#a bowl of ramen is already too much for me

[apparently-artless]

ramen akaneko episode 05

[wooyoungiewritings]

A Spoonful of Trouble - Wooyoung x Reader

Summary: Three years of living with your best friend Wooyoung, and it’s all been chill… until a run-in with your old coworker, who’s dating your ex, forces you to lie. You tell her you’re in a relationship with Wooyoung, and now you both have to fake a relationship at a couples’ dinner. Wooyoung’s plan? Make your ex jealous. What starts as a harmless game soon sparks something you didn’t see coming.

Word count: 17.4K

Genre: Best-friend/Roomie Wooyoung, fake dating, comedy (it’s wooyoung, ofc its fun), friends-to-lovers, oneshot, smut

Warnings: Jealous undertones, Wooyoung with reader (fem pronouns), dom Wooyoung, he’s a tease, fingering, oral (fem receiving), choking and hair pulling, ass slaps and pussy slaps (lmao sorry) dirtytalk, unprotected sex, lmk if I missed anything!

A/N: I was requested a Wooyoung fanfic (preferably friends to lovers) and your wish is my command. Also, I haven't read this through, so I excuse if there are any mistakes!

This is all for fun and is not meant to represent Wooyoung in any way.

You didn’t know Wooyoung before you moved in with him.

It wasn’t some childhood-friends-to-roommates situation. It was a Facebook listing, a desperate rent situation, and a quick video call where he grinned and said, “I’m clean, I cook, and I only walk around shirtless on laundry days, deal?”

Your boyfriend had just cheated on you and you were too broke to be picky.

You moved in two weeks later.

That was three years ago.

When you first moved in, things were simple. Polite nods in the hallway, careful division of chores, messages like “Can I use your oat milk?” and “Trash day’s Thursday.” You were strangers learning how to coexist. He was respectful, charming, funny in a careful kind of way.

But that changed. Slowly. Naturally.

There was the night he knocked on your door with two bowls of ramen after hearing you cry through the wall. The time he fell asleep on your shoulder during a movie, and you let him stay there. The mornings where he started making two cups of coffee without asking, and the way he never forgot which mug was your favorite.

Little things, at first. But they stacked up.

Now he knows your coffee order and your worst ex’s name. He doesn’t knock anymore when your door is open. And you don’t bother pretending to be annoyed when he drapes himself across the couch you’re already sitting on, like there’s not an entire empty seat next to you. You know his favorite hoodie and the playlist he only listens to when he’s feeling off.

You don’t even remember when it happened. When “roommate” became “friend,” and “friend” slowly became “best friend”.

He’s the first person you turn to when something happens, good or bad. You’ve become so used to him and his playful, flirtatious nature, that it’s just... normal now.

This morning, you wake up to the sound of a pan sizzling.

It’s not unusual. Wooyoung does most of the cooking in the apartment, partly because he’s better at it, mostly because he refuses to eat anything bland. You’ve learned not to interfere when he’s in his element, your only job is to show up and eat.

Still, it’s early, and he’s making a bit too much noise for someone who claims to love you “platonically.”

You shuffle out of your room, hair a mess, socks mismatched. The kitchen smells like garlic and eggs, and you see him standing at the stove, completely in his zone. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, spatula in hand, flipping something with a finesse that makes it obvious he knows he looks good doing it.

“You’re showing off,” you mutter, leaning against the doorframe.

He doesn’t look away from the pan. “You’re welcome.”

You make a beeline for your favorite mug, the one he always pretends to hate but still washes carefully every time you leave it in the sink.

“I figured you’d sleep in,” he says. “You stayed up late.”

“Yea, because someone wasn’t leaving my room.” you send him a glare.

“I like hanging out with you! and don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy the story about the geek and the popular girl from my old highschool. That story is cute as hell.” he points the spatula with you like it’s a weapon.

You smirk behind the mug. “Okay, that one was kinda good.”

He grins, plating scrambled eggs and what looks like roasted vegetables. He slides the plate toward your usual spot at the counter like he’s done it a hundred times, because he has.

“How was your date?” you ask, poking your fork into a roasted tomato.

Wooyoung groans. “Disaster.”

“That bad?”

“She asked if I was in love with her halfway through the appetizer.”

“Bold of her,” you say, chewing.

“And when I said no, she looked at me like I kicked her in the face. Then she told me I ‘give off commitment issues.’”

You grin. “You do give off commitment issues.”

He glares playfully. “Okay, rude. I’m extremely loyal.”

“To me.”

“Exactly. My loyalty quota is full. Sorry to the rest of the world.” he shoots you a wink, nothing dramatic, just one of those natural, easy gestures he does without thinking. You don’t blush. Not anymore.

You're used to it. In the beginning, back when you were still adjusting to living with someone who looks like that, who flirts with the air he breathes, who walks around shirtless and steals fries from your plate and calls you “babe” just to watch your reaction, it was different.

But now? Immunity.

Mostly.

It’s easy with him, always has been. Closeness that doesn’t need explanation. No boundaries, because you don’t need them. Not when you’ve seen each other through every version of a day.

He sits beside you at the counter instead of across, thigh brushing yours like it’s second nature.

Because it is.

***

“You know,” you say, pushing the cart down the cereal aisle, “you could just admit you have the taste buds of a hyperactive child.”

Wooyoung gasps, dramatically offended as he holds up a neon box of chocolate puffs. “This is not childish. This is elite. You wouldn’t understand the depth of this flavor profile.”

Grocery shopping with Wooyoung is basically a weekly ritual at this point. Not because you can’t go alone, but because he insists on it. Claims you’d forget half the list and come back with snacks and nothing else. Which, to be fair, is kind of true.

You’re halfway through the cereal aisle, walking behind the cart as Wooyoung wanders a few feet ahead, eyes locked on the shelf like he’s making a life-or-death decision between sugary clusters or chocolate swirls.

He’s in his element, mumbling ingredients under his breath, holding one box up to the light like he’s reading ancient scrolls. You smile to yourself, letting him do his thing as you slow down, scanning your phone for the rest of your shared grocery list.

And then, just your luck, you hear it.

“Oh my god, Y/N?”

You look up too slowly.

Hana.

You turn, putting on the most polite expression you can muster as she approaches, all bright eyes and perfect hair and the same aggressive enthusiasm she used to bring to Monday morning staff meetings.

“Hana,” you say, trying to sound surprised instead of resigned. “Wow. Hi.”

“I thought that was you! Oh my god, it’s been what, like, forever? You look so… Anyways, it’s so good to see you!” She eyes you, then glances down into your cart before you can respond. “Frozen dumplings, instant rice, oh my god I love those snacks, they’re so bad but soooo addictive, right? Wait-, this kimchi brand is the worst. You should try the one from Jihyun’s Market across town. It’s organic.”

You blink. “I... like this one.”

“Sure, sure. I mean, I just think it’s better to be picky with fermented stuff, you know? Especially when you’re eating it alone.”

You don’t answer right away. She doesn’t wait.

“Gosh, how are you? I remember how you were always the chill one at work. So responsible. So put together. Like, you were always the single one! We called you "The Independent Icon" behind your back. Not in a mean way!”

You hadn’t planned on staying single forever. But a few years ago, your boyfriend cheated on you while he was on vacation, called you from the airport like it was no big deal. After that, you decided you were done. No dating for a while, no more risks. It was easier to be alone than to be blindsided again. Eventually, people stopped asking. Then they started assuming.

Your stomach twists. You glance down the aisle. Wooyoung is still several feet away, crouched in front of a lower shelf now, examining cereal boxes like he’s an art critic. Totally out of earshot.

“Oh, I didn’t know people talked about that,” you say, trying to keep your tone neutral.

Hana waves a hand. “Only in admiration, really. I mean, you’ve never brought a guy to any of our dinners. I think Minji even thought you were secretly dating a girl for a while, totally cool if you are! No judgment! But I told her, no way. Y/N is just focused. Did I tell you I got married, by the way? I don’t think you ever met my husband. We got married last year, tiny ceremony, super last minute. Here-, he’s gonna kill me for showing this, but look how ridiculous he looks in this suit.”

She pulls out her phone, swipes once, then holds it up to you.

You freeze.

You know that face.

The sharp jawline. The dimple on his left cheek. The same stupid smile he had when he came back from that trip and told you, casually, like it was weather, that he’d slept with someone else. “It didn’t mean anything,” he said, “we were just having a rough patch, right?”

Your stomach drops.

“That’s him,” Hana says proudly. “Total goofball, but he’s the best. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d find someone like him. But don’t worry, you’ll find someone too some day!”

Hana is still talking but her words blur.

You could say nothing. You could just smile, nod, and escape with your overpriced kimchi and frozen dumplings. But you nod slowly, eyes darting to the end of the aisle again. Suddenly, you hear yourself say, voice too quick and too loud:

“Actually, I’m dating someone.”

Hana’s brows lift. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah.” You point down the aisle.

She turns.

Wooyoung, still crouched, is now reading the back of a cereal box, completely oblivious to your social spiral.

“Oh?” Hana’s eyes are practically sparkling now, thrilled by this newfound information. “Look at you! I know you had it in you!” she says, nudging your arm. “You have to bring him to dinner. We’re doing a little couples night this Friday. Just a few of us from work, old and new. Minji’s coming, and Jihyun, and my husband’s inviting one of his coworkers and their girlfriend. You two should come!”

You hesitate, already internally spiraling. “Oh, I don’t know-”

“Come on! It’ll be fun. I need someone there who doesn’t talk about babies every ten seconds. Please.”

She’s already taking your nod as confirmation before you’ve fully given it. “Perfect! I’ll text you the details, I still have your number. You better show up.”

Just as she’s about to walk away, Wooyoung returns, holding two cereal boxes and strolling up casually.

Hana’s face lights up again. “See you soon!” she says brightly to him, giving you both a final little wave before disappearing around the corner.

Wooyoung blinks after her, then looks at you, eyebrows raised. “...Why do I feel like I just missed something deeply important?”

You stare at him, trying to decide where to begin.

He holds up the cereal boxes, undeterred. “Okay. Fruity Loops or Cinnamon Sugar Swirls. One has slightly fewer chemicals. I won’t say which.”

You inhale slowly, exhale even slower. “So, remember when you left me alone for two minutes?”

“Tragically, yes.”

“Well… in those two minutes, I may have… sort of… told someone we’re dating.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Wooyoung blinks. “You what?”

You gesture weakly down the aisle. “That was Hana. Old coworker. She’s always been weirdly obsessed with the fact that I’m single. She was doing her usual thing, and I panicked, and I pointed at you, and now she thinks we’re together, and- surprise! We’re going to a couples dinner on Friday.”

Wooyoung looks at you. Then at the cereal. Then back at you.

And then he grins.

Like really grins.

“Oh my God,” he says, eyes wide with delight. “This is amazing.”

“Wooyoung.”

“We’re fake dating? We’re doing the thing? Like the romcoms?”

You press a hand to your face. “It gets worse.”

His grin somehow grows. “I’m listening.”

“She’s married to my ex.”

Wooyoung blinks. “The ex?”

You nod. “She showed me a wedding photo. It’s him. The one who cheated on me while he was on vacation. The reason I swore off dating for like, three years.”

Wooyoung’s jaw drops, then slowly morphs into something almost unhinged with glee.

“Oh my God,” he breathes. “This is so much better than I thought.”

“Why are you happy?”

“Because,” he says, absolutely glowing, “I get to sit across from the guy who cheated on my best friend and pretend to be the hot, attentive boyfriend who’s so in love with her he’d die for her. I’m going to be so annoying. I’m going to feed you food.”

“Wooyoung.”

“I’m going to wipe sauce off your mouth. I’m going to put my arm around your chair. I’m going to call you baby in front of him.”

You groan. “This is going to kill me.”

“This is going to heal you,” he says. “You know what, this counts for both of the cereals. Sweet childhood nostalgia and the one that turns milk radioactive pink.” He throws the cereals into the cart with dramatic flair. “This is the best grocery trip of my life.”

***

Friday morning

He’s already in the kitchen when you shuffle in, still half-asleep, arms wrapped around yourself. The smell of eggs and butter greets you first.

“Good morning, my beautiful fake girlfriend!” he beams.

You groan. “Please don’t start.”

“Too late,” he sings, doing a dramatic spin with the spatula. “Do you want toast with your lies or just plain guilt?”

You drop your head onto the counter with a sigh. “I’m not built for this level of energy before caffeine.”

He slides a mug your way, your mug, with your preferred coffee, made just right. “I knew you’d be a flight risk this morning.”

You mutter a thank-you and take a long sip. It helps. But not enough.

“I think I’m panicking,” you say into the mug.

He sets your breakfast in front of you and leans on the counter across from where you sit. “Hey. We’ve got this. All we have to do is show up, eat some overpriced cheese cubes, pretend we’re madly in love, make your ex suffer for being the biggest asshole known to man, and leave. Easy.”

“Madly in love,” you echo flatly.

“Yes, madly.” His smile grows. “Madly, stupidly in love. To the point where your ex is going to regret every single life choice he made after cheating on you. And enough to make Hana go, ‘oh wow, they’re so cute, maybe I am a terrible friend for shaming her for being single for the entire time I’ve known her.’”

You blink. “You really hate him, don’t you?”

“I’ve never even met him and I already hope he has the biggest receding hairline I’ve ever seen.”

You can’t help but laugh.

“And besides,” he adds, stealing a bite of your toast, “we got chemistry.”

You make a face.

“We do, though. We’re best friends. We’re comfortable. We finish each other’s-”

“Don’t.”

“-sentences.”

You hurl a piece of toast crust at him. He dodges it with a smirk.

But he’s right. You are comfortable. You already know what shirt he’s going to wear tonight and that he’s going to pretend he didn’t plan it. You know he’s going to be charming and make everyone laugh and completely forget he’s pretending.

And that’s the part that begins to make your stomach twist.

The day goes faster than you anticipated, and before you know it, you’re both getting ready for the dinner.

You’re halfway through checking your bag for the fourth time when he walks out of his room, and everything in you stills.

He’s adjusting the sleeves of his black button-down, casually rolling them up past his elbows. He tucks his phone into his back pocket, grabs a bottle of wine off the counter. He’s talking, saying something about the wine in his hands, but you don’t hear a word.

Because damn. He looks good.

His black hair is styled a little messier than usual, in that perfectly undone way that probably took way too much effort. He’s tucked his shirt into dark slacks that fit just right, and he’s wearing that silver chain he only brings out for “important” nights.

Like fake dates, apparently.

And the worst part? He doesn’t even look like he’s trying. He looks like this is just how he always looks. Like he doesn’t know that he’s the kind of guy women cross sidewalks for just to sneak a better glance.

And you should be used to that. You live with him. You see him fresh out of bed, half-asleep, shirtless and in the same ratty sweats every Sunday. But this is different.

You recover fast, mutter something closer to sounds than actual words and spin on your heel toward the bathroom.

You need a second. Maybe two.

You close the door behind you and lean against it, willing your heart to calm down. It's just Wooyoung. Your best friend. Your roommate. Your fake boyfriend for the night. Nothing to get flustered over.

You run a hand down your dress, fix your lipstick, try not to think about how the curve of his smile made your stomach flutter.

Then, without a sound, the door cracks open.

He leans casually against the doorframe, watching you through the reflection. “Hey.”

Your eyes meet in the mirror, and for a second, you forget what you’re doing, because his gaze isn’t neutral.

It drops. Lingers.

Slides down the line of your black dress, the way it hugs your hips, the bare skin of your shoulders. It’s not crude, not obvious, but you can feel it. Like a slow drag of heat over your body.

You blink. “You’re not allowed to just come in here.”

“I knocked.”

You glare.

He lifts his hands, innocent. “You just didn’t hear it. Selective hearing, maybe.”

