom, he undressed you with an efficiency that was almost clinical before your back hit the mattress, his lips already closing over your nipple. He sucked with a perfect, rhythmic pressure, his tongue swirling in a way that was undeniably skilled, utterly calculated for maximum arousal. But his eyes were closed, his focus inward. He wasn't watching you, wasn't looking for the subtle cues that told him what you liked. He was just executing the moves before he retreated to undress himself completely.

Returning to you on the bed, his fingers found your core, and he slid one inside you with practised ease. He was good at this, too. He found your clit with his thumb immediately, rubbing in tight, expert circles that built a quick, sharp pleasure. It was like being tuned by a master craftsman - every string plucked perfectly; every note hit with precision. But there was no soul in the music. He was so sure of his effect on you that he barely seemed to notice if you were actually enjoying it, his focus entirely on the mechanics of the act.

He paused, the brief interruption in his rhythm feeling more like a pit stop than a moment of intimacy. He reached over to his discarded jeans, his movements efficient as he pulled out a foil packet. The tear of the wrapper was loud in the quiet room. He rolled the condom on with a quick, familiar motion, his eyes distant, already focused on the next phase. It was practical, responsible, and utterly devoid of passion.

When he finally entered you, it was with a smooth, powerful thrust that was designed to impress. He set a steady, pounding rhythm, his hips snapping against yours with an athletic prowess that was, in its own way, beautiful to behold. His breath was hot on your neck, his grunts a low, rhythmic soundtrack to the performance. He was chasing his own finish line, and you were just a beautiful, willing obstacle along the way.

He shifted your leg, changing the angle to hit that spot deep inside, a move so perfectly executed it should have made you scream. Instead, you felt a strange sense of detachment, as if you were watching it happen to someone else. You could feel the pressure building, a biological response to the expert stimulation, but it was hollow.

He was charming, he was gorgeous, and the sex was profoundly disappointing. You felt the tell-tale twitch of his impending orgasm, and with it, the need to end the show. So, you let out a convincing little crescendo, a series of breathy moans and a final, shuddering cry that sealed his performance. He groaned in response, his body tensing as he found his own release, a satisfied grunt against your skin. When he finally collapsed against you, his breath hot on your neck, he murmured, "God, you're incredible." 

You just hummed in response, a small, polite smile on your face as you stared at the ceiling.

He rolled off you almost immediately, his breathing evening out within minutes. You thought he might fall asleep, but after only a few moments of silence, he stirred. He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and efficiently dealt with the condom, tying it off and dropping it into the small wastebasket beside your nightstand with a quiet, unceremonious thud. The act was as practised and detached as everything that had come before it.

Then he began the methodical process of getting dressed. The rustle of his clothes was the only sound. He didn't say another word, just pulled on his jeans and his shirt, his movements as smooth and efficient as they had been when he was taking them off. He gave you a final, cursory glance, a nod that was more of a dismissal than a goodbye, and then he was gone.

You lay awake, feeling a strange sense of anti-climax. The ache between your legs was a mere echo of what it could have been.

_

The following week, pre-season was in full swing. You were at the Leafs' training facility, waiting for your friend Steven Lorentz to finish up so you could grab lunch with him and his wife, Erin. You were chatting with Erin and a couple of the other WAGs near the entrance when the players started trickling out, their voices echoing down the hall.

"So, you just disappeared after that night out," Erin said, nudging you. "Did you leave with someone?"

You sighed. "I did.”

“And?” Erin asked, her curiosity piqued.

“And… well, honestly? It was a letdown."

"What?" Jenna, another WAG, gasped. "He didn’t know what he was doing?"

"Oh, he thought he did," you said with a wry laugh, keeping your voice low. "Super confident, a little too smooth. It was like he was trying to win a prize. I had to fake an orgasm just to get it over with."

Jenna choked on her latte. "You didn't!"

"I did," you confessed. "He was charming enough, I figured, why not? But the actual sex? A total dud. All that confidence and nothing to back it up."

Around the corner, out of sight, William Nylander had just come back to grab his forgotten water bottle. He'd been walking toward the entrance when your voices made him stop dead in his tracks. Every word you said landed like a punch to the gut. ‘A total dud.’ ‘Had to fake an orgasm.’ The confident smirk he'd worn for years froze, then shattered, leaving behind a raw, stinging humiliation he had never felt before. No one had ever said that about him. No one. He stood there, frozen, his water bottle forgotten in his hand.

"Hey! Willy, come meet my friend," Steven's voice called out, oblivious.

William took a deep breath, shoving his humiliation down and forcing a neutral expression onto his face. He walked around the corner, his eyes landing on you. For a split second, you both froze.

"This is Y/N," Steven said, gesturing between you. "She's one of Erin's best friends."

"Hi," you said, your voice a little shaky as you gave a small, polite nod, completely unaware that he had just heard your entire confession.

"Hey," William replied, his voice carefully flat. He nodded back, his eyes holding yours for a fraction of a second too long, a storm brewing behind them.

Steven looked between the two of you, a frown creasing his brow. "Do you guys know each other or something?"

You and William both spoke at the same time. "No."

"We don't," William added smoothly, shoving his hand in his pocket. "It’s nice to meet you."

Steven looked satisfied, but Erin shot you a curious look. William gave you one last, unreadable glance before turning and walking away, his shoulders a little too stiff.

_

A couple of days later, you were in a coffee shop in Yorkville, scrolling through your phone, when a familiar, excited panting caught your attention, and you looked up to see a fluffy golden doodle straining at its leash. Your eyes then followed the leash up to the man holding it.

William.

His expression was unreadable as he met your gaze. He said something to the barista, then led his dog over to your table, the dog's tail wagging furiously.

"You really meant that," he said, his voice low and tight, leaving no room for argument. He didn't sit down, just stood there, a looming presence.

You slowly lowered your phone, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms. A small, challenging smile played on your lips. "I'm not sure what you're talking about."

He leaned in slightly, his blue eyes locking onto yours, his voice a low, intense murmur meant only for you. "What you said to Erin and the others. The other day."

Your smile didn't falter, but your eyes sharpened. "Ah. So, you were eavesdropping."

"So, was it true?" he pressed, ignoring the jab, his gaze unwavering. “Did you fake it?”

You held his stare, letting the silence stretch for a moment. You weren't ashamed. You were just being honest with your friends. And you saw no reason to be anything less than honest with him.

"Yes," you said, your voice clear and steady. "I did."

His jaw tightened; the wound clearly visible despite his best efforts. “Why?”

You leaned forward, mirroring his posture, lowering your voice to match his. "Because you were on autopilot or something, Willy. It was all about you. Your confidence, your technique, your big finish. And honestly," you added with a slight shrug, "it was boring."

The word 'boring' landed like a final, brutal blow. He watched you, the flicker of pain in his eyes now unmistakable, before it was replaced by that grim, unwavering determination. "Alright," he said, his voice clipped. "Then let me try again."

You raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Let me redeem myself," he said, his gaze dropping to your lips for a moment before meeting your eyes again. "Come to my place tonight. Give me a second chance to change your mind."

You considered it, tapping a finger on the table. The audacity of it was almost impressive. "And why would I do that?"

"Because I want to know if you’re right," he said, his voice dropping even lower, a raw, honest edge to it. "Or if I can prove you wrong."

You looked at him, at the genuine insecurity peeking through the cracks of his arrogance. You were curious, too. "Fine," you finally agreed, your voice a low, confident murmur. "Tonight."

He gave you a sharp, decisive nod. "I'll text you." Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving you sitting there, a small, triumphant smile on your face as you picked up your coffee.

-

That evening, when you arrived at his condo, the air was thick with unspoken challenge. He didn't offer you a drink. He didn't make small talk. He simply took your hand, his grip firm and sure, and led you silently down the hall to his bedroom.

He closed the door behind you, the soft click sealing you in. Then he turned, and the look in his eyes was not one of arrogance, but of fierce, focused intent. He didn't ask what you liked. He was going to find out.

Then he kissed you, and it was nothing like the first time. This was slow, deep, and exploratory. His lips moved against yours with a patient curiosity, learning your shape, your taste. There was no rush, no goal-oriented pressure. He was savouring you. His hands didn't grab; they roamed, mapping the curve of your waist, the line of your spine, the sensitive skin of your neck. He was learning the landscape of your body, not conquering it.

William stripped you with a deliberate slowness that was its own form of worship. His eyes never left yours, watching every flicker of emotion, every shiver of anticipation as he peeled away each layer of clothing. First, your top, his knuckles brushing against your ribs. Then your jeans, his palms sliding down your thighs. He took his time until you were standing before him, completely bare under his intense, unwavering gaze.