You roll your eyes, but he doesn’t move. Just stay there, eyes trailing from your hair to your lips to the way you’re fidgeting with your rings.

“What’s up?” you ask, voice soft.

He tilts his head slightly, smile tugging at one side of his mouth. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Funny,” he deadpans. Then after a beat, “I was wondering how much of a boyfriend I’m allowed to be tonight.”

Your stomach tightens.

He says it lightly, but there’s something in his voice, something teasing, but slower. More deliberate.

You meet his gaze in the mirror again. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he says, stepping a little further into the room, “can I hold your hand? Whisper something in your ear if it gets boring? Pull you in when he’s watching?”

You swallow. He’s close now, not too close, but close enough that the air feels warmer.

“Or maybe,” he continues, eyes flicking to your lips just for a second, “kiss your cheek. You know. If it feels natural. Just enough to make him wonder.” There’s something electric in his voice now, light, amused, but edged with something darker. He smiles, wider this time, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Actually… can I make your ex jealous as fuck? Is that allowed?”

“What do you want to do?” you ask, your voice quieter than you mean it to be.

“I mean… if you give me even a little room to play…” He leans in, just slightly, not touching. “I swear I’ll ruin his whole fucking night.”

You’re still staring when he backs away, grin wide, eyes too pleased.

“No pressure," he says, putting both of his hands up, he smiles again, but this time it’s softer. “I’ll do whatever makes you feel comfortable.”

Your mouth is dry.

“Do whatever you want,” you manage. “Just… don’t be weird.”

He grins. “I make no promises”

You’re smiling, even as you turn away to grab your perfume, trying not to let him see how warm your cheeks are.

And as he walks out, he says it over his shoulder.

“You didn’t say no to the kiss.”

***

The knock sounds louder than you expect. You suddenly feel overdressed, underprepared, and painfully aware of the fact that your hand is linked with Wooyoung’s.

You didn’t mean to hold hands.

It just sort of… happened. One second you were adjusting your sleeve, the next his fingers found yours, no hesitation, like they’d done it a thousand times. And now it’s too late to pull away without it being weird.

“Y/N! Oh my god, finally! Come in!” Hana screams as she opens the door. You’re barely stepping inside when she notices the man next to you, her eyes widening. “And this is…?”

“Wooyoung,” he says smoothly, offering the wine bottle with both charm and ease. “Nice to meet you.”

Hana takes it with a delighted hum, already ushering you both inside. You barely get a foot in before her voice lifts again. “Babe, come meet my old co-worker!”

And there he is.

Standing a few steps inside the hallway, one hand curled loosely around a drink. He turns at the sound and freezes. Just for a second, quick enough to pass for nothing, but not to you. You see it. His eyes widen slightly, and something flickers across his face. Confusion. Surprise. Like he wasn’t told. Like he wasn’t ready.

But you smile, smooth and pleasant. Step forward, extend your hand like you’ve never seen him before in your life.

“Hi,” you say. “Nice to meet you.”

You smile like it’s nothing. Like you don’t know him. Like he’s just another name you’ll forget by morning. There’s the barest pause before he sets the glass down and shakes your hand. “Yeah,” he says, guarded, eyes flicking to Wooyoung. “You too.”

Before you can say anything, Wooyoung steps forward smoothly, hand outstretched, “Hi,” he says, voice warm and a little too cheerful. “I’m Wooyoung. Her boyfriend.”

There’s a pause. One breath too long. Your ex shifts, not quite hiding the way his eyes flick to your still-joined hands.

“…Right,” he says finally, taking Wooyoung’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Hana, being the overly-excited host that she is, smiles at the situation. “Everyone’s in the kitchen. Come on, we’re just doing drinks and snacks before dinner.”

You glance toward the kitchen, grateful for the distraction, but not before you feel Wooyoung’s hand press gently against your lower back, guiding you forward.

As if to say: I’ve got you.

But also…

Watch me work.

The house is warm and golden-lit, filled with soft music and the quiet sounds of people mingling. Laughter drifts from the back, layered over the clink of glasses and the sizzle of something on the stove.

The kitchen is full, couples leaning against counters, clustered near the island, perched on stools. Everyone looks up when you enter, and Hana claps her hands once. “Everyone, this is Y/N and her boyfriend, Wooyoung.”

You swear the word echoes for a second. Boyfriend.

Wooyoung just nods with a relaxed smile, greeting the group like he’s done this a hundred times. He’s introduced to a few of the guys first, and within a minute he’s already laughing at something, fully immersed in conversation.

You hang back, trying not to fidget, trying to ignore how good he looks tonight, sleeves rolled, watch glinting, hair pushed back perfectly like he didn’t even try. And then, as if on cue, Hana pipes up from across the room, tossing the words over her shoulder like they’re harmless.

“I still can’t believe Y/N’s in a relationship now,” she says brightly, like it’s a funny little update. “I didn’t believe it at first, Y/N in a relationship? We all thought she was allergic to commitment!”

There’s a few laughs, light, not cruel. The kind of laugh that happens when people think they’re in on something. The moment the words leave Hana’s mouth, your ex looks up. His expression flickers with a hint of surprise.

You open your mouth, unsure what to say. But before you can speak, Wooyoung cuts in. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t even look particularly bothered. He just glances over at Hana with an easy, almost lazy kind of smile.

“If loving her is a commitment, then it’s the easiest type of commitment I’ve ever made.”

You blink.

Your ex doesn’t say anything. His lips press into a tight line, but his eyes narrow further, jaw clenching slightly as he watches Wooyoung.

But Wooyoung’s gaze never shifts away from you, his hand finding yours again, linking your fingers effortlessly. His smile is small, but there’s a touch of pride behind it. He’s enjoying this.

The women smile. A couple guys glance over like damn. And Hana? She laughs, charmed. “Wow, okay. You’re already winning points.”

You try to smile like your heart didn’t just skip an entire beat.

Hana insists on giving you and Wooyoung a quick tour before dinner. “It’s not huge,” she says, with a laugh that’s anything but modest. “We just really wanted something simple but tasteful. Natural light was a must. You know how it is.”

Wooyoung nods beside you like he deeply, deeply understands the weight of natural light, and you catch the subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“And this-” Hana gestures grandly as she opens a set of double doors. “This is my favorite room. The light in here at golden hour? Unreal. We had the cushions custom made to match the ceiling beams. And the books are mostly for decoration, but it kind of gives the right mood, don’t you think?”

You nod along politely, half-listening, while Wooyoung leans down slightly, his voice warm and low against your ear.

“Do you think if I mention natural light three more times, we unlock a secret level of the tour?”

Your breath hitches with a soft laugh, and before you can stop yourself, you tilt your head slightly toward him, shoulder brushing his chest. His smile lingers like he’s proud of himself, but there’s something else behind it too, something quieter. The way your face lights up when you laugh, how you don’t pull away. It flickers in his chest and sits there, unexpected.

His hand lingers a little longer at the small of your back as you follow Hana to the next room.

The dinner table is lively, plates are passed around, and glasses are filled as casual conversation flows. Across the table, your ex is quiet. He hasn’t said much all night, just observed. His smile is polite, his presence steady, but you can feel his gaze on you every now and then, especially when Wooyoung leans in to refill your glass or casually touches your wrist while talking.

The group is in a comfortable rhythm, and just as you're about to take a bite of your food, one of the guests leans back in their chair with a curious smile.

“So how did you two meet each other?”

You freeze, your mind racing. And across from you, you swear you see your ex stiffen slightly, eyes narrowing just the tiniest bit.

Wooyoung notices immediately.

He smiles at you, that teasing, mischievous look in his eyes as he leans forward, taking the cue. He opens his mouth, and suddenly, his voice fills the room. Smooth, charming, and effortlessly natural.

"Oh, this one’s my favorite story," he says, his voice warm and playful, his eyes lighting up as if he's about to tell the most incredible tale.

He pauses for dramatic effect, glancing at you, making sure you’re paying attention. You give him a quick nod, still unsure of where he’s going with this.

“It was one of those nights you’re not even supposed to go out, you know? I almost canceled.” He lets out a soft laugh, glancing at you. “But then she walked in.”

Everyone leans in slightly, curious.

“She wasn’t supposed to be there either, actually. Our friend had to convince her. She was tired, had a long week,” He looks at you briefly, as if asking permission with his eyes, but his smile says he already knows you’ll let him go on.

“She came in late, a little out of breath, tucking her hair behind her ear, apologizing even though no one noticed. And I swear-” He leans back, that crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “-the second I saw her, I forgot what I was saying mid-sentence. Just totally lost it. My friend thought I was choking on my drink.”

Soft laughter bubbles around the table. Your cheeks warm.

“She sat right across from me, and I swear I didn’t hear a single thing anyone else said the whole night. I spent the night trying to make her laugh.”

It’s smooth, too smooth, but his tone is light, playful, like he’s just telling a fond memory, not spinning an elaborate lie. He continues, eyes sparkling.

“I asked for her number before we left, and she said no.”

A small gasp comes from someone at the table, and Wooyoung grins like he’s telling a bedtime story.

“She said I seemed like the kind of guy who flirts with everyone.” More laughter. Wooyoung presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Which-, okay, fair. But I wasn't flirting with her… or maybe I was, but I just wanted to keep talking to her. So I said, ‘If she doesn’t want to give it to me, fine, I’ll earn it.’ And I kept showing up whenever our friend invited people out. I'd always make sure to sit next to her. Always brought something small. Coffee, gum, dumb stuff, just to have an excuse to talk.”

He looks at you then. Really looks at you.

“And eventually… she let me walk her home.”

Someone lets out a little aww.

“I didn’t try anything,” he adds. “I just wanted to stretch out the moment as long as I could. I think we stood outside her door for half an hour just talking. I memorized the color of her front light. The chipped tile on her step. Her laugh.”

The table is completely silent.

“And the next time?” His smile curves wider. “She kissed me first. Which I will never let her forget.”

The table is enchanted.

For a moment after Wooyoung finishes, there’s a soft, stunned silence, like everyone’s holding their breath without realizing it. Then:

“Oh my God,” someone breathes.

The woman across from you nudges her partner. “You never chased me like that.”

“You didn’t run,” he deadpans.

“So you’re telling me you saw her once and just knew?” another friend adds, reaching for more wine.

“I told our mutual friend to introduce us, and he said ‘don’t bother.’” He stretches his arm along the back of your chair, fingers lightly brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. “So obviously I did the exact opposite.”

The table erupts with laughter. Real, full, warm.

“God, that sounds so like you,” Hana laughs, sending you a playful glance.

Laughter bubbles around the table, easy and entertained.

But not from everyone.

Across the table, your ex’s grip on his fork tightens, just for a moment. Not dramatic, not enough to draw attention from anyone else, but you see it. The twitch in his jaw. The way he shifts back in his chair like he needs space to breathe.

Wooyoung leans in slightly, hand still resting lightly behind your neck now, fingers brushing just enough to make it look natural. Intimate.

“And when she finally said yes,” he adds, voice lower now, more deliberate, “I knew I wasn’t gonna let her go.”

Your chest tightens.

The air feels heavier.

Meanwhile, you’re frozen in place, staring at your wine glass, heart racing as if you lived every second of that made-up story. You catch someone across the table watching you with a knowing smile, clearly convinced you're the luckiest girl alive.

And for a second, just one, you almost believe it too.

The rest of the dinner unfolds like a well-rehearsed play. Light laughter, wine refills, soft clinks of cutlery against porcelain. Conversation drifts easily between the couples, like they’ve all known each other forever, even if some only met tonight. And somehow, you and Wooyoung fall into it without trying.

After the dinner, the buzz of conversation in the living room fades as you step quietly down the hallway toward the bathroom. You need a second to breathe, just a minute alone after everything that’s happened tonight.

You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it for a moment, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Wooyoung’s charming story about how you met still lingers in your mind, and the way everyone seemed so enchanted by him... it felt like something out of a movie. It had been easy to get swept up in it all, even though it was completely fabricated.

After a few moments, you open the bathroom door and nearly jump out of your skin.

Wooyoung is standing right there in the hallway, hands in his pockets like he’s just been casually waiting. His gaze flicks up to meet yours immediately, and a slow, knowing smile pulls at his lips.

He doesn’t say anything right away, just leans his shoulder against the doorframe, arms now crossed, like he’s settling in.

You swallow hard. “You scared me.”

“Did I?” His voice is low, soft. Like a secret passed between friends. “Sorry. You just disappeared.”

“I needed a second. Too many couples,” you say, attempting a light laugh that comes out a bit thin. “Too much… love.”

“So?” he murmurs beside you. “How am I doing?”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised.

“The fake boyfriend thing,” he adds with a sly grin. “Convincing enough for you?”

You shrug, but your smile gives you away. “I’ve seen worse performances.”

“Cold,” he mutters, holding a hand over his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Here I am, carrying the entire romance on my back.”

You laugh quietly, then shake your head, your voice dropping again. “Honestly, I think everyone at the table wants to date you now.”

“Jealous?” he says, all teeth and sparkle, but his voice is soft, teasing rather than cocky.

You roll your eyes, even as your stomach flips. “Please.”

Then he tilts his head, studying you. His tone shifts, still playful, but quieter. “You know, you’re still a little pink.”

You blink. “What?”

“Your cheeks,” he says, nodding toward them. “Blushing. Again.”

You cross your arms instinctively, heart picking up pace. “I’m not.”

“You are,” he whispers. He leans a little closer. “It’s kinda cute.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re insufferable,” you whisper, smiling despite yourself.

“And you’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

The moment hangs, just a little too long. You’re standing in the dim hallway, lights soft, voices muffled behind walls, and he’s looking at you like this is his favorite part of the night.

You clear your throat, trying to reset something in the air. “We should go back.”

“Yeah,” he says, straightening slowly. “Before someone thinks we’re sneaking off to make out.”

Wooyoung straightens just a little, the moment sliding away like water off skin. He gives you one last glance, a wink for good measure, then turns and walks toward the others. That leaves you standing in the hallway, heart racing, wondering why his lazy confidence always makes it hard to tell when he’s joking and when he isn’t.

You follow behind, still feeling the blush he called out.

You offer to help Hana out in the kitchen. Wooyoung is busy winning everybody’s hearts with his charm, so you aren’t concerned about him.

You rinse off a plate, hands moving on autopilot as you stack it neatly on the drying rack. Hana leans against the counter beside you, sipping the last of her wine, her smile still painted on from dinner. “Seriously though,” she says, nudging your hip with hers, “I wasn’t expecting you to show up with someone like that.”

You huff a laugh. “Like what?”

“Like… funny. Hot. Charismatic. The way he talks about you?” She raises a brow. “Unreal.”

You smile, tight-lipped. “Yeah. He’s something.”

“I mean…” She grins. “You glow around him. It’s wild. Like, he looks at you like he’s already picking out your wedding venue.”

You laugh, quiet, awkward. “He’s just… sweet.”

Hana raises her brows. “He’s obsessed. In a good way.” She tilts her head toward the hallway. “I’m gonna go grab the wine opener. Don’t let me forget it again. Be back in a sec.”

The back door clicks shut behind her, and silence settles again. It’s nice for a moment, just you, the clink of cutlery, the steam from the sink. You keep washing dishes, grateful for the moment alone.

But it doesn’t last.

You hear movement behind you. Slow. Hesitant.

You turn your head and freeze.

It’s him.

Your ex.

He stands just past the threshold, hands in his pockets, gaze locked on you. He steps in without saying anything at first. Just lingers a little too close to the kitchen island, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to figure out what he’s seeing.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says.

You dry your hands on a towel, steadying yourself. “Clearly.”

He takes a step in. Not too close, but enough to unsettle you.

His eyes flick around the room, then land back on you. “You look good.”

You sigh quietly, turning back to the sink. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m just saying.”

Another beat.

You hear him shift again, leaning slightly against the island behind you. You can feel his eyes on your back.

“That guy,” he says finally. “The one who came with you. Wooyoung.”

You don’t look at him. “What about him?”

He hesitates. Then, carefully: “Are you two… serious?”

You pause, then shrug. “That’s none of your business.”

He lets out a low breath. “So that’s a yes.”

You turn slowly, facing him now. “Why are you here, really?”

“In my own house?”

“No,” you say. “Why are you in this kitchen, right now?”

He stares at you. Silent.

“I fucked up,” he blurts, “Okay? I know I did. I’ve been thinking about it since-”

“Don’t,” you snap, but still keeping your voice down so the rest of the party won't hear. “You don’t get to come here, pretend we’re still something, and then act surprised that I moved on. You’re married.”

His mouth opens, then closes. He looks at you like you’ve just hit him.

“You moved on?” he repeats, like the words are bitter on his tongue. “With him?”

You step back. “You don’t know him.”

He scoffs. “I might not, but I can still see how insufferable he is.”

You stare at him, lips parted in disbelief. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.”

He takes another step forward, eyes sharper now. “I just don’t get it. After everything-”

“No,” you say firmly, holding your hand up. “You don’t get anything. You lost the right to have an opinion the second you slept with someone else.”

There’s a beat of silence. Your heart pounds in your ears.

And then…

“Everything okay in here?” Wooyoung’s voice is cold. Threatening almost.

You don’t need to look. You feel it, the air shifting, the way the atmosphere bends around his presence. But you still turn your head. And it steadies you instantly.

He’s leaning in the doorway. One hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks, the other hanging loose at his side. His posture is relaxed. His expression? Somewhere between nonchalance and interest.

But his eyes?

They’re fixed on your ex.

And they could kill.

Your ex straightens, caught off guard. “Uh-, yeah. We were just-”

Wooyoung steps fully into the room like he’s walking through water, unconcerned by the tension that’s thick enough to drown in. He nods once, a polite gesture with razor edges, then glances at you.

His voice lowers. Smooth, velvety. Unmistakably his.

“You okay, baby?”

The pet name slips out effortlessly. Like it belongs there. Like you belong to him. Then he closes the space between you and him, his hand brushing the small of your back with casual ownership.

Your breath stutters. “I’m fine.”

His gaze lingers on your ex, sharp enough to make the air hum.

“Then I’ll ask one more time,” he murmurs, voice dipped in steel, eyes locked on your ex. “Is there a problem?”

Your ex lets out a quiet scoff, trying to play it cool. “No problem at all.”

Wooyoung breathes in once, slow.

“Then I’ll make this simple,” he says, softly now. Dangerous soft. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.” He tilts his head, the barest shift of muscle. His smile is slight, almost gentle, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “If not…” His jaw tightens just once. “Walk away before you make me repeat myself.”

Your ex doesn’t speak again. Doesn’t look at you. Just leaves.

And Wooyoung watches every step. Tracks him with the kind of gaze that doesn’t flinch. It says everything he hasn’t:

Try it again. I dare you.

When it’s just the two of you again, Wooyoung’s fingers trace your spine once, barely there. A silent check-in.

Then, slowly, his focus shifts. Back to you.

His voice drops. Low. Controlled.

“You okay?”

You nod once, but it’s tight. Too tight. And he sees it.

His brows pinch just slightly. “Did he say something?”

“No,” you whisper, and it’s true, mostly. “He was just… being him.”

Wooyoung exhales slowly through his nose, jaw clenching. Like he’s trying not to say something that would ruin the whole night. But then he looks at you, really looks at you, and something in him softens. Just a little.

His hand slides from your back to your waist, anchoring you close. He studies your face for a moment, like he’s not fully convinced, but then he exhales and gives a small nod back.

“I didn’t want to step in too early,” he says, voice soft now. “You looked like you had it under control. You did.”

There’s something warm in your chest at that, that he trusted you to hold your own.

You meet his eyes.

He’s not angry.

He’s present.

“I know you don’t need anyone to defend you,” he says, quieter now. “But I’m here. If you ever want me to.”

That part lingers. A gentle offering.

You smile faintly. “Thanks.”

He leans just a little closer, his voice dipping like he doesn’t want to be overheard, even by the walls, and something wicked flickers at the corner of his mouth. “Guess I’ll have to make it clearer you’re taken.”

Your heart skips a beat.

His hand gives your waist the faintest squeeze, not possessive, just sure. Then he straightens up, tone lighter, a glint in his eye as he teases, “You ready to go back out there, or should we hide out in here a little longer?”

You smile. “Let’s go.”

Wooyoung laces his fingers with yours as you step out of the kitchen. He doesn’t say much. Just keeps his hand on you, sometimes at your back, sometimes curled around your fingers, like he doesn’t trust the room not to try and touch you.

The energy around him simmers low. Controlled. Patient.

But it’s there.

You feel it in the way his gaze lingers a little too long when you make eye contact The way his thumb brushes your skin when you pass your ex. Like a fuse waiting for flame.

The evening moves on. Laughter. Drinks. Music humming low in the background. But that energy never leaves him.

Then, after another drink, his palm slides against your waist as he leans in, murmuring just low enough for only you to hear. “Come outside with me for a sec?”

You glance up, surprised by the quiet invitation, but nod. “Yeah. Okay."

He takes your hand and leads you through the back door, into the cool hush of the backyard. String lights sway gently above. A few scattered chairs dot the patio, mostly empty.

He pulls you just far enough into the yard that you’re framed under the golden light, a sight impossible to miss. Then he stops just enough to pull you in close, his hands resting firmly on your waist. His breath brushes your neck as he leans in, voice low and a little teasing.

“Do you trust me?”

You meet his gaze, smiling without hesitation, but a little confused. “Of course.”

But before you can say anything more, he leans in, no warning, no hesitation, and his mouth finds your neck.

Slow. Deliberate. Unapologetically possessive.

His grip on your waist tightens, firm and grounding, like he's anchoring himself to you, or maybe keeping you exactly where he wants you.

Your fingers twitch, aching to clutch at his shirt, his shoulders, anything. But he doesn’t stop. His mouth keeps moving, tongue flicking, lips parting as he sucks softly at the spot just above your collarbone, lazy, indulgent, filthy in how intimate it feels.

You gasp, hips tilting forward instinctively, heat already pooling low and heavy in your belly. He doesn’t miss it, he hums against your throat like he felt it happen.

Wooyoung pulls back just enough to murmur, voice thick and close to your ear, “You weren’t expecting that, huh?”

His tone is teasing, pleased, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Then he leans back in, grazing your neck again, his nose brushing over the same spot he just kissed.

“Fake boyfriend of the year, right?” he adds, a low smirk in his voice.

It pulls a laugh from you, too real, too soft, and he chuckles under his breath like he lives for the sound.

And then he looks up.

Over your shoulder.

Still smiling.

You don’t turn. You don’t even realize why his gaze has sharpened. But Wooyoung knows. He’s known from the moment he stepped outside.

“Oh, hey,” he says, just loud enough, like the thought only now occurred to him. “Didn’t see you there.”

You blink, startled, then turn.

And there he is.

Your ex is sitting in the far corner of the backyard, posture stiff, one hand loosely holding a glass of something amber that he’s no longer drinking. He’s been watching, long enough, clearly. His eyes flick from your face to where Wooyoung’s hand rests against your hip like it was made to be there. His mouth is drawn in a line so tight it might split.

He’d been watching.

Wooyoung's arm wraps a little tighter around your waist. Not possessive. Not aggressive. Just… secure. Like he has every right to hold you like this. Like he dares anyone to question it.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Wooyoung says, cool and lazy.

Your ex stares, jaw tight.

Wooyoung doesn’t wait. His posture is casual, but there’s a glint in his eye that betrays him, too amused, too at-ease.

“Nice night, isn’t it?” he adds, like it’s nothing. “Stars out. Music inside. My girl tastes like sangria. Hard to complain.”

You stiffen slightly, but Wooyoung doesn’t flinch. He’s still smiling faintly, watching you with that unbothered, pretty-boy charm that somehow makes everything worse.

Your ex lifts his drink and mutters, “Some of us came out here to be alone.”

Wooyoung cocks his head. “Oh, totally fair. Should’ve said something.”

There’s a beat of silence, sharp enough to cut through. But he doesn’t move. He stays planted right there beside you, hand still snug on your waist like it belongs there.

Then he blinks, as if struck by a thought.

“Oh-, wait,” he says, voice still sweet. “You want us back inside?” He huffs a quiet laugh, almost apologetic. “Damn. That’s on me.”

Your ex sets his glass down with a soft clink on the stone railing. “You always this annoying?”

Wooyoung grins. “Only when I’m in a good mood.”

“Y/N! Wooyoung!”

Hana bursts out, loud and glowing, wine glass in one hand, joy practically spilling out of her. Her eyes land on you both and she lights up like the fourth of July.

“Oh my God, there you are!” she grins. “I was about to come get you, everyone keeps asking where the hot couple went!”

You see your ex stiffen. Wooyoung’s smile stretches.

“Hot couple,” he echoes, biting back a laugh.

Hana gasps dramatically. “Don’t act shy now! You two are disgusting. I love it.”

“I'm not mad about it. She’s got great taste,” Wooyoung teases with a little shrug, for a second glancing over at your ex. “Eventually.”

Your ex’s jaw tightens. He looks like he might speak.

But Wooyoung leans in one last time, whispering low into your ear, voice soft enough to make your skin spark:

"Success, baby"

He smirks before sliding his hand into yours, pulling you gently toward the house where Hana is waiting, oblivious to the tension left behind.

The night has mellowed. The lights are dim, the wine is flowing, and laughter has started to echo easier around the table. Someone’s passed around dessert, tiramisu in glass jars, and Wooyoung’s excused himself to the bathroom with that lazy, effortless vibe only he can pull off without trying. You’d felt his hand brush your shoulder as he left, and it still lingers there somehow, phantom-warm.

Hana’s had just enough wine to get bold. She sits across from you, grinning over the rim of her glass.

“Okay,” she says, loudly enough to cut across the overlapping chatter. “New question for the couples.”

The table quiets, interest piqued.

Her eyes land on you like a spotlight. “What’s your favorite physical thing about your partner?”

A few groans. Someone throws a napkin in her direction.

“Don’t roll your eyes,” she warns, laughing. “And no safe answers either. I don’t want to hear about how they ‘have a nice smile’ or ‘beautiful eyes’, everyone says that. I want the thing. The detail. The part of them that does it for you when you’re not even trying to look. The one that makes your brain short-circuit a little.”

You laugh, swallowing a little too quickly. The wine burns, and suddenly the air feels too warm.

“I’ll go last,” Hana says, clearly loving this. “Y/N, go.”

You freeze. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” Her smile is practically villainous. “He’s not even here. You can be honest.”

Everyone chuckles. The pressure thickens.

You hesitate, lips parting, unsure. Your eyes flick toward the hallway where Wooyoung disappeared. As if he might walk in just in time to save you.

But he doesn’t.

You clear your throat and say, maybe a little too honestly, “His hands.”

“Ooh,” someone says. “That’s a good one.”

You glance down at the table, fingers curling around your wine glass. “They’re just… nice,” you say, not looking up. “He moves them a lot when he talks. And they’re always doing something. Tapping, pulling at a sleeve, playing with his rings or-, whatever. Just always… moving.”

Your voice quiets as the room listens. You feel exposed, like you said something too intimate.

You don’t realize the room has fallen silent. Until it hits you that no one’s said anything back.

And then...

“I should leave more often if this is what I get to come back to.”

And Wooyoung is standing just behind you, leaning lazily against the doorway, arms crossed, one brow raised in interest.

Your breath halts.

There’s laughter again around the table, but your throat goes dry. Hana’s grinning at the perfect timing. “There he is,” she says, wiggling her brows. “Right on cue. We’re playing favorites.”

Wooyoung raises a brow. “Favorites?”

“Favorite physical thing about each other,” she explains, eyes sparkling. “And no cop-outs like smile or eyes. We’re talking the thing. The detail that ruins you. Your turn”

He chuckles under his breath, clearly amused. He doesn’t hesitate.

“Her neck.”

A beat of silence. His voice is smooth but deliberate, like the words were waiting in his mouth.

You feel your body go still.

Then he moves, slowly, stepping closer behind your chair, his hand brushing your shoulder as he comes to a stop. You’re suddenly very aware of how exposed your skin is where your top dips to your collarbone, of how warm the air feels even though he hasn’t touched you.

“She’s got this curve,” he says, quieter now, like he’s letting everyone else fade out. “Right here," His fingers trace the slope where your neck meets your shoulder, so lightly it barely counts as a touch. “Right where her hair rests.”

Then his tone shifts, warmer, quieter. Real.

“In the mornings,” he says, like he’s letting the rest of the room fall away, “when she’s still half-asleep and pulls her hair up without thinking. Stretching, yawning, no makeup, nothing, this part’s just exposed. The light hits it, and I swear to God-” He cuts himself off with a low exhale, shaking his head with a crooked smile. “It makes it really hard to be on time for anything.”

The silence that follows is a different kind of hush. Not teasing. Not performative.

It’s weighted. Personal.

Like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t making any of that up. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until he pulls back, barely.

“Plus,” he adds, a lazy grin playing on his lips, “it’s really unfair that you smell the way you do.”

“Okay, damn,” someone says from across the table, but you can’t even register who.

Wooyoung finally moves, slipping back into the seat beside you. But he doesn’t lean back, doesn’t settle into comfort like before. He sits just a little closer than he needs to. His thigh brushes yours. Warm. Steady. You don’t move.

The game rolls on, Hana gesturing to the couple across from you with a flourish, their answer met with giggles and teasing. But the background fades, soft, foggy, because you feel it. The weight of Wooyoung’s stare.

When you finally turn your head, you find him already watching you.

And everything in his face is different.

Gone is the cocky smile, the playful glint in his eye. He’s quiet now. Studying you, like he’s not sure where the line is anymore. Like maybe he doesn’t want to know.

And then, another gaze.

You catch it from the corner of your eye: your ex, sitting stiff at the far end of the table, his expression unreadable. He’s watching Wooyoung like a hawk, jaw tight, mouth set in a firm line.

Wooyoung senses it. You can feel the shift in him, the small breath he takes. The flicker of heat in his chest, like he might respond, say something, smirk just to provoke.

But he doesn’t.

Because it’s not about him anymore.

After a few more rounds of the game, you step into the hallway and let your back hit the wall with a quiet sigh. The noise from the living room still hums faintly behind you, laughter, the clink of glasses, someone shuffling a deck of cards. It’s warm in there, but your skin feels too tight. You just need a minute.

You close your eyes.

Footsteps approach, soft, familiar.

Wooyoung slips into the hallway like he’s done it a hundred times, like he always knows when you need the space. He falls in beside you, close but not crowding, his shoulder hovering just shy of yours as he leans against the wall.

“You always vanish when it gets too loud,” he says, his voice low.

You keep your eyes forward, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “I don’t vanish. I relocate.”

He hums. “Right. Into hallways. Or kitchen corners. Or that one time it was behind the couch.”

“That was one time.”

“It was still dramatic,” he teases, nudging your arm lightly. Your breath catches, just a little. It’s playful. It’s Wooyoung. But something about the way he talks makes your stomach flip.

“You look really pretty tonight.”

The words land like a spark, and your breath catches before you can help it. You blink up at him, startled.

“I-, what?”

He grins, slow and lopsided. “Just saying. I don’t think I told you earlier.”

You feel your face flush, warmth blooming across your cheeks, down your neck. You look away instantly, trying to mask it with a half-laugh.

“I’m honest,” he counters, still looking at you. You can feel it, the weight of his gaze, the way it lingers. “I mean, you always look good, but tonight…” His voice dips, softer now. “It’s kind of unfair.”