Instead of immediately guiding you to the bed, he took a small step back. His gaze was still locked on you, but now it was tinged with a new kind of reverence. He reached for the hem of his own shirt, pulling it over his head in one slow, fluid motion. The dim light caught the lines of his abdomen, the solid muscle of his chest. He wasn't just undressing; he was unveiling himself to you, baring not just his body but his intent. His hands went to his belt, the metallic clink echoing softly in the quiet room as he undid it, then his jeans, letting them fall to the floor. He stood before you, naked and unashamed, his arousal blatant and honest. There was no performance here, only a raw, shared vulnerability, as he lay you back on his bed - and this time, when he settled between your thighs, it wasn't an act.

He lowered his head, and his mouth was hot and reverent. He wasn't in a hurry. He took his time, devouring you with a patient, relentless hunger. He started with soft, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs, his beard a delicious friction against your sensitive skin. He listened to the sounds you made, the hitch in your breath, the way your hands fisted in his hair. He learned what made you gasp, what made you moan, what made you beg. He built you up slowly, expertly, his tongue circling your clit with a maddening, perfect pressure until you were a trembling, writhing mess.

Just when you were on the edge, he lifted his head, a smug, knowing glint in his eye. He replaced his mouth with his fingers, sliding one, then two, inside you, curling them expertly to find that spot that made your vision go white. His thumb found your clit, rubbing in slow, firm circles as he pumped his hand. The dual sensation was overwhelming, and you shattered, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that stole your breath.

Before you could come down, he was moving again. He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, opening you up completely, before he positioned himself at your entrance, his eyes locked on yours, and entered you with a single, slow, deliberate thrust that made you gasp. He stayed there, buried deep inside you, letting you adjust, letting you feel every thick inch of him. This time, there was no barrier, just the raw, intimate heat of him, skin-to-skin against you.

Then he began to move. His pace was teasingly slow at first, a deep, rhythmic rocking that was designed to undo you completely. He was watching you, his gaze intense, as he drove into you again and again, hitting that perfect spot deep inside you. The pressure built, higher and higher, a tidal wave of pleasure that was impossibly strong. He increased his pace, his hips snapping against yours faster, harder, until your second orgasm tore through you, a blinding, screaming wave of ecstasy.

Just when you thought you couldn't take any more, he hooked his arms under your knees, folding you in half and driving into you with a renewed, desperate urgency. He was chasing his own release now, his hips pistoning into yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your neck. You wrapped your legs around him, meeting him thrust for thrust, urging him on.

With a final, hoarse cry of your name, he found his climax, his body tensing as he emptied himself deep inside you. He collapsed against you, his body heavy and trembling, his face buried in your neck. The only sounds were your ragged breaths and the distant hum of the city.

After a long moment, he finally rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, tucking you against his chest. He didn't say anything. He just kissed your forehead, a soft, breathless gesture that said more than words ever could. His heart was a steady, reassuring drumbeat against your back, his arm a heavy, possessive weight around your waist. The air in the room had changed, the charged tension replaced by a warm, sated quiet.

"Well," you finally whispered, your voice hoarse. "I guess you're not a total dud after all."

He chuckled, a low, warm sound against your hair. "I'm glad you think so," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. "Because I plan on spending the rest of the night proving it."

You shifted in his arms to face him, your bodies still tangled in the sheets. In the dim city light filtering through the window, you could see the change in him. The cocky arrogance was gone, replaced by a raw, open vulnerability that was far more compelling. You reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the rasp of his beard.

"I was wrong," you admitted softly. "Before. It wasn't that you weren't good. You were just… absent. Like you were going through the motions."

His eyes searched yours, a flicker of the old insecurity there. "And now?"

"Now you're here," you whispered, your thumb stroking his cheek. "You're actually with me. It's… a completely different thing."

He let out a breath he didn't seem to realise he was holding, his whole body relaxing against yours. "I've never had anyone call me on it before," he confessed, his voice barely audible. "No one's ever… cared enough to notice the difference."

The confession hung in the air, a stark, honest truth that settled deep in your chest. You leaned in and kissed him, a soft, gentle kiss that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with connection.

When you pulled back, his eyes were shining. He tightened his arm around you, pulling you impossibly closer, as if he was afraid you might disappear. "Stay," he whispered, the single word a desperate, heartfelt plea.

You smiled, a real, genuine smile that reached your eyes. "Of course. I mean, I thought you were going to prove something to me all night, right?"