You glance away, suddenly hyperaware of how close he’s standing. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not?” he asks, leaning just slightly toward you. “Is it that hard to believe? Do I need to be faking a relationship for you to believe it?”

You don’t answer. You’re not sure you can. Your heart’s already too loud in your ears.

He nudges your arm gently. “You know, for someone who lives with me, you’re really bad at accepting compliments.”

You try to play it off. “Maybe you just give too many.”

“Mm,” he muses. “Or maybe you’re just really easy to compliment.”

You let out a breathy sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, tucking your chin down in embarrassment. “Can you not?”

You finally glance at him, and he’s already watching you with that infuriatingly unreadable look, somewhere between playful and serious. Like he’s holding back.

He doesn’t say anything else for a second. He just looks at you.

And somehow, that says more than the rest.

You try not to smile. You fail.

Wooyoung pushes himself off the wall with a lazy stretch, then turns his body to face you, effectively placing his back toward the living room.

“Come back in when you’re ready,” he says softly, his voice carrying that usual teasing warmth. “You don’t have to rush. But I’ll be on my seat, being distractingly attractive… in case that helps.”

You almost laugh, but then your eyes drift past him.

Your stomach dips.

Your ex is standing just inside the living room, half-shadowed but unmistakably watching. His expression is unreadable, his eyes sharp and fixed directly on you.

“Wait,” you breathe, reaching out without thinking.

You grab Wooyoung’s shirt and pull him a little closer. He stumbles forward a step, surprised but not resisting. His brows furrow slightly in confusion as he looks down at you.

“Do you trust me?” you ask now, your voice quieter now. There’s a tremor in it, not fear, but urgency. Purpose.

Wooyoung’s expression shifts, softening. “Yes,” he says, instantly. “Of course.”

That’s all you need.

Your hands move quickly, one sliding up to the back of his neck, the other gripping the front of his shirt. You rise onto your toes and kiss him. Firm and deliberate. Lips meeting his in a way that leaves no room for questions. His mouth parts slightly in surprise, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans in.

When you break the kiss just slightly, you don’t step back. You stay close, close enough that your lips graze his as you whisper, “He’s watchi-,”

You don’t get to finish. Wooyoung’s lips are on yours again before you even register, like they need to be. Like he doesn’t care about why you kissed him, or for who, but because he can’t stop now that you’ve let it happen.

This time it’s deeper. Hungrier.

You can’t help but deepen the kiss when he slides his tongue slightly into your mouth, and one of his hands slips down to your lower back, guiding you closer. The other lifts to your jaw, gentle but sure. l

You feel your back press lightly into the wall behind you as he moves with you, not rough, but insistent. The kind of kiss that drowns everything else out, conversation, footsteps, your ex’s presence across the room.

His lips part yours, his breath hot and heavy against your cheek between kisses. His grip tightens at your waist, grounding you. You respond instinctively, hands curling into his shirt, lips moving with his, matching every shift and tilt of his head.

It’s a performance. That’s how it started.

But it doesn’t feel like one anymore.

It feels like heat, like want, like a spark that caught fire the second you gave it permission. And he’s kissing you like he’s not planning to stop anytime soon.

And for just a second, you let yourself melt into it. Into him.

But then… it passes.

The air changes again.

You blink and glance over to the living room. Your ex is gone. Vanished back into the room. Wooyoung slows, then stops. His hands remain on you, his breath still a little uneven.

You pull back first, just enough to look at him.

His eyes are already on you. There’s something different there now, an emotion you haven’t seen from him before. Not just playfulness, not just comfort. Something heavier. Hungrier.

You force a small, awkward smile and drop your hands from his neck, stepping back just slightly. “Okay,” you say, clearing your throat. “I think that worked.”

Wooyoung doesn’t say anything for a second. He just studies you like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time. Then he nods, slow and unreadable, and finally, he smiles. But it’s not quite the same. Something about it is quieter. Almost reverent.

At the end of the night, shoes shuffle at the door. Coats rustle. The air is heavy with the kind of tired that follows too much wine and too much pretending.

“Get home safe, okay?” Hana says warmly, stepping toward you both as you’re about to leave. Her smile is soft, a little teasing. “You two are seriously adorable. Like… sickening. I love it.”

You laugh, a bit breathlessly, already halfway into your coat. But before you can say anything, Wooyoung’s arm snakes naturally around your waist, casual, confident. You feel his fingers press into your side, warm through the fabric.

“Thanks, Hana,” he says, flashing her a grin. “She keeps me in line.”

You roll your eyes and glance up at him, but the smile tugging at your lips is real, too real. “Barely,” you murmur, playing along.

His eyes flick to yours for a second. Just long enough to make your stomach twist.

Hana grins and gives you both a quick hug before stepping back into the house. “Bye, lovebirds.”

The door closes behind you.

The air outside bites cold against your skin.

And just like that, his arm drops from your waist. The performance ends.

Neither of you says a word as you walk to the curb. You don’t know if it’s the silence or the absence of his touch that makes the air feel heavier now, but it’s different.

The cab pulls up with a soft screech. He opens the door for you like always, waits for you to slide in, then follows without a word. The car is warm, too warm, and too quiet.

You're both staring straight ahead.

The streetlights flicker past, painting gold across his face. In the confined space, the silence between you buzzes, thick with something unspoken, something ignited hours ago that neither of you has dared to acknowledge.

The apartment door clicks shut behind you with a softness that feels far too loud in the quiet.

Coats are hung. Shoes are kicked off. The scent of his usual candle lingers in the air, citrus and something darker underneath. Normally comforting. Now it just makes your heart beat faster.

Wooyoung heads to the kitchen without a word. His shoulders are relaxed, but there’s something taut underneath it all. You hesitate in the hallway, watching him open the cabinet, sleeves pushed to his elbows, veins still prominent down his forearms from earlier, and you hate how you notice.

You drift into the kitchen slowly, lingering by the edge of the counter.

“So,” you offer, light and a little too bright, “that was fun, right? Peak acting performance. Someone give us Oscars.”

No answer. He fills the glass with water from the tap, moves with that same quiet ease, but doesn’t glance at you once.

You try again, a bit more playful. “Think we fooled them? I mean, your story about how we met really sold it. Ten out of ten commitment.”

He finally looks at you, just looks. And it’s a look that completely steals the breath from your chest. Calm, dark, unreadable. His eyes are locked on yours like he's waiting for you to crack first. And suddenly you're hyperaware of everything. How hot your cheeks feel, how your voice might've sounded too eager, how the silence seems to wrap around your body like a second skin.

You clear yours softly. “Anyway. Um. I’m gonna-, I think I’m just gonna head to bed.”

Still nothing from him.

You nod quickly. “Night.”

You turn, heart hammering now, and you’ve only made it a step or two down the hall when his voice floats to you, quiet, even.

“If you ever need a fake boyfriend again…”

You stop. Your fingers twitch at your side.

“…you know where to find me.”

You turn back toward him slowly. He’s still in the kitchen, leaning back against the counter, glass in hand, eyes unreadable, but fixed on you like he’s daring you to say something. To ask him what he means. To call him out.

You don’t.

You meet his gaze, and it’s only for a second, but something heavy passes between you, something weighty and unspoken that neither of you wants to name.

Then you nod.

Not a joking nod. Not one meant to brush things off. Just… quiet acknowledgement. You walk off with your heartbeat pounding in your ears, like your body knows something your mind hasn’t caught up with. You don’t look back, but you feel his eyes on you the whole way down the hall.

The door clicks softly shut behind you.

And for a long time, you just stand there in the silence of your room, pulse racing, breath held, trying to figure out what exactly that was.

You don’t even remember walking to your vanity. You’ve just been standing here, fingers curled loosely along the edge, eyes locked on your reflection like it might give you answers. But all it gives you is the echo of him. His words. His gaze. His lips on yours. The way your body reacted like it knew something you didn’t.

There’s a knock.

A soft one.

You straighten up fast, like you’re guilty of something. “Come in.”

The door creaks open behind you.

You meet his gaze through the mirror as he strolls in, easy and casual, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to be here, in your space, late at night.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you.

You manage a breath. “Not tired?”

His shoulders lift in the faintest shrug. “Not really.”

Then silence again.

But it’s not awkward, it’s thick. Charged.

“I was thinking about something,” he finally says, his voice smooth, a little playful.

You glance at him in the mirror, trying not to let your pulse jump. “Yeah? About what?”

Wooyoung pushes off the frame, making his way toward you at an unhurried pace. “You’re better at this whole fake relationship thing than you give yourself credit for.”

You attempt a shrug. “Just playing along.”

A soft laugh leaves him. “Mm. Sure.”

He walks further into the room. Not quickly. Not even directly toward you. He slows as he passes by your bed, eyes roaming lazily over the space like he’s trying to memorize it. But you know that’s not what this is.

He’s letting the silence stretch.

He’s letting you squirm.

You glance at him through the mirror, just as he finally makes his way behind you.

You don’t move.

You can’t.

He stops right behind you, not touching, but close. You keep your eyes locked on the mirror, but it’s no use. He’s everywhere now. In your space. In your breath.

“And the things you said tonight,” he says, voice soft but pointed. “Those were part of the act too?”

You try to keep your tone even. “What things?”

He tilts his head. “The part where you said you like my hands. That you stare at them when I’m not looking.”

You freeze just slightly.

"I-, uhm... I dont-..." You glance down instinctively, suddenly very aware of your own hands fidgeting.

“Funny,” he says softly, “You think I haven’t noticed? When I’m cooking. When I’m fixing something around the apartment. You always get quiet.”

His hand lifts, fingertips brushing your hair gently off your shoulder. You shiver as he lowers his voice again.

“I meant what I said, by the way,” he says. “I do love your neck.”

You don’t answer, but he doesn’t need you to.

“In the mornings,” he murmurs. “When you’re in the kitchen, still half asleep, standing by the window. Your head tilts just a little. That soft little spot here,” he gestures near your collarbone, but still doesn’t touch. “barely covered.”

You’re not breathing properly now.

“And I try,” he continues, “I really try to keep it together, but you standing there like that…? That does something to me.”

You let out a slow, shaky breath, shoulders dropping ever so slightly.

His fingers trail lightly along the back of your neck, not quite touching skin yet, but enough to make you lean into it. He steps in fully now, his hands finding your waist, and you instinctively lean back into him.

And then, finally, his mouth brushes your neck. Gentle. Slow. A teasing press that turns into something deeper. You feel the smile against your skin as he kisses again, and again, lower this time, until your knees threaten to give.

You gasp, just a little, and he smiles against your throat.

“You know,” he starts, voice casual, “if this wasn’t fake…”

Your breath hitches.

“…I would’ve done a lot of things differently tonight.”

You swallow hard. “Like what?”

He trails one finger along your side, feather-light, just enough to make you squirm.

“If this wasn’t fake…” he begins, like it’s casual, like he’s not setting you on fire, “I wouldn’t have let you leave my side once tonight. I would’ve had my hand on you the whole dinner, your thigh, your back, the curve of your hip, just to remind you who you belong to.”

Your stomach tightens.

He brushes his fingers lightly along your sides, not quite ticklish, just maddeningly slow.

“I’d bring you home,” he continues, lips nearly brushing the shell of your ear, “take your hand, lead you to your room like I’ve been waiting to all night. And I wouldn’t rush it. No pretending, no performance. Just you. Me. And the dress I’ve been dying to take off you.”

He trails his knuckles lightly down your side, slow and reverent.

“I’d unzip it real slow…”

You hear the faintest shift of fabric.

“Let it slip off your shoulders while I kissed right here…” he presses a single, feather-light kiss to the side of your neck, “and here…” another just below your ear, “until you were shivering.”

Your eyes flutter closed, and he watches your reflection like he’s memorizing the moment.

“Do you want me to stop?” he whispers just below your ear.

You’re at a loss for words but you’re hungry for more. You shake your head as you swallow, but realise how dry your mouth is. His hands slide up your sides, warm, sure, with a smile on his face.

“If it hadn't been fake, I’d press you against this vanity,” he goes on, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Make you watch as I touched every inch of your skin.”

You can’t look away from the mirror, from the image of his hands exploring you, slow and confident, like he’s known this body forever.

“I’d hold your hips right here.” His hands grip you firmly, positioning your body with ease. “And I’d make sure the only thing you remembered from tonight was how I made you feel.”

"Yeah?" you manage to say, too invested in everything he's saying.

“If this wasn’t fake…” he murmurs, his hands still on you, tracing the curve of your body as if he owns it. “I’d make you see stars. I’d fuck you right here, make you forget you were ever pretending.”

You let out a light gasp, feeling your heart in your throat.

He presses against you, his hand finding its way to your neck, just enough to make you tilt your head back, exposing more of that sensitive skin. He breathes softly against it.

“You’d be mine. I’d make sure you knew it, every fucking inch of you.”

You’re a breath away from crumbling, your chest rising and falling in rapid succession as you realize how much you want him, how easily you’re giving into the fantasy.

His lips are still close to your ear, breath warm, voice impossibly soft.

“But then again…” he murmurs, the barest smile in his tone, “this is all fake… isn’t it?”

You stiffen.

He lets out a low chuckle, his nose skimming the line of your jaw as he continues, casually cruel in the way only he can be. “None of this would actually happen. I mean, why would it?”

"Why not?" you barely let out a whisper.

His fingers drag slowly down your sides, feather-light, torturously teasing. He’s pretending to think, pretending to be thoughtful, but he knows exactly what he’s doing. “You and me, coming home after a night like that, all dressed up, all tense and wired… and me just…” His hand glides over your hips. “Peeling you out of this dress and fucking you over your vanity?”

He hums, tilting his head. “Seems a little far-fetched, don’t you think?”

You inhale sharply, your body practically trembling from restraint.

He leans in again, lips just at your neck now. “You haven’t said much,” he whispers, his hand brushing lower, just enough to make you flinch. “Should I stop?” His fingers press gently into your thighs now, possessive even in their softness. “Because we’re faking it, right?” He lets out a slow, amused breath. “And I’d hate to make things confusing.”

You swallow hard, your mouth dry, your skin flushed everywhere.

“Unless you want me to keep going,” he murmurs, eyes locking with yours in the reflection, darker now, heavy with intent. “But you’d have to say it, sweetheart.”

His fingers trail between your legs, light as a threat.

You grip the edge of the vanity with white knuckles, heart pounding in your throat. “Wooyoung…”

His hand slides up, over your stomach, between your breasts, up to your throat, never squeezing, just there. Possessive. Protective. His lips trail along your shoulder, just above the strap of your dress, while the other hand finally finds the zipper.

“I’d take you like this,” he says lowly, kissing the back of your neck. “Make you look at yourself while I ruin you, slow… deep… mine.”

Your knees nearly give out.

He presses forward just a little more, breath ragged now against your skin. “But maybe we should stop.”

You whimper, actually whimper, and shake your head.

“No, please,” you whisper, your voice breaking apart like the last wall crumbling. "Don't stop."

His hands freeze for just a moment, then he smirks, low and satisfied.

“There she is.”

His smirk deepens, wicked, triumphant. He doesn’t say a word.

Then, with deliberate force, he turns you.

Your back meets the cool edge of the vanity. Before you can fully catch your breath, his veiny hand is already on your throat, firm but careful, guiding your head back just enough to look up at him.

You gasp from the way it makes your knees go weak, the way it makes your heart stutter in your chest.

His gaze drops to your lips. Then slowly, almost torturously, he leans in, breath brushing your mouth, letting you feel the heat of it before he claims you.

The kiss is devastating. Nothing sweet. Nothing soft.

His mouth crashes into yours like he’s starved for it, tongue, teeth, everything. He takes and takes, groaning low in his throat the moment you moan against him. That tiny, helpless sound makes his fingers tighten slightly on your neck, his other hand sliding possessively down your side to your hip.