[alfheimr]

My Favorite Cheap Art Trick: Gradient Maps and Blending Modes

i get questions on occasion regarding my coloring process, so i thought i would do a bit of a write up on my "secret technique." i don't think it really is that much of a secret, but i hope it can be helpful to someone. to that end:

this is one of my favorite tags ive ever gotten on my art. i think of it often. the pieces in question are all monochrome - sort of.

the left version is the final version, the right version is technically the original. in the final version, to me, the blues are pretty stark, while the greens and magentas are less so. there is some color theory thing going on here that i dont have a good cerebral understanding of and i wont pretend otherwise. i think i watched a youtube video on it once but it went in one ear and out the other. i just pick whatever colors look nicest based on whatever vibe im going for.

this one is more subtle, i think. can you tell the difference? there's nothing wrong with 100% greyscale art, but i like the depth that adding just a hint of color can bring.

i'll note that the examples i'll be using in this post all began as purely greyscale, but this is a process i use for just about every piece of art i make, including the full color ones. i'll use the recent mithrun art i made to demonstrate. additionally, i use clip studio paint, but the general concept should be transferable to other art programs.

for fun let's just start with Making The Picture. i've been thinking of making this writeup for a while and had it in mind while drawing this piece. beyond that, i didn't really have much of a plan for this outside of "mithrun looks down and hair goes woosh." i also really like all of the vertical lines in the canary uniform so i wanted to include those too but like. gone a little hog wild. that is the extent of my "concept." i do not remember why i had the thought of integrating a shattered mirror type of theme. i think i wanted to distract a bit from the awkward pose and cover it up some LOL but anyway. this lack of planning or thought will come into play later.

note 1: the textured marker brush i specifically use is the "bordered light marker" from daub. it is one of my favorite brushes in the history of forever and the daub mega brush pack is one of the best purchases ive ever made. highly recommend!!!

note 2: "what do you mean by exclusion and difference?" they are layer blending modes and not important to the overall lesson of this post but for transparency i wanted to say how i got these "effects." anyway!

with the background figured out, this is the point at which i generally merge all of my layers, duplicate said merged layer, and Then i begin experimenting with gradient maps. what are gradient maps?

the basic gist is that gradient maps replace the colors of an image based on their value.

so, with this particular gradient map, black will be replaced with that orangey red tone, white will be replaced with the seafoamy green tone, etc. this particular gradient map i'm using as an example is very bright and saturated, but the colors can be literally anything.

these two sets are the ones i use most. they can be downloaded for free here and here if you have csp. there are many gradient map sets out there. and you can make your own!

you can apply a gradient map directly onto a specific layer in csp by going to edit>tonal correction>gradient map. to apply one indirectly, you can use a correction layer through layer>new correction layer>gradient map. honestly, correction layers are probably the better way to go, because you can adjust your gradient map whenever you want after creating the layer, whereas if you directly apply a gradient map to a layer thats like. it. it's done. if you want to make changes to the applied gradient map, you have to undo it and then reapply it. i don't use correction layers because i am old and stuck in my ways, but it's good to know what your options are.

this is what a correction layer looks like. it sits on top and applies the gradient map to the layers underneath it, so you can also change the layers beneath however and whenever you want. you can adjust the gradient map by double clicking the layer. there are also correction layers for tone curves, brightness/contrast, etc. many such useful things in this program.

let's see how mithrun looks when we apply that first gradient map we looked at.

gadzooks. apologies for eyestrain. we have turned mithrun into a neon hellscape, which might work for some pieces, but not this one. we can fix that by changing the layer blending mode, aka this laundry list of words:

some of them are self explanatory, like darken and lighten, while some of them i genuinely don't understand how they are meant to work and couldn't explain them to you, even if i do use them. i'm sure someone out there has written out an explanation for each and every one of them, but i've learned primarily by clicking on them to see what they do.

for the topic of this post, the blending mode of interest is soft light. so let's take hotline miamithrun and change the layer blending mode to soft light.

here it is at 100% opacity. this is the point at which i'd like to explain why i like using textured brushes so much - it makes it very easy to get subtle color variation when i use this Secret Technique. look at the striation in the upper right background! so tasty. however, to me, these colors are still a bit "much." so let's lower the opacity.

i think thats a lot nicer to look at, personally, but i dont really like these colors together. how about we try some other ones?

i like both of these a lot more. the palettes give the piece different vibes, at which point i have to ask myself: What Are The Vibes, Actually? well, to be honest i didn't really have a great answer because again, i didn't plan this out very much at all. however. i knew in my heart that there was too much color contrast going on and it was detracting from the two other contrasts in here: the light and dark values and the sharp and soft shapes. i wanted mithrun's head to be the main focal point. for a different illustration, colors like this might work great, but this is not that hypothetical illustration, so let's bring the opacity down again.

yippee!! that's getting closer to what my heart wants. for fun, let's see what this looks like if we change the blending mode to color.

i do like how these look but in the end they do not align with my heart. oh well. fun to experiment with though! good to keep in mind for a different piece, maybe! i often change blending modes just to see what happens, and sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. i very much cannot stress enough that much of my artistic process is clicking buttons i only sort of understand. for fun.

i ended up choosing the gradient map on the right because i liked that it was close to the actual canary uniform colors (sorta). it's at an even lower opacity though because there was Still too much color for my dear heart.

the actual process for this looks like me setting my merged layer to soft light at around 20% opacity and then clicking every single gradient map in my collection and seeing which one Works. sometimes i will do this multiple times and have multiple soft light and/or color layers combined.

typically at this point i merge everything again and do minor contrast adjustments using tone curves, which is another tool i find very fun to play around with. then for this piece in particular i did some finishing touches and decided that the white border was distracting so i cropped it. and then it's done!!! yay!!!!!

this process is a very simple and "fast" way to add more depth and visual interest to a piece without being overbearing. well, it's fast if you aren't indecisive like me, or if you are better at planning.

let's do another comparison. personally i feel that the hint of color on the left version makes mithrun look just a bit more unwell (this is a positive thing) and it makes the contrast on his arm a lot more pleasing to look at. someone who understands color theory better than i do might have more to say on the specifics, but that's honestly all i got.

just dont look at my layers too hard. ok?

[hyunjinlosthisamericano]

Hold My hand

Synopsis: When solo artist Y/N teams up with producer Han Jisung, their studio chemistry turns into something deeper. As passion builds behind closed doors, they risk it all for a love the company would never allow.

The first time Han met Y/N, it was already past 6 p.m. The hallway lights in the studio were dimmer than usual, the buzzing of distant equipment humming in the background. He had only read about her before in producer briefs, “solo artist debut,” “fresh voice,” “distinct tone”, but none of that prepared him for the moment she walked in.

She had her hair tied up, large headphones slung around her neck like she’d done this all her life, but there was still something soft in the way she looked around the room, trying to find him. He stood up from the desk when he noticed her lingering at the door, waving casually with a little awkward smile of his own.

“Han Jisung,” he said, stepping forward, extending a hand.

“Y/N,” she replied, shaking it. Her hand was smaller than he expected. Warmer too.

There was a pause, a moment of unfamiliar silence that lingered longer than it should have, and then they both laughed, embarrassed. The tension broke, slightly, like ice cracking under slow-moving water.

That first session was quiet. She was shy, not about her talent, but about letting him in. She sang well, but reserved, holding back from letting the weight of the lyrics carry her fully. Han noticed it right away. He leaned back in his chair and swiveled to face her in the recording booth.

“Try something for me,” he said through the intercom. “Let the breath carry the emotion. You’re technically perfect, but I want to feel it… right here.” He placed a hand over his chest.

She nodded slowly, bit her lip, and tried again.

The next take made something in him stutter.

Her voice floated through the control room like silk threaded with fire. Soft, but powerful. Controlled, but vulnerable. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as she sang. And it wasn’t just her voice, he noticed the subtle sway of her hips when she found the beat, the way her fingers curled around the mic stand like it was something precious, the way her lips shaped each word with meaning.

He hit stop. Leaned back. And quietly whispered to himself, “Shit.”

Because he knew, even then, she was going to be a problem. Not professionally, professionally, she was a dream. But everything about her stirred something inside him that had nothing to do with music.

Still, he kept it together.

Weeks passed. Then months. They worked more closely, sometimes on her songs, sometimes when he was producing with SKZ and she’d swing by the studio just to sit in. She laughed more now, more openly. She teased him too. Called him "Producer-nim" in a mocking tone when she wanted something, and pouted dramatically when he refused.

One afternoon, she dropped by during a session with Changbin and Hyunjin. They were messing around with a new track, and Han’s head was buried in the mix when she tapped his shoulder. He looked up, surprised, only to see her holding two iced coffees and a suspicious smile.

“I bring gifts,” she said.