“God, you sound so pretty when you do that,” he breathes between kisses, voice wrecked.

You melt under him, into him, letting him press you back against the vanity like he wants to fuse you to it. He breaks the kiss with a growl, breath hot against your lips, then suddenly, he spins you again.

You can’t speak. You can’t think. All you can do is feel his hands on your hips, feel the way his body aligns with yours so perfectly it’s almost cruel.

“Still pretending?” he asks, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Or can I finally touch you like I’ve wanted to all fucking night?”

You nod before he even finishes the sentence. "Yes-, yes please," you whimper, hips tilting back into his, head tipping to give him more of your neck.

He chuckles under his breath.

“Thought so.”

You don’t have a chance to respond before his hands are on you again, more urgent this time. His fingers find the zipper of your dress, and he pulls it down, letting you feel every inch of his focus on you.

The dress slides off your body, pooling at your feet, and he’s quick to step back just enough to take you in. His eyes rake over you like he’s starving. You stand there, vulnerable, under his gaze, and you can’t help the way your body reacts to him. The heat between your legs intensifies, the ache in your chest growing stronger.

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes raking over you from behind. “You’re a goddamn dream.”

You gasp as he presses you into the vanity, your body trapped between the cool wood and the heat of him. His hands slide down to your thighs, pulling them apart slowly, giving him access, making sure you feel every moment of it. His voice drops to a velvet growl. “I’m gonna make you feel so fucking good, baby. Right here.” His lips press behind your ear again, “Tell me you want it,” he demands.

And you can’t hold back anymore. The tension in your body snaps, and you nod, your breath quickening. “I want it.”

He smirks, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Good girl.”

His hand presses firmly between your thighs, rubbing you through the soaked fabric with just enough pressure to make your legs weaken beneath you.

He chuckles against your skin when he feels you tremble. “Already this wet for me, baby?”

You nod helplessly, and his free hand slides up your back, tangling in your hair, pulling your head to the side to expose more of your neck.

His teeth graze your pulse point, and you moan again, louder this time. "Look in the mirror as I touch you."

Your breath stutters, lashes fluttering as your gaze locks on the reflection. “Fuck, Wooyoung…” you whisper, already unsteady, your thighs trembling under his stare alone.

Then, with no warning, he hooks a finger in the waistband of your panties and drags them down your thighs, letting them fall. Cool air brushes against your wetness, and your whole body jolts in response.

“Jesus-” you exhale, shivering.

His fingers slide through your slick folds, slow and deliberate, just enough pressure to make you twitch. You moan, sharp and helpless, eyes fluttering closed for a second until he tuts softly beside your ear.

“Eyes open, sweetheart. I said look.”

You obey, forcing your eyes to the mirror again, and the sight of you, glowing, needy, lips parted, legs trembling, draws a sound from deep in your throat.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, kissing just below your ear. “Let me take care of you.”

Then, he pushes in, just one finger at first, thick and deliberate. He doesn’t rush. He presses in knuckle by knuckle, watching your face in the mirror as your lips part and your back arches. The way your body welcomes him makes his cock twitch under the fabrics.

“There we go,” he whispers, dark and pleased. “So fucking tight.”

He gives you a moment to adjust, curling that single finger just right, then pulls back, almost all the way, before pushing in again, deeper this time. You whimper, soft and broken.

“Such a good girl for me,” he murmurs, dragging his lips along your jaw. “You let me in so easily.”

When he slides in a second finger, your knees nearly give out, but he catches you, pressing his chest to your back and flattening his palm over your belly.

You cry out, raw and desperate, body jerking in his arms.

“Right there,” you gasp. “Fuck, right there-, don’t stop, please don’t stop-”

His lips trace your jaw, voice molten.

“Good girl,” he whispers, moving his fingers just the way you need. “Let me hear you.”

And you do.

Loud, unfiltered, desperate for more.

Your hands grip the edge of the vanity. He watches in the mirror as your face twists in pleasure, breath shuddering every time he pumps into you. He doesn’t relent. His fingers are steady, coaxing, relentless, fucking you precisely, like he’s memorizing every reaction.

“Tell me how it feels,” he demands softly.

“So good,” you breathe. “It’s-, god, Wooyoung-”

“That’s right,” he cuts in, curling his fingers deeper. “Say my name like that.”

He shifts just slightly, just enough to hit the spot that sends stars bursting behind your eyes, and keeps that rhythm. Over and over.

“Come on,” he whispers against your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “I can feel it. You’re right there, aren’t you?”

You nod, desperately, eyes fluttering shut.

But he doesn’t let you. His free hand curls around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, guiding you back to the mirror.

“No. Look,” he growls, his voice low and possessive. “I want you to see how good I make you feel. How pretty you look falling apart just for me.”

You force your eyes open, lips parted, eye makeup already smudged, breath shaking, and what you see unravels you: his body pressed to yours, his hand moving between your legs like he owns you, his gaze fixed entirely on your reflection.

The sight of it, the feeling of him everywhere, inside and around you, tips you over the edge.

You cry out, helpless and raw, as your body clenches hard around his fingers. He doesn’t slow. He works you through it, murmuring praise against your ear.

“That’s it,” he groans. “That’s my good girl. So fucking beautiful when you come for me.”

Your hips jerk, grinding into his palm as your orgasm pulses through you, long and overwhelming. When the waves finally ease, your body limp and trembling, he slowly withdraws his fingers, slick and shining.

You shiver, eyes fluttering shut as he presses his hips against you, the thick hardness of him pressing against your thighs.

He suddenly guides you forward, one hand on your back, he presses you down firmly, bending you over.

“Stay just like that,” he commands, stepping back slightly to admire the view, your ass pushed out, your eyes wide in the mirror, lips already parted. “Fuck. Look at you.”

Then you feel it, his hands on your thighs, spreading them, dragging his fingers slowly along your skin. His shirt hangs open, wrinkled and useless now, clinging to one shoulder, exposing his toned chest, flushed and rising with every harsh breath. His palm presses to the center of your back, bending you over the vanity with a firm, unyielding push.

“Stay like that,” he murmurs, voice low and dark. “I want you spread out. Pretty. Obedient.”

You obey without thinking, chest against the cool surface. Then, with excruciating slowness, he undoes his belt. The sound alone makes your breath hitch. He keeps his eyes locked on yours in the mirror as he pushes his pants down just enough and frees himself, fingers wrapping around his cock like he’s been aching for this.

And when you see him… you go still.

He’s thick, long, flushed and heavy in his hand, already glistening at the tip.

Your gasp escapes before you can stop it.

“Oh?” he smirks, stroking himself lazily, intentionally, letting your eyes drink in every inch. “Surprised?”

You hear the sound of him spitting in his hand, stroking himself once, twice, and then that thick, hard length is sliding between your folds, teasing your entrance.

His hand slides into your hair, not rough, but controlling, guiding your eyes back to the mirror.

“Eyes on the mirror,” he commands, hand fisting your hair just enough to lift your gaze. “You’re gonna watch what it looks like when your best friend finally fucks you.”

Then, with one slow, devastating thrust, he sinks into you.

Deep.

Possessive.

Claiming.

He groans behind you, head falling forward, one hand gripping your hip tight enough to bruise.

“God-, fuck, you’re big,” you gasp, hands scrambling to grip the edge of the vanity.

He pulls out halfway, then slams back in, hard enough to make the vanity rattle.

You gasp, fingers scrambling for the edge, and he laughs behind you, breathless.

“More,” you cry, pushing back into him, shaking. “Don’t stop-, fuck, please don’t stop.”

“You want more?” he hisses, grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling your head up so you’re forced to look at yourself in the mirror. “Look at this mess. Look what I’m doing to you.”

He slams into you harder. Filthy. Relentless. His palm lands on your ass, then rubs over the sting like he owns every inch of your body.

Then he snaps, hips continually slamming into you with a rhythm that steals the breath from your lungs. Over and over again. The sound of skin against skin echoes, obscene and raw, as he pounds into you like he’s lost all restraint. He leans over you suddenly, chest pressing to your back. His breath fans hot across your skin as his lips find your shoulder.

He kisses it once. Then again, slower.

“You gonna come like this?” he demands, voice thick and breathless. “Bent over, ass red, stuffed full of me?”

“Yes-,”

But he doesn’t let you come.

Not yet.

Just when your body tenses, right on the edge, he pulls out halfway and stills.

You let out a sob, raw and desperate, collapsing onto your elbows against the vanity.

“No…” you whimper, voice trembling. “Why’d you stop?”

“Because I said so,” he growls behind you, breathing hard. “And if you’re mine now… you come when I let you.”

A sharp slap lands on your ass, the heat blooming instantly, making you cry out and he grins at the way your thighs twitch, how your body tries to grind back into him without thinking.

“Oh, you like that,” he mutters, dragging his palm over the curve of your ass, then gripping both cheeks hard, spreading you open as he groans. “Look at this view. Fucking perfect. So pretty and messy for me.”

His hand grabs your wrist, dragging you upright, spinning you to face him. His mouth crashes into yours in a messy, heated kiss, all teeth and tongue and breathless need. You barely have time to cling to him before he’s walking you backward toward the bed.

“You think I was gonna finish you over a vanity?” he growls against your lips. “Not a fucking chance.”

You fall back onto the mattress with a gasp, legs spread slightly, chest heaving, body already trembling from the way he’s used you, and he just stands there for a second, looking down at you like he’s never seen anything more perfect.

Then his eyes narrow.

“Spread your legs wider.”

You do, instantly.

His shirt is half off, a desperate tug of fabric, and as he pulls his pants fully down, he’s not wasting any time to let you get a full look at him. His cock stands heavy, dripping with need, leaking as he strokes himself with a low growl.

You open your mouth, but the words die as he moves closer, kneeling on the edge of the bed. His hand wraps around your ankle and drags you toward him, his grip firm, claiming. He leans over you, one hand planted beside your head, the other dragging slowly along your inner thigh.

“Tell me,” he demands, brushing his nose along your jaw. “Did it turn you on? Knowing he saw you with me? Knowing he saw how badly I wanted to rip that dress off you?”

“Yes,” you whisper, breath hitching.

Then he’s kissing you again, slower this time but just as possessive. His hand wraps behind your neck, holding you in place as he takes what he wants, savoring your reactions, feeding off every moan that escapes you.

“Look at this,” he mutters, gaze locked between your legs. “So swollen. So wet. All for me.”

His hand drags slowly down your stomach, the heat of his palm branding every inch of skin it touches. It’s not hurried, no, it’s maddeningly slow, his fingers grazing along the dip below your navel, making your muscles jump with anticipation.

Then his fingers reach your folds, gliding through your slickness, deliberately lazy. You twitch under his touch, hips tilting up instinctively.

And then-

He slaps your pussy. Open palm. Quick.

The sound cracks through the room, sharp and obscene. The sting hits you a second later, blooming heat across your center, and your whole body jolts, legs trembling.

“Fuck-!” you cry out, back arching off the bed. “Wooyoung-,”

He smirks down at you, all dark satisfaction. “Oh yeah,” he says, eyes heavy with lust. “You liked that.”

Before you can catch your breath, he does it again. A second slap, just as sharp. The impact makes your thighs jerk apart, a cry tearing from your throat.

He moans, actually moans at the sight of you coming undone. “God, you’re so fucking hot when you take it like that.”

Your body is pulsing, burning, begging.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, breath hot as he leans closer, dragging two fingers through your folds again. “Dripping. You get this wet from just my hand?”

He rubs your clit in tight, quick circles, pressure unforgiving but just right, sending sparks up your spine. The contrast of pain and pleasure makes your head spin.

Your hands grip the sheets hard enough to cramp. “Fuck, Wooyoung-, don’t stop-”

He chuckles low and hungry. “Didn’t plan on it.”

With one smooth motion, he shifts, settling between your thighs. His cock, thick, flushed, already leaking, presses against your entrance, the tip catching on your slick folds. He rubs himself through your arousal, slow and teasing, just enough to make your hips chase him.

You try to lift your hips, to take him in, but he pins you back down, eyes wild.

“No. I get to fuck you when I say so,” he growls, mouth crashing down onto yours, kissing you hard, deep, messy, like he’s starving. Like your mouth is the only thing that’s ever tasted good.

When he finally thrusts in, it’s a single, brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt and knocking the air right out of your lungs.

“Fuck,-” you gasp, eyes rolling back.

He doesn’t give you a second to adjust before pulling back and slamming into you again, the force of it leaving you breathless.

He doesn’t stop. He grabs your wrists, pins them above your head, body caging you in like a predator. His mouth finds yours, kissing you like he’s drowning, messy and hot and desperate. Teeth, tongue, breathless moans between every clashing movement.

“Don’t you dare look away,” he growls against your lips. “Look at me while I fuck you.”

So you do.

His pupils are blown, his hair a mess, sweat on his brow, mouth parted. But it’s his eyes, the way he’s looking at you like you’re all he’s ever wanted, and that makes your heart slam against your ribs.

You’re gasping, crying out, and he swallows every sound, his kiss never softening, only growing more frenzied as his hips pound into you.

“You feel that?” he pants into your mouth. “That’s mine. This pussy’s mine.”

He lets go of your wrists just long enough to grab your thigh, throw your leg over his shoulder, driving deeper, angle harsher. His grip is punishing, like he needs to hold you down to keep from losing his mind.

“Shit-,” you sob, clinging to him now. “You’re so deep-, I can’t-,”

“You can,” he growls. “Oh, fuck, baby-, that’s it,” he smirks, sweat dripping down from his neck. “You feel so good-, so fucking tight, so wet, I could stay buried in this pussy forever.”

He drops his head to your neck, biting and sucking bruises into your skin, marking you as his hands move constantly, palming your breast, gripping your hip, dragging across your thigh, he can’t stop touching you.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Let me make you feel so fucking good.”

You clench around him and he nearly loses it, thrusts getting sloppier, harder, messier. He grabs your jaw, forces your eyes to his.

“Please-, Wooyoung, I’m close-”

“Yeah? Let me hear you. Come for me. Come on my cock, baby, let me feel you.”

And it hits you, fast and deep, your whole body tensing as pleasure crashes through you like a wave you couldn’t stop even if you tried.

Wooyoung watches it take you, and it wrecks him.

“God, baby,” he growls, suddenly losing all rhythm, all control. “You feel so-, fuck, I’m not gonna last-,”

You reach up, grabbing his face with both hands, forcing him to look at you just like he did to you. “Don’t stop. Give it to me.”

That does it.

With a strangled moan of your name, he buries himself in you with a final, desperate thrust. His whole body tenses as he gives in, letting himself fall apart.

You can’t help but look at his face as that wave of pleasure overtakes him. His mouth is parted, lips trembling with the sounds he can’t hold back, brows drawn together in a tight knot like he’s fighting to stay grounded. The muscles in his jaw twitch, veins standing out along his neck and arms, his whole body straining as he spills everything into you.

When he finally exhales, it’s a ragged, shaky breath, and his body slowly relaxes, chest rising and falling heavily as he tries to come back down. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t say a word. He just lowers his weight over you gently, careful not to crush you, his face pressing into the crook of your neck.

You can still feel the warmth of him inside you, the lingering tension of release pulsing between your bodies.

Then he lifts his head, just barely, and looks down at you, really looks. His gaze roams over your flushed cheeks, kiss-bitten lips, the way you’re still dazed and boneless beneath him.

And then he grins. Slow, smug, wicked.

“God,” he says, voice low and pleased.

You blink up at him, heart stuttering. “What?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just lets his eyes drag over you like he’s memorizing everything. The mess he’s made of you. The way you still haven’t caught your breath.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says simply, but it lands heavy in your chest. “Like… stupid beautiful.”

Heat rushes to your face. You instinctively turn your head, trying to hide the way your lips curl, the way you can’t even look at him right now.

But that just makes him laugh, low and breathless.

“Oh no,” he murmurs, fingers catching your chin, turning your face back to his. “don’t get all shy on me now. Not after the things I just did to you.”

“Wooyoung-“ you try to protest, flustered, but it’s useless.

He shifts suddenly, his hand pinning your wrist to the bed as he leans in, eyes blazing. “Nope,” he growls playfully.

When his mouth crashes into yours, it’s not sweet or teasing, it’s intense. Deep and all-consuming, like he’s starving for you. His tongue claims yours, every movement deliberate, dominant.

When he finally pulls back, barely an inch, his lips are swollen and his voice is wrecked.

“I’m never gonna get enough of you,” he murmurs against your lips. “Never.”

***

You wake up slowly, the soft light of the morning creeping into the room, bathing everything in a warm glow. His arm is still draped over you, his breath steady and calm. You shift gently, trying not to wake him, but you can’t help but linger for a moment, watching his peaceful expression. He looks so content, so relaxed, last night still feels like a dream.

Carefully, you lift his arm from your waist and slip out of bed. As you stand, you glance back at him. His face is soft, his black hair a little messy, and the sight of him, even in his sleep, makes your heart flutter. You try to suppress the smile that tugs at your lips, but you can’t help it.

Quietly, you make your way to the kitchen. The cool air of the morning greets you as you open the cabinet and pull out his cereal box.

You’re perched on the kitchen counter, bare legs dangling, quietly munching on a bowl of Wooyoung’s ridiculous neon-colored cereal. The box sits beside you, obnoxiously bright. You’d teased him for years about how awful it looked, and secretly craved it every time.

You hear the soft shuffle of feet before you see him.

Wooyoung emerges from the hallway, shirtless, his hair a messy halo of waves, eyes still heavy with sleep. He looks like a dream and somehow worse for your heart in the morning light. A familiar ache stirs in your chest. This is your best friend. Your roommate. The same guy who left his laundry in the hallway and screamed at horror games.

The same guy who had his hands all over you last night and made you come like no one else.

“Morning, roomie,” he mutters, voice low and rough, smirking when his eyes catch yours. They linger. “Is that my cereal?”

You nod, trying not to choke on it now that your mouth’s gone dry. “It was calling to me.”

He walks right up to you, stepping between your legs like he’s done it a thousand times. Only now, there’s nothing innocent about the way he crowds your space.

You glance down, gripping the bowl a little tighter. Your voice comes out quieter than you meant. “You, uh… want some?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just takes the spoon from your hand, still warm from your touch, and scoops up a bite like it’s nothing. His other hand settles on your thigh, casual but firm. You forget how to breathe.

He hums like it’s gourmet. “God, I love this shit.”

You try to roll your eyes, but it’s weak. He’s too close. Too warm. Too real.

And then, without warning, he leans in close, mouth brushing your ear.

“Good morning, beautiful,”

Before you can say anything else, before your heart can fully flip in your chest, he kisses you.

It’s soft at first, like he’s testing the waters, but then it deepens, and the world around you fades. There’s no rush, no frantic need, just the slow, steady push and pull of lips, the quiet hum of connection between you two, something that’s always been there but is only now being acknowledged.

His lips linger just long enough to make your stomach twist in the best way before he pulls back, barely.

You stare at him, still a little dazed. He smirks.

“What?” he says, all fake innocence. “You gonna yell at me for stealing your cereal or for kissing you?”

You eye him, lips twitching. “Still weighing my options.”

He shrugs, hands still warm where they’re resting on your thighs. “Take your time. I’ve got all morning.”

“You’re literally the most impatient person I know,” you mutter.

“Mm,” he hums, brushing his thumb just under the hem of your shorts, right where it makes your breath catch. “Not when it comes to you. I like watching you squirm too much.”

You exhale a laugh, trying not to give him the satisfaction. He just grins wider, enjoying seeing you like this.

It’s completely unfair, the way he looks so relaxed. Like this, you and him and whatever happened last night, isn’t a big deal. Like waking up tangled together, touching each other like that, was just the natural next step.

And maybe… maybe it was.

“You know,” he adds after a beat, glancing at your bowl again, “I thought about that last night.”

“What, the cereal?” you ask, trying to level your voice.

He nods, all faux-innocent. “Had this whole internal debate. Go finish the box or save you some.”

You squint at him. “You didn’t even eat any.”

“Exactly.” He grins. “Fell asleep. Dreamt about it. Woke up, and there you were. Stealing the first bowl like some greedy little gremlin.”

You scoff. “Wow. Rude.”

“And hungry,” he adds, stealing your spoon without looking. He takes another bite, still watching you, chewing like he’s thinking about sin. “Might be craving something a little messier, though.”

You scoff, but your thighs tense around his hips, pulling him in closer. He feels it. Of course he does.

You think that’s the end of it, but then he tilts his head a little, voice dropping. “Also, you were real cute sneaking around out here like I couldn’t hear you. Hair all messy. Wearing nothing but your-”

“Stop,” you cut in, already feeling the heat crawl up your neck.

He just laughs, clearly enjoying this way too much. “I’m just saying. Round two almost happened right then and there.”

You shoot him a look. “I was literally getting cereal.”

He leans in, lips brushing your cheek again before he murmurs, “Yeah, and you still looked hot.”

You go quiet, too aware of his mouth near yours and the fact that he’s still standing between your knees like he belongs there.

You open your mouth, no idea what you’re even going to say, but he’s already leaning in.

And then he kisses you again, easy, unhurried, like it’s just what he does now. Like kissing you is second nature.

And god, maybe it is.

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[kateschi]

chef's kiss is not enough

synopsis: a simple night out for good food changes when you meet the chef behind a dish that leaves you speechless.

pairing: chef!bakugou katsuki x f!reader

the restaurant is cozy, the kind of place that doesn’t draw much attention from the outside but feels like a hidden treasure once you step inside.

soft lighting casts a warm glow over the wooden tables, and the low murmur of conversation mixes with the occasional clinking of plates.

you’re here with friends, seated at a corner table, menus spread out in front of you.

it’s the kind of night where you’re just looking forward to good food and laughter.

the waiter approaches, balancing several plates on his tray, and sets a bowl down in front of you. you thank him absentmindedly, but the moment your eyes land on your dish, you can’t help but pause.

it’s beautiful in its simplicity—steaming ramen served in a deep bowl, the broth shimmering under the restaurant’s soft light.

thin slices of pork rest delicately on the surface, alongside a soft-boiled egg, its yolk a vibrant golden color. green onions and a sheet of nori top it off, each detail deliberate and precise.

when you take the first bite, your eyes widen. the broth is rich and savory, the kind of flavor that seems to envelop your entire mouth.

the noodles are perfectly cooked, springy but not too firm, soaking up just enough of the broth.

each topping complements the next—the pork is tender, the egg creamy, the green onions adding a fresh, sharp contrast.

it’s the kind of dish that doesn’t just taste good; it feels like someone put their heart into it.

“oh my god,” you mutter, setting your chopsticks down for a moment. “this is incredible.”

your friends laugh at your reaction, one of them nudging you with their elbow. “you always get like this when the food’s good.”

“no, but this—this is different,” you insist, leaning closer to the bowl as if it holds some sort of secret. “this isn’t just good; this is like…life-changing.”

the comment earns a round of laughter, but you’re already distracted, glancing around the room for the waiter.

when you catch his eye, you raise a hand. “excuse me, who’s the chef here?”

the waiter looks surprised by the question. “our head chef is bakugou katsuki. would you like me to—”

“yes, please,” you interrupt, a little too quickly. realizing how eager you sound, you backtrack. “I mean, if he’s not too busy.”

the waiter nods and disappears toward the kitchen, leaving your friends to give you a variety of amused and curious looks.

“what?” you say defensively. “it’s not every day you eat something this good.”

a few minutes later, the kitchen door swings open, and the man who walks out is…not what you expected.

you were picturing someone older, maybe with a few gray hairs and a soft smile.

instead, this man—bakugou katsuki, apparently—is tall and broad-shouldered, his chef’s coat fitting snugly over a strong frame.

his spiky blond hair looks slightly damp, like he’s been working hard, and his expression is one of mild irritation.

he looks more like a professional athlete than a chef.

“what?” he says, his voice low and rough, as he strides up to your table. his crimson eyes sweep over the group before landing on you.

and for a moment, bakugou freezes. he didn’t know what to expect when the waiter said someone wanted to meet him—probably some pompous critic or a customer with a laundry list of complaints.

but you’re not what he expected. at all. there’s something about the way you’re looking at him, your eyes wide with a mix of nervousness and awe, that throws him completely off balance.

you’re…really pretty. too pretty, actually.

it’s annoying, how much it catches him off guard. his chest tightens, and he suddenly feels hyperaware of himself—his hands, his posture, the faint dampness of his forehead from the heat of the kitchen.

damn it.

“I, uh,” you start, faltering under his intense gaze. you weren’t expecting him to be so—well, intimidating. “I just wanted to say that the food is amazing. like, really amazing.”

for a moment, he just stares at you, his jaw tightening slightly. then he rubs the back of his neck, glancing away as if trying to compose himself. “thanks,” he mutters, his tone less gruff than before.

the way he looks away almost makes you smile.

he doesn’t seem like the type to take compliments well, and you can’t help but find it endearing. but at the same time, his presence is overwhelming, and you feel heat creeping up your neck.

“well,” he says abruptly, his eyes snapping back to yours. “if that’s it, I’ve got stuff to do.”

“right, of course,” you say quickly, nodding. “thank you again.”

he nods once, almost curtly, before turning and heading back toward the kitchen. you watch him go, your mind racing with thoughts you can’t quite organize.

the rest of the evening goes by in a blur.

you and your friends continue to chat and laugh, but your thoughts keep drifting back to bakugou. his sharp eyes, the way he looked almost flustered when you complimented him.

it’s distracting, and you can’t quite shake it.

as you’re leaving, stepping out into the cool night air, a voice calls out behind you.

“hey.”

you turn to see him standing in the doorway, still in his chef’s coat. he looks like he’s debating whether this is a good idea or not, his expression tight with something between determination and reluctance.

in his hand is a paper bag with the restaurant’s logo. “here,” he says, holding it out to you.

you blink, confused. “I didn’t order takeout.”

“it’s on me,” he says, shoving the bag toward you. his crimson eyes flick to the side, avoiding your gaze.

“oh, but—”

“just take it,” he interrupts, his voice firm but not unkind.

you hesitate for a moment before taking the bag. your fingers brush against his, and the brief contact sends a strange warmth through your chest. “thank you,” you murmur.

he nods, and for a moment, it looks like he might say something else. but then he just steps back inside, the door closing behind him.

when you get home, you open the bag to find a perfectly packaged serving of the ramen you raved about earlier. sitting on top is a small note, written in slightly messy handwriting:

xxx-xxx-xxxx the name’s katsuki. text me.

a smile creeps onto your face, and you find yourself thinking that maybe, just maybe, you will.

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

[riqomi]

RAMEN DATES ──── 西村力

西村力 ˖ 𝑓em!r .. g. fluff. suggestive ──── BOOKSHELF ( O.832 ) tw: kissing. lmk if there's more.

7:03 p.m. – ramen shop ⠀ the booth is cramped. cozy. you’re sitting across from each other, knees bumping under the table, and he’s messing with his chopsticks like he's been nervous since you walked in. ⠀ you were late. he didn’t mind. said “you’re lucky you’re cute” instead of teasing you for it. he’s not shy, not exactly — but tonight he’s a little different. calmer. still funny, still himself, but it feels like he’s trying to say something without saying it. ⠀ he nudges his bowl toward you. “try mine.” “i already have my own.” “but mine’s better,” he insists, lifting some noodles to your mouth like it’s a challenge. you lean in. take a bite. he watches you the entire time, like he’s waiting to see your reaction and memorize it. ⠀ “okay,” you admit, swallowing. “yours is better.” “told you.” ⠀ he grins, but doesn’t pull the bowl back right away. you’re still leaning in, and he’s still watching you — this time longer, quieter. you blink. “what?” “nothing.” he finally looks away. “just… i like seeing you like this.” ⠀ you pause. “like what?” “in real life.” he says it like it’s a secret. “with me.” your heart stutters. then you smile. “you’re ridiculous.” ⠀ “maybe,” he shrugs, “but i’ve been thinking about this date since the second i asked you out.” and just like that — the night starts to change. ⠀ 9:11 p.m. – wandering the city ⠀ after dinner, neither of you suggests going home. you just… keep walking. the city’s quieter now. streets wet from a passing drizzle, neon signs reflecting in puddles. he keeps glancing over at you, like he can’t quite believe you’re still beside him. “cold?” he asks as you shiver. you nod a little. he shrugs off his hoodie without hesitation and drapes it over your shoulders. ⠀ “but—” ⠀ “i’m fine,” he says, even though his t-shirt’s paper-thin. “you look cuter in it anyway.” you roll your eyes. “you’re so annoying.” he grins. “but you’re smiling.” ⠀ you walk in step after that. not talking much. just taking it in — the lights, the breeze, the way his hand brushes yours more and more deliberately until finally, finally, he laces his fingers through yours. when you look up at him, he’s already looking down at you. ⠀ “stop staring,” you murmur. “can’t help it.” Your heart’s doing something weird in your chest. something big. something terrifying. you don’t let go of his hand. ⠀ ⠀ 12:02 a.m. – his car, outside your apartment ⠀ the windows are fogged slightly from the heat still in the air. the radio’s low, playing some quiet r&b track you don’t recognize, and riki’s parked under the streetlight, arms resting on the steering wheel. neither of you’s moved in five minutes. ⠀ “i should go up,” you finally say. “yeah,” he replies. but doesn’t unbuckle. doesn’t even blink. you hesitate. then glance at him. “what?” he’s already looking at you. you raise an eyebrow. “i just don’t want tonight to end yet.” your voice softens. “it doesn’t have to. walk me up?” he’s out of the car before you even finish the sentence. ⠀ ⠀ 12:07 a.m. – your hallway

you lead him up the stairs, keys clutched loosely in your hand.

outside your door, the hallway’s quiet. dimly lit. he stops behind you, close — too close — and you can feel the heat of him before he even touches you.

you unlock the door. don’t open it yet. just stand there.

waiting.

he steps closer. “you gonna kiss me goodnight?”you turn around, breath caught somewhere between your throat and your chest. “i was waiting for you to do it.” his hand finds your waist. gently. pulls you toward him until you’re back against your apartment door, chest to chest. he tilts his head, gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips.

and then he kisses you.

slow at first — like he’s still asking if it’s okay. still savoring. still feeling it all.

but then it deepens.

your hands slide up under his hoodie, resting against his sides. his fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt. the kiss turns open-mouthed, breathy, like goodbye tastes a little too much like don’t go. you sigh into it. he groans — soft, low, like you’re pulling something out of him he wasn’t ready to give. when he pulls back — barely, lips still brushing yours — he whispers, “that’s gonna keep me up all night.”

you smile. “good.” he laughs against your mouth. “you’re evil.”

you kiss him once more, gently. “i know.”he backs away slowly, reluctantly, like leaving you feels wrong. “you gonna be okay getting inside?” “i might need one more kiss for strength.”he smirks. “you’re dangerous.” you wink. “and you love it.”

then — finally — you slip inside, heart racing, fingers tingling, breath still uneven.

and outside, riki stands there for a long, long moment, smiling like a complete idiot at your closed door. he whispers, to no one in particular,

“i’m so screwed.”

lmfao i feel like ashton hall, puttin all these timestamps in here. likes, feedback and reblogs much appreciated. remember requests are open !!