“Bribery,” Changbin muttered. “Obvious.”

“Effective,” Y/N shot back.

She stayed for hours. The four of them ended up ordering food, sprawled across the couches in the lounge room, laughing about awful stage moments and the worst lyrics they’d ever written. Y/N sat beside Han, knees brushing, and at one point he glanced over to find her already watching him. She didn’t look away when their eyes met. Just smiled and sipped her drink.

By then, the ice between them wasn’t just melting. It had flooded into something warmer. Deeper.

Still, he kept his distance. Until that night.

He hadn’t planned to go to her concert, he wanted to, of course, but his schedule had been jammed. But Minho bailed last-minute and gave him the ticket, and before Han could question it, he was in the crowd, hood up, watching her on stage.

And holy shit.

She wasn’t the girl he remembered meeting in the studio months ago. She was radiant. Dominant. Commanding every pair of eyes in that stadium with a body roll here, a smirk there. Her skirt clung to her thighs, short enough to kill him slowly, her top sleeveless and tight, her movements full of heat. And her voice, it was pure sin. She flirted with the mic stand, ran her hand down her side during a high note, her hips rolling slow to the beat.

He was rock hard halfway through the second song. And he was going insane.

Because every flick of her wrist, every hair flip, every look, he knew, deep down, they weren’t for the crowd.

They were for him.

Backstage was chaos after the show, but he didn’t care. He pushed through the crowd, security nodding at him as he made his way toward her dressing room. His heart thudded in his ears. He could still hear the bass of her closing number vibrating in his bones.

When he found her, she was standing near the makeup mirror, fanning her flushed skin, chest rising and falling.

“Oh, he—”

She didn’t finish.

He grabbed her hand and dragged her past the makeup chairs, past the racks of clothes and half-empty water bottles, into the changing room and slammed the door shut.

“Han, wha—”

He silenced her with a kiss so deep and desperate, she whimpered against his lips. He pinned her wrists above her head, bodies flush, breath tangled.

When he pulled back, barely able to breathe, he rasped, “Y/N… why do you do this to me?”

She was panting, lips red and glistening. “Do what?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know shit,” he growled.

She smiled, fucking smiled, and said, “What? I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Y/N, I like you, okay? As if that wasn’t obvious. You’re pretty, you sing beautiful, you, just you, Y/N. I don’t know what to say but I like you. I really have… for a long time.”

She was grinning now, eyes soft.

“I like you too, my silly goose,” she whispered, cupping his cheeks.

He giggled, like an idiot, and kissed her again. What started soft turned fiery in seconds. He gripped her hips, pulled her closer, their tongues tangling as her hands threaded into his hair. His knee nudged between her thighs, forcing her onto the makeup table.

“Han…” she whispered.

He didn’t stop.

Not when her lips were still parted in surprise. Not when her breath caught in her throat. Not even when she tried to speak. His mouth devoured her like he’d waited a lifetime for just one taste of her. The kiss wasn’t gentle, it was unrelenting. Desperate. Their teeth clashed slightly in urgency, lips swollen already from the pressure. His tongue slid past her lips, demanding and hot, tasting every corner of her mouth like he needed to memorize it. She whimpered into him, her back hitting the wall of the changing room, hands flying to grip at his arms, grounding herself as he pressed closer.

His lips trailed down next, leaving a warm, wet trail along her jaw, then her neck. She gasped softly when he sucked gently at the spot just below her ear, her fingers tangling in his hair now, tugging slightly. The sound he made in response, deep, guttural, possessive, went straight between her legs.

Down her collarbone, his mouth moved slowly. Methodically. As if he was deliberately taking his time to mark every inch of skin that had tormented him for months.

Her fingers fumbled at his shirt, pushing it up, trying to get it off, needing to feel him, every inch. He tugged it over his head with one hand, flinging it somewhere behind him, his mouth never once leaving her body. His other hand slid up the inside of her thigh, pushing under her skirt, fingers skating over the soft skin slowly, like he wanted to memorize her shape before even touching her properly.

She gasped when his fingers reached her panties, already soaked. He groaned against her skin.

“You’re so wet,” he breathed, voice ragged, lips at her collarbone. “Fuck, Y/N.”

Her thighs pressed together instinctively, but he slid his hand between them, brushing over her heat again, this time with more purpose.

She opened her mouth to speak, to say anything, but what came out was weak. “The company—”

He growled, low and rough. “Fuck it.”

With that, he dropped to his knees.

Her skirt was bunched at her waist, the cool air of the room kissing the backs of her thighs. His mouth trailed down her stomach slowly, reverently. She whimpered, hands finding the edge of the table behind her to steady herself.

His lips brushed against her panties, and she let out the softest moan, so quiet, so shaky.

“Han, please—”

He didn’t hesitate.

He hooked his fingers around her waistband and dragged her panties down her legs in one fluid motion. His breath was hot against her folds as he took in the sight of her. A deep, hungry sound rumbled from his chest.

And then his tongue was on her.

He groaned into her pussy like he hadn’t tasted anything this good in his life. He licked her like he needed it to survive, messy, deep, his tongue sliding between her folds, then circling her clit with slow, devastating precision. He kissed her inner thighs, sucked gently at the soft skin just to hear her gasp, before burying his face back in her, arms looping around her thighs to keep her right where he wanted her.

She cried out, body jerking forward, hands flying to his hair. He moaned against her, loving the way she reacted to every flick of his tongue, every swirl, every slow suck at her clit. Her hips rolled into his face and he let her, eyes fluttering shut as he lost himself in the taste of her.

When he slipped two fingers inside her, curling them just right, she broke.

“Han—Han, I—fuck—I’m—”

He kept going, fucking her with his fingers while his mouth never left her clit, coaxing her higher and higher until her thighs trembled violently. She clamped around him, her moans stifled by the back of her hand as she came hard, soaking his fingers, his mouth, everything.

Still, he didn’t stop.

He licked her through it, every last tremble, every soft whimper she made as her body slowly came down from the high. Only when she whimpered his name again, barely audible, did he finally pull away, panting, lips glistening with her arousal.

“Good girl,” he whispered, voice thick. “You taste like heaven.”

She was still dazed, chest rising and falling rapidly, when he stood, towering over her again. He kissed her lips, letting her taste herself on his tongue, and she moaned into his mouth, tugging him closer.

Then he stepped back just long enough to unzip his jeans, freeing himself. His cock was flushed red, thick, heavy in his hand, already dripping pre-cum as he pumped it slowly, eyes fixed on her face, flushed, lips swollen, eyes heavy-lidded and dazed.

He rubbed the head of his cock along her folds, teasing her, watching the way her hips bucked instinctively.

“You ready for me, baby?”

She nodded. “Always have.”

With a low groan, he slid in, all the way, in one slow, agonizing push. Her walls clamped around him so tight, so warm, that he had to grit his teeth to keep from coming on the spot.

“Fuck,” he moaned, stilling inside her. “You feel so fucking good.”

Her hands grabbed at his shoulders, her nails dragging down his skin as he began to move, slow, deep thrusts that had her biting her lip to keep from screaming. She kissed him, messy, desperate, between moans, her body rocking with each movement.

But the moment she rolled her hips to meet him, something inside him snapped.

He grabbed her thighs, spread her wider, and began fucking her with a pace that had the table beneath them creaking. Her head dropped back, mouth open in a silent scream. He caught it with his lips, muffling her cries, kissing her hard as he pounded into her.

His cock hit deep, over and over, each thrust driving the air from her lungs. Her moans turned breathy, then frantic, her nails now clawing at his back. She tugged at the fabric of his shirt, whimpering when it wouldn’t come off fast enough.

He growled, stood back briefly, and ripped it over his head.

She gasped.

His chest was bare, muscles flexing with every breath, tattoos scattered like art across skin she had only seen glimpses of. She ran her hands down his torso like she couldn’t believe he was real, tracing the lines, the ink, the way he shuddered under her touch.

“Don’t do that,” he warned through gritted teeth, “unless you want me to come already.”

She bit his shoulder, teasing, and he answered with a punishing thrust that made her cry out.

They were both close now, sweaty, panting, bodies tangled. He reached down between them, rubbing her clit in tight circles as he fucked her even deeper.

“Come for me again,” he groaned, mouth at her ear. “Let me feel you.”

She shattered around him, crying out his name as she came hard, her body clenching so tight he couldn’t hold back.

“Fuck—Y/N—I’m—”

He came with a broken moan, burying himself inside her, spilling into her as her body milked every last drop from him. He held her as they both shook, kissing her shoulder, her temple, whispering her name like a prayer.

Eventually, he pulled back gently, breathing hard. He helped her into her dress again, straightening it carefully, kissing her shoulders, her cheek, then her lips, soft this time. Sweet. Loving.