[julietsf1]

Ramentic Gestures - Franco Colapinto x Reader

summary: Franco thinks switching bowls is the chivalrous thing to do—until he takes a bite and realizes he’s made a terrible mistake (2k words)

content: fluff, established relationship, tough guy soft moment

AN: Inspired by my uber eats order a couple of minutes ago! really do love spicy food I always carry my habanero pepper w me in my purse, just can't risk it yk

............................................................................

Kyoto at night had a certain glow to it. The kind that reflected off rain-slicked streets, neon signs flickering against glass windows, and the steady hum of life moving through the city. It was the kind of place that made everything feel a little more exciting, like anything could happen.

Franco and I had ducked into a small ramen shop tucked between two buildings, its red lanterns swaying gently outside. The place was warm, slightly crowded, the air thick with the scent of slow-simmered broth, fresh scallions and a hint of chili oil. It smelled incredible.

The restaurant was packed, mostly with locals slurping noodles and chatting over steaming bowls. The kind of place that didn’t rely on fancy decor or gimmicks—just good food.

Franco leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “See? I told you I’d find the best spot.”

I scoffed. “I found it. You just agreed.”

He winked, tilting his head slightly. “Agreeing is part of the process.”

Before I could argue, our bowls arrived, and the conversation immediately paused. The food looked incredible—deep, rich broth shimmering with chili oil, tender slices of duck resting on top, and a generous heap of scallions and sesame seeds. The noodles were thick and slightly curled, the kind that soaked up the broth perfectly.

I picked up my chopsticks, eager to dig in. “This looks amazing.”

Franco hummed in agreement, already reaching for his spoon. “Authentic Japanese ramen. Can’t get better than this.”

I took my first bite, letting the warm, flavorful broth coat my tongue. The spice hit immediately—not too bad, but definitely strong. A pleasant warmth bloomed in my mouth, tingling at the edges of my lips. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was the kind of heat that lingered. Heat that gets more intense with each bite you take.

Franco, however, didn’t seem to notice my reaction. He was too busy tasting his own food, completely unaware of what was about to happen.

“Spicy?” he asked casually, watching me from across the table.

I shook my head, swallowing. “A little, but it’s good.”

Satisfied, he twirled his chopsticks around the noodles and took a bite of his own, nodding approvingly. “Yeah, the broth is insane. Proper depth of flavor.”

I reached for my water, taking a small sip just to ease the heat. When I looked up again, Franco was watching me, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“You sure you’re good?” he teased.

I raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You always do this thing when something’s spicy—you try to act normal, but you reach for water every few seconds.”

“I do not,” I argued.

“You do,” he insisted, leaning forward slightly. “You did it in Monaco with the hotpot, and in Austin with the—”

“Oh my god, enough,” I laughed, rolling my eyes. “It’s really not that bad.”

He smirked like he didn’t believe me, then glanced at my bowl. “Do you want to switch?”

I hesitated. “You don’t have to.”

Franco scoffed, already reaching for my bowl. “Please cariño, I can handle it.”

I bit my lip, watching as he confidently pulled my bowl towards him, his expression still entirely too smug. “Alright,” I muttered, trading him for his much milder-looking ramen.

He barely hesitated before taking a bite.

And then—

His jaw tightened.

His grip on his chopsticks stiffened ever so slightly.

His chewing slowed.

For a second, I thought he might actually handle it. But then, the first real sign of distress—his ears turned red.

I bit back a smile, watching him carefully. “Good? Not too spicy?”

Franco exhaled through his nose, setting his chopsticks down with a careful precision. “Yeah.”

I squinted. “You sure? We can switch back.”

He licked his lips, blinking a little too much. “Mhm.”

I tilted my head. “You’re blinking a lot, honey.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You totally are.”

He sniffed. Subtly. As if testing the damage.

I gasped. “Your nose is running.”

He immediately swiped the back of his hand across his face, shaking his head. “It’s just warm in here.”

I could barely contain my laughter. “Franco, you are sweating.”

“I am not sweating.”

“There is literal moisture on your forehead.”

He exhaled sharply, reaching for his drink in a way that was almost casual, except for the fact that he drank half of it in one go.

I leaned my elbows on the table, smirking. “Are you gonna admit it’s spicy now?”

Franco cleared his throat, still determined to keep his composure. “It’s… a little spicy.”

I burst out laughing. “A little?”

He shook his head, sighing dramatically. “Dale, me rindo.” He glanced at my bowl, then back at me. “How are you just sitting there, totally fine?”

I shrugged, taking another bite of his much milder ramen. “I told you—it’s not that bad.”

Franco leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “No. This is actually lava.”

I grinned. “Too bad. You tried to show off and the spice humbled you.”

“I didn’t try to show off.”

“You absolutely did.”

He exhaled dramatically, reaching for a napkin and dabbing at his forehead. “I was saving you.”

“You should've saved yourself.”

Franco groaned, running a hand through his hair. “At least tell me I looked cool before it hit me.”

I tilted my head, pretending to consider. “Mmm. I don’t know. You went from confident to crisis pretty fast.”

He groaned again, dropping his head onto the table for a second before sitting back up. “Okay. Fine. What do I get in return for my suffering?”

I raised an eyebrow. “For your self-inflicted suffering?”

“Yes.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “What do you want?”

Franco smirked. “A kiss.”

I rolled my eyes, but he was already leaning forward, resting his chin on his hand like he was waiting.

I sighed dramatically before leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “There. Happy?”

He grinned. “I don’t know. I think I need another one to really recover.”

I shoved his shoulder playfully, laughing as he reached for his drink again. Franco Colapinto, world class athlete—completely defeated by a bowl of spicy ramen.

[t4kalcvr]

THE GIRL WHO MADE THE CAKE

𝐊𝐄𝐍 “𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐍” 𝐑𝐘𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐉𝐈 word count :: ( 10,924 ) genre :: fluffyyy, romance, pinch angst content contains :: emma and drakens situationship, takemichi’s wedding!! no we are NOT (technically) home-wrecking !!

(..◜ᴗ◝..)

the soft clang of metal echoed in the empty garage as draken leaned over the frame of a half-built bike, grease staining the curve of his wrist. it was quiet, save for the faint hiss of cooling metal and the low hum of a fan in the corner. the kind of quiet that made you think too much.

he reached for his phone without meaning to — just muscle memory by now. his fingers hovered over the screen, slow, hesitant, like they already knew what he was about to do.

emma sano.

still saved in his contacts, like she’d never left.

they hadn’t defined anything. not lately. just… late-night conversations when one of them couldn’t sleep. coffee in silence that still felt warmer than most things. accidental hand brushes that neither of them pulled away from.

draken had told himself he was fine with it. that it was enough.

but takemichi’s wedding was this weekend. and standing in a crowd of familiar faces, watching two people say forever, that felt like the kind of moment you either show up with someone you care about — or you don’t show up at all.

he exhaled through his nose and typed, thumb gliding over the screen with more weight than he’d ever admit:

“you free saturday? takemichi’s wedding. thought it might be nice to go together.”

he stared at the message.

then pressed send before he could talk himself out of it.

the screen stayed bright for a few seconds. no reply. no read receipt. nothing but that tiny, uncertain silence.

he pocketed the phone, wiped his hands off on a rag, and tried to tell himself he didn’t care either way.

he wasn’t very convincing.

(..◜ᴗ◝..)

emma was sitting on the floor of hinata’s bedroom, surrounded by bobby pins, an open makeup bag, and a half-eaten bowl of instant ramen. wedding planning had slowly taken over hinata’s apartment — shoes lined up under the window, garment bags everywhere, florals taped to the fridge.

hinata sat across from her on the floor, still in sweats, scrolling through a seating chart on her ipad. her hair was clipped up in a messy bun, and her face looked exhausted but happy — the way only brides-to-be looked.

emma’s phone buzzed once.

she picked it up without thinking, brushing a noodle off her hoodie. the message lit up the screen:

ken:

“you free saturday? takemichi’s wedding. thought it might be nice to go together.”

she stared at it.

her lips parted, but no sound came out. her thumb hovered, heart fluttering in a way it hadn’t in a long time. not since him.

he asked.

he actually asked.

a smile crept up before she could stop it. it bloomed slowly, softly — the kind of smile that lived in her eyes, not just her mouth.

she typed:

“i’d love to.”

then she let out a sharp little breath and looked up.

“hinata?”

hinata glanced up from her phone. “hm?”

“i need a dress.”

“you don’t have a dress for the rehearsal dinner?”

“no,” emma said, her smile turning sheepish. “not for that. i need a dress for your wedding.”

hinata blinked. “emma. you’re already invited.”

“i know. but… ken just asked me to go. with him.”

hinata’s eyes widened, mouth falling open. “wait—as a date?”

emma nodded, the tiniest bit flustered. “i think so? i don’t know. maybe. but… it felt different. it felt like he meant it.”

hinata squealed, nearly knocking over the ipad. “okay. okay. we’re finding you something gorgeous. like dangerous levels of gorgeous.”

emma grinned, cheeks warm. “i want something that says… ‘i might be over you, but not really.’”

“say less,” hinata said, already reaching for her laptop. “black or red?”

(..◜ᴗ◝..)

the sun was starting to set when emma stepped out of her room, heels on the hardwood floors, smoothing her hands nervously over the silk clinging to her sides.

the dress was deep red — soft and almost impossibly fluid, the way it caught the light and draped against her like it had been sewn just for her. spaghetti straps. low back. a slit that threatened mischief but kept it elegant. she had twisted her hair up into something loose and effortless, a few strands falling around her face in soft waves.

it was a little bold. a little risky.

but tonight felt like a moment that needed something brave.

she took a shaky breath and turned toward the door the second she heard the knock.

when she opened it, there was ken — standing in a dark charcoal suit, a single black ring on his finger, his hair pushed back but still messy at the edges. he looked freshly shaven, like he’d tried without trying. his tie was half loose like he couldn’t be bothered to do the final knot.

he blinked when he saw her. just stood there.

his mouth parted like he was about to say something — anything — but the words got caught somewhere in his throat. his eyes dragged from her heels all the way to the dip in her collarbone and then to her eyes, lingering there like he didn’t want to blink and miss it.

emma smiled softly, cheeks warming under his gaze.

“hi,” she said.

“…hey,” he finally breathed.

she stepped aside to let him in. he hesitated just a second before walking past her, his shoulder brushing hers lightly as he moved inside.

“you look…” he started, glancing over his shoulder, eyes lingering again.

“yeah?” she teased, heart hammering.

he nodded once. slowly. “like trouble.”

she laughed. “good.”

he stood in her apartment — clean and quiet, soft lamplight casting shadows on the walls — and watched her reach for her purse.

and just as she was slipping on her earrings, her phone started to ring.

emma froze.

the name on the screen made her heart drop to her stomach.

she picked it up, voice uncertain. “hello?”

draken watched her face carefully. her smile disappeared, but her brows pulled together in that way she always did when she was trying to calculate something fast.

“wait, now?” she asked, turning toward the kitchen counter, pressing the phone between her shoulder and ear as she reached for her glass of water. “like, right now?”

a pause. her eyes darted toward him.

draken didn’t say anything.

she didn’t either.

just a look — long and quiet.

she wasn’t sure what she was asking for in that second.

permission? forgiveness?

he met her eyes and, without blinking, gave her the smallest nod.

go.

emma’s breath hitched, and she whispered something into the phone — she would be there. she could make it. she’d be there soon.

as soon as the call ended, she stood there for a beat, her chest rising and falling with something that wasn’t quite regret but wasn’t peace either.

“i’m so sorry,” she said quietly.

“don’t be,” he replied, voice calm. unreadable. maybe even proud.

she gave him a quick, fleeting smile — the kind you give someone who matters. someone who understands.

and then she ran.

into her room. heels off. hair falling down. fingers already undoing the zipper of her dress as she vanished behind the door.

draken stood alone in her living room, glancing once at the place where she’d just been.

when he stepped outside, mikey was already waiting near the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, dressed in a sharp black suit like some rebellious little prince.

“where’s emma?” mikey asked, swinging his head up casually.

draken didn’t look back at the building.

“work,” he said simply.

mikey didn’t press. just nodded and fell into step beside him.

and together, they walked toward the wedding.

toward something quieter. something that didn’t quite feel like loss… but didn’t feel like having her, either.

(..◜ᴗ◝..)

the ceremony had been beautiful — all soft pink florals and string lights woven through the rafters, vows that made even the toughest guys clear their throats a little too often. takemichi had cried. hinata had tried not to. everyone smiled through it.

now, the reception was in full swing.

music drifted through the venue — not too loud, just enough for the bass to ripple through the floor. glasses clinked, heels clicked against hardwood, and somewhere near the back, someone was definitely crying over the open bar.

draken stood near the edge of the room, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, a barely touched drink in hand. mikey leaned beside him, tie undone completely, hair slightly windswept from one too many fast spins with the bride on the dance floor.

they stood in companionable silence for a while, watching the people they used to ride into fights with now slow dancing and laughing like they’d never broken bones before.

“you okay?” mikey asked, not looking directly at him.

draken gave a quiet shrug. “yeah.”

mikey turned just a little. “emma?”

draken let out a breath. not quite a sigh. “she got a call. job thing. had to go.”

mikey nodded like he already knew.

“you still want it to work with her?” he asked.

draken took a long sip of whatever was in his glass before answering. “i don’t know, man. i think maybe it’s time to stop waiting.”

mikey raised a brow, clearly surprised. “you? giving up?”

“not giving up,” draken said, voice low, calm. “just… maybe i’m not meant for it. relationships. love. all that.”

mikey stared at him. “you’re not serious.”

“i am.”

“you’re gonna die old and cranky in your garage with a half-finished bike and nobody to nag you about leaving your tools everywhere?”

draken smirked. “sounds peaceful, honestly.”

but then — before mikey could push back — something shifted in the air. like the volume of the world turned down just a little. like something tugged his focus.

draken’s eyes drifted across the room.

and then he saw her.

you.

you were standing just beneath one of the overhead lights, laughing at something one of your friends said. your hand wrapped around a drink, your other gesturing mid-story. you were in a dress that wasn’t trying too hard, but the way it moved with you made it impossible not to look.

you hadn’t noticed him yet.

he took you in slowly — the way you tilted your head when you smiled, the faint line of worry in your brows when you were listening, the way you touched people gently on the arm when you spoke to them. like you meant it.

and then — as if something in the universe cracked just slightly — you looked up.

your eyes met his.

you didn’t falter. didn’t look away or shy from the weight of his stare.

you just… smiled.

slow. genuine. a little surprised, like you hadn’t expected him either, but now that he was here — maybe you weren’t in such a rush to leave.

mikey glanced over and caught the look. his smirk was immediate.

“yeah,” he said, “real peaceful.”

draken didn’t answer.

he couldn’t.

not when you were still looking at him like that.

draken didn’t move right away.

he stood there for a few moments longer, glass warm in his hand, pretending he hadn’t just felt that strange, low pull in his chest. it had been a long time since someone had looked at him like that — calm. curious. completely unbothered by the rough edges.

then, quietly, he started toward you.

you were leaning against a table near the edge of the dance floor, laughing with someone before they walked off to grab another drink. you spotted him the second he started walking over, and instead of freezing up or acting coy, you just grinned — like you were amused by the idea of it.

he stopped just a few feet away, one hand casually shoved in his pocket.

“so,” you said, arms crossed lightly, “are you here to ask me to dance?”

he looked past you at the people swaying under the lights, then back to you. “absolutely not.”

you laughed. “good. because i only dance when i’ve had at least three glasses of champagne or when there’s a serious cash prize involved.”

“you missed the cash prize round,” he said, deadpan.

you snapped your fingers. “damn. i was gonna bust out my interpretive worm.”

he couldn’t help it — he laughed. a real, low laugh, the kind that surprised even him.

you gestured to the empty chair beside you. “well, if you’re not gonna embarrass yourself on the dance floor, you might as well sit.”

he did. the chair creaked a little under his weight, and for a second, the music filled the space between you.