They snuck out quietly, slipping into the car parked by the side alley. He pulled the hood of her jacket over her head before anyone could spot her, guiding her into the passenger seat like she was something precious.

The city lights blurred past them as they drove, street lamps flickering against the windows.

“Han…” she said softly, voice barely louder than a whisper.

“Hm?”

“What do you think the company would do if they found out about us?”

He was silent for a moment, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

Then he sighed.

“Y/N… you’re the only one I care about. After Minho hyung.”

She gasped dramatically and slapped his shoulder. “Hey! Don’t distract the driver!”

He laughed, a real laugh, one hand leaving the wheel just long enough to catch hers and intertwine their fingers.

“No, seriously,” he said, quieter now. “I do love you. And if they’re not going to allow us being together? Fuck it. I held myself back long enough, Y/N.”

She turned to look at him, her eyes glossy. She squeezed his hand tighter.

“I wanna make you the happiest one, Y/N.”

Her breath hitched, that line.

She blinked, her chest aching in the most beautiful way.

“…Han,” she said, her voice cracking just slightly, “did you… did you write ‘Hold My Hand’ for me?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just smiled.

“Always.”

He glanced at her, leaned over, cupped her cheek so gently, and kissed her, sweet and slow and aching with everything he hadn’t been able to say until now.

A car honked behind them.

Han blinked, looked up, and realized the light had turned green.

She smiled against his lips.

“Light’s green,” she whispered.

He chuckled softly and turned back to the road.

And they drove on, hand in hand, hearts pounding, into the unknown. Together.

Divider: @saradika-graphics

Tags: @240724coups @paborachaslvt @jeonginsleftcheek

© [2025] @hyunjinlosthisamericano. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

MASTER LIST TAGLIST

[rottenpumpkin13]

a bad hair treatment leaves Genesis hair pink

It’s technically not even pink! It’s a deep, warm cherry tone that resulted from a treatment that reacted unexpectedly with his natural auburn in a way that any reasonable person would describe as an interesting color variation rather than an incident. It’ll be gone by the next wash and is, objectively, not a big deal. Unfortunately, he works with teenage boys, and men. So naturally it has become the scandal of the week™

Kunsel: Looking good, Commander! Very tasteful. That’s approximately #99004C if I had to call it.

Genesis: Do you just casually have hex codes memorized?

Kunsel: No, it’s because my hair is the exact same colour right now actually.

*Genesis looks at the helmet, doubtful and suspicious*

Kunsel: I’d take the helmet off to show you, but I’ve been told I’m dangerously attractive and can’t risk the distraction in a working environment.

Genesis: What—

*Sephiroth walks by*

Sephiroth: Genesis, unnatural hair colours are a violation of the SOLDIER dress and presentation code.

Genesis: YOU DON’T SAY.

Sephiroth: ...

Genesis: What about your hair, Sephiroth, what natural category does that fall under??

Sephiroth: Silver occurs naturally. It’s present in certain blond variations, premature graying, and old age.

Genesis: So let me understand this correctly. I have a temporary treatment effect that has left a subtle rose tone in my hair that will be gone by Saturday, and I’m in violation. But you—you specifically—get to be the only person in this entire unit walking around with hair that color with no consequences whatsoever??

Sephiroth: Of course not. Just yesterday Kunsel told me that he too has silver hair.

*Genesis slowly turns toward Kunsel*

Kunsel: ...

*Angeal walks by*

Angeal: Oh, come on. Pink hair? Why couldn’t you just choose a natural color like black?

Genesis: First of all, it’s temporary. Second of all, black hair is boring.

Angeal: Wow. That’s incredibly offensive to black-haired people like me and Kunsel over here.

Genesis: WHAT THE—

*Cloud walks past*

Cloud: Wow, sir! Cool hair! I’d totally dye mine a fun color too, but I’m blond. It’d stain and you can’t really get an even tone with my natural color.

Kunsel: I totally get you. I have blond hair like yours too. Huge hassle.

Cloud: Yeah :/

Genesis: Kunsel, stop maintaining an ongoing lie in which your hair changes color depending on who you’re speaking to. What’s the point in—WHY ARE YOU BALD??

*Zack walks in, bald*

Zack: I shaved mine to match Kunsel :)

Genesis: I’m surrounded by lunatics.

Sephiroth: Says the only man here with pink hair.

Genesis: ASHDGSJSK—