“so,” he asked, “you here alone?”

you took a slow sip from your glass. “define ‘alone.’ emotionally? romantically? physically?”

he smirked. “romantically.”

“yes,” you said. “i came with expectations and left them somewhere near the chicken skewers.”

he raised a brow. “tough date?”

you shrugged. “no date. just me. i figured if i was gonna cry at a wedding, i might as well look hot doing it.”

he leaned back in his chair a little. “bold move.”

“and you?” you asked. “you strike me as the type who claims he hates weddings, but still shows up looking like a half-unbuttoned heartbreak.”

he snorted. “i came with someone. she got called into work.”

you winced. “ouch.”

“yeah.”

“so, you planning to find a replacement?”

he looked at you, eyes narrowing with amusement. “why? volunteering?”

“absolutely not,” you said, smiling as you leaned your elbow on the table, chin in hand. “i mean, look at you. tattoos, slicked-back hair, that whole brooding ‘i fix motorcycles but can’t fix myself’ vibe. i definitely know better.”

his grin curled up on one side. “i wasn’t gonna ask you to come home with me.”

you lifted your glass to him in mock salute. “good. because i definitely wasn’t going to.”

“your loss,” he muttered into his drink.

you both laughed again, easy and unexpected.

then, after a pause, you tilted your head. “you know what?”

“what?”

“let’s not ruin this.”

he raised a brow. “this?”

“this,” you echoed. “this whole thing. the vibe. the not-knowing. let’s not turn it into something heavy.”

he looked at you, intrigued now.

“let’s give each other fake names,” you said. “no contact info. no social media. no ‘call me sometime.’ just tonight.”

“fake names,” he repeated, amused. “alright. what’s yours?”

you glanced up, scanning the room for anything you could steal a name from — and then, suddenly, it came to you. you looked back at him and smiled.

“sundrop.”

“…sundrop?”

you shrugged. “don’t question it. it’s got personality.”

he chuckled. “alright, sundrop.”

“and you?”

he thought about it for a second, then leaned in a little and said, “dragon.”

you stared. “seriously?”

“you picked a flower. i’m picking a beast. balance.”

you laughed, louder this time — a soft, rolling sound that made his eyes warm.

“fine, dragon,” you said. “let’s make a deal. we don’t know each other after tonight.”

“no numbers?”

“nope.”

“no goodbyes?”

“just one night. and we leave it at that.”

he clinked his glass against yours. “deal.”

and for a moment, under the fading lights of someone else’s forever, two strangers decided to exist only in the present.

no past.

no future.

just here.

just now.

the clink of your glasses still hung in the air when you leaned back in your seat, eyes bright with mischief, that sundrop smile still lingering on your lips.

“so,” you said, “what now?”

“we enjoy the night,” he replied, stretching out his legs a little. “eat, drink, mock slow dancers.”

you opened your mouth to agree, but—

“yo, draken!”

you both turned at the same time.

mikey was weaving through the tables, a plate already in his hand, the tiniest smear of red bean paste at the corner of his mouth. his suit jacket was long gone, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie missing entirely.

“they just put out the dorayaki,” he grinned, waving the plate like it was a holy relic. “you better hurry or i’m eating yours too, draken. i swear—draken—draken, they’re still warm, bro!”

and just like that, he disappeared again into the crowd of dessert-loving guests.

you turned back to the man beside you slowly, your eyes narrowed and your smile threatening to break. “…draken?”

he held your gaze, his mouth twitching with guilt and amusement. “yep.”

“as in… your actual name is draken?”

he shrugged, palms up in surrender. “nickname, technically.”

“mikey blew your cover fast.”

“he really did.”

you tilted your head, teasing. “so what’s the damage? how much did he ruin our sacred no-names pact?”

“just the top half.”

“well, in the spirit of fairness…” you extended your hand as if meeting him for the first time. “i’m y/n.”

he shook your hand gently, still grinning. “nice to meet you, y/n.”

you nodded. “but no last names.”

“agreed.”

“i mean it,” you warned, eyes narrowed.

“same,” he said, still holding your hand for a beat too long.

you stared at each other — the champagne buzz softening the room around you, the music playing like it had been written to soundtrack this exact conversation.

“alright,” you said finally, “we adjust the rules. first names allowed. everything else? off limits.”

he smirked. “no childhood trauma dumps?”

“not unless you bring snacks.”

he chuckled, sitting back again. “deal.”

and just like that, even with names known, the moment held its magic — two almost-strangers choosing, very deliberately, to stay right here.

the band had just started a cover of something slow and vintage when you nudged draken with your elbow.

“alright,” you said, voice playful. “show me your moves.”

he glanced at you, brow raised. “moves?”

“you know,” you grinned. “how you get the girl.”

he leaned back in his chair, a slow smirk pulling at his mouth. “you asking for a demonstration?”

“i’m asking for entertainment,” you teased. “don’t tell me you’ve got nothing in your arsenal.”

he held your gaze for a beat longer, then stood up without a word. you watched as he walked straight toward the bar, that same slow, confident swagger in every step, like the world never rushed him.

he came back with a full bottle of wine under one arm and two elegant glasses swinging lazily from his fingers.

he held them up. “step one: wine.”

you laughed, standing to meet him. “classic. not bad. smooth, but safe.”

“don’t underestimate the basics,” he said, pouring two glasses like he’d done this a thousand times — and somehow made it look new.

as you took your first sip, your eyes flicked to the head table.

“you know…” you said slowly, glancing toward the bouquet resting near hinata’s seat, “we should really do the single ladies a favor.”

“how’s that?”

“we steal the bouquet,” you said with a smirk. “save them the humiliation of diving for it.”

he looked over at the head table, then at you. “you’re dangerous.”

“no,” you said, sipping your wine, “i’m fun.”

he chuckled and glanced around the room, eyes scanning for opportunity.

then he turned back to you and gave the smallest nod — “watch this.”

he stepped forward, lifted one of the wine glasses, and gently tapped the rim with his ring.

ting ting ting

“kiss! kiss! kiss!” he chanted.

you joined in, grinning. “kiss! kiss! kiss!”

within seconds, the room caught on. laughter burst out across the tables as everyone turned toward the blushing couple. takemichi looked panicked; hinata rolled her eyes affectionately and kissed him as guests whooped and clapped around them.

every head turned.

“now,” you whispered, already slipping off your heels.

you moved in sync — draken swept the bouquet under his arm with the ease of someone who’d done far riskier things in his past, and you ducked behind him as the two of you bolted down a hallway, hidden by applause and chaos.

your laughter echoed quietly in the corridor as he pushed open an unmarked door and motioned you inside.

the room was warm and still — an empty space left untouched by the reception. a grand piano sat in one corner, glossy under the soft spill of moonlight through tall, arched windows. velvet curtains swayed gently as the air shifted.

you leaned against the door, breathless. “i can’t believe that worked.”

he held up the bouquet like a prize. “still got it.”

“not bad, dragon,” you said, crossing the room barefoot as your dress swept the floor. “you’ve got moves after all.”

“just getting started,” he muttered, half to himself.

you turned to him, eyes glinting. “well then… impress me.”

he stepped closer, the wine bottle still in his hand, eyes never leaving yours.

and just like that, the game shifted.

not louder. not flashier.

but real. subtle.

the kind of move you don’t even realize is happening until your heart skips.

draken wandered over to the piano, running his fingers across the keys like he wasn’t sure if he should — and then, with a quiet smirk, he sat down and started to play.

the sound that came out wasn’t soft or romantic.

nope.

it was funky.

bouncy.

ridiculous.

you blinked once, then laughed — not because it was bad, but because it was so good and so completely unexpected from a guy like him. it sounded like something you’d hear in a 70s spy movie montage — dramatic flourishes, syncopated rhythm, total chaos.

you looked at him.

he nodded at the empty space in front of the piano bench. “your move, sundrop.”

you raised your brows. “oh, we’re doing this?”

he kept playing, clearly unbothered. “better make it count.”

you stepped into the light with the dramatic flair of someone who knew full well they had no clue what they were doing — which, to be fair, was the point.

you started with a cha-cha that somehow turned into finger guns, threw in a painfully awkward body roll, then added a full spin that almost tripped you off your feet — but you landed it with confidence like it had all been on purpose. your finale? a full-on jazz hands explosion in his face.

“ta-da!” you declared, out of breath and fully committed.

draken’s fingers stumbled on the last chord as he burst out laughing.

“wow,” he said, deadpan through a grin. “i mean… that was something.”

you put a hand on your chest. “be honest. life-changing?”

“you just invented four new dance styles and a lawsuit.”

you laughed as you flopped down next to him on the piano bench, cheeks warm and smile wide. your thighs barely touched, just a few inches of space between you and the wine bottle still rolling gently on the floor nearby.

“okay,” you admitted, catching your breath, “i have no idea how to dance.”

he turned to you slowly, brow raised. “you don’t say.”

“not even a little bit.”

“you really fooled me back there,” he said, eyes mock-wide with awe. “the part where you almost broke your ankle? inspired.”

you snorted, leaning slightly against the piano as you both laughed again — the kind of laughter that came easy and unfiltered, the kind that stayed behind in the corners of your mouth even when the moment passed.

outside, the music of the wedding pulsed faintly. but here — in this quiet little room, in a stolen piece of the night — it was just you and him.

and the tiniest, growing feeling that maybe this wasn’t just fun.

maybe this was starting to matter.

you were still catching your breath from laughing, curled sideways on the bench beside him, your knee almost brushing his. the glow from the moonlight softened the edges of everything — your hair, the curve of his shoulders, the space between you.

he glanced at you, eyes glinting. “you know, it’s kind of a shame.”

you turned your head, playful. “what is?”

“that you’re not getting some tonight.”

your jaw dropped, mock offended. “excuse me?”

he shrugged, lips curling. “just saying. a woman steals a bouquet, does jazz hands in heels, risks arrest… seems like she should get rewarded.”

you laughed, shaking your head. “i could get some tonight.”

his brow lifted. “oh?”

you leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing like you were making a point — like this was evidence in your favor. “you’re a guy.”

“correct,” he said, unblinking.

“you’re here.”

“still tracking.”

“you’re a guy i could get some from if i wanted to.”

he didn’t miss a beat. “absolutely.”

you broke into a laugh that doubled you forward, hands braced on your knees.

he grinned at your reaction, clearly proud of himself. “what, am i wrong?”

“no, it’s the way you said it! like—zero hesitation. so matter-of-fact.”

“i’m just agreeing with you,” he said, mock-innocent.

your laughter faded slowly, leaving the two of you sitting there in that in-between silence — the kind that isn’t awkward, just full.

you met his eyes again. and this time, you didn’t look away right away.

neither did he.

his expression softened — the edges of his mouth twitching slightly, like he wanted to say something else. or maybe lean in.

your heart beat louder than the music outside.

his eyes flicked down — just once. barely.

and that was your cue.

“we are not gonna kiss,” you blurted, pointing at him.

draken dropped his hand dramatically onto the piano, letting it crash into a chaotic jumble of keys.

ba-donnnng.

you burst into laughter again. “i’m serious!”

he just looked at you, eyes narrow. “why not?”

“because if we kiss,” you said, “then it becomes real. and this is not real. this is wine and a piano and fake names and me doing the interpretive worm.”

“so you’re saying… a kiss ruins it?”

“yes. because a kiss makes it mean something.”

he tilted his head slightly. “not if it’s a bad kiss.”

“you saying you’re a bad kisser?”

“not at all,” he said, leaning his elbow on the piano, watching you closely now. “but if you’re scared…”

“i’m not scared,” you snapped back, eyes narrowing.

“then what’s the problem?”

“i just don’t trust you.”

“to kiss you?”

“no,” you said dramatically, “to not use too much tongue.”

he raised both brows. “you think i’d use too much tongue?”

you pointed to his mouth. “you look like a guy who gets cocky with tongue.”

he leaned a little closer, voice low but playful. “i’ll have you know i use exactly the right amount of tongue.”

you rolled your eyes, trying not to smile. “okay, mathematician.”

“balanced. measured. tailored to your face.”

you laughed again — a sharp, bright sound that filled the quiet room.

your laughter faded slowly, and what remained between you wasn’t quite silence — it was breath. thick and warm and close. his knees were still turned toward you, your legs brushing just enough to notice, and the piano’s last clumsy chord still echoed somewhere in the wooden floorboards.

he was watching you — really watching you now. eyes dark but soft, like he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up here, in this little forgotten room with you, but now that he was… he didn’t want to leave it.

you tilted your head slightly, biting the inside of your cheek.

then, quiet and thoughtful, you said, “how about this.”

his brow rose.

you leaned forward a little, chin propped in your hand. “the drum roll.”

he blinked once. “drum roll?”

you nodded, explaining with a little grin, like you were letting him in on a very serious secret.

“you know how every kiss has a drum roll? the part right before it happens — the lean in, the pause, that… build-up. like the universe is holding its breath?”

he nodded slowly, watching you with interest now.

“that’s the best part,” you said, voice soft but certain. “it’s better than the kiss itself, sometimes.”

he tilted his head. “so… you’re saying…”

“we stop there,” you said. “we only do the drum roll.”

“just the lead-up.”

“just the lead-up,” you echoed, smiling. “no kiss. no tongue. no consequences.”

he blinked at you again, then let out a low chuckle. “you’re something else.”

you shrugged. “you in or not?”

he didn’t answer with words.

instead, he turned slightly on the bench, slowly — deliberately — and waited for you to do the same.

you did.

and then it began — the drum roll.

you both leaned in, carefully, like something fragile was held between you. his eyes flicked to your mouth once, then back up to your eyes. your breath hitched slightly, and you felt his fan across your cheek, warm and steady.

you were so close now. so close you could see the faintest scar near his temple. so close you could count the freckles on the bridge of his nose. so close your knees touched fully now, no space left.

but neither of you moved the final inch.

you just… stayed there.

hovering.

breathing.

letting the weight of almost settle around you like smoke.

you closed your eyes for a beat. just to feel it.

and he didn’t pull away.

not yet.

not until a few seconds passed and the silence deepened into something warm and impossible.

then you both leaned back at the same time, slowly, like surfacing from water. and when your eyes met again, there was no teasing in them — just understanding.

you’d shared something.

something small.

but impossibly big.

no kiss.

no contact.

just the best part of it.

the drum roll.

(..◜ᴗ◝..)

“…the drum roll?” mitsuya repeated, brows raised.

draken nodded once. “yep.”

mikey looked up, blinking slowly. “that’s it?”

“that’s it.”

mikey blinked again. “you didn’t kiss her?”

“no.”

“you didn’t ask for her number?”

“nope.”

“you didn’t even find out her last name?”

“i didn’t.”

“bro,” mikey groaned, slumping even further into his bowl. “are you actually stupid or just emotionally constipated?”

“i don’t think those are mutually exclusive,” mitsuya muttered.

draken gave them both a look. “it wasn’t like that.”

“it sounds exactly like that,” mitsuya said, finally lifting his chopsticks. “you met someone who clearly made you soft in the head and the heart, and then you just let her vanish like it was some poetic side-quest.”

“it wasn’t about closing the deal,” draken said, a little quieter now. “it was—i don’t know. it was perfect. she was perfect. we just… connected. for real.”

mikey frowned. “so then why not actually do something about it?”

draken leaned forward, elbows on the table, looking at the warped reflection of his glass of water. “because we weren’t supposed to. that was the deal. one night. no names. no kiss. and it worked. we ended it before we ruined it.”

“draken,” mitsuya said slowly, like he was breaking bad news, “you already ruined it by not following up.”

“it’s not like i’ll see her again,” draken muttered, voice low. “we left it exactly how it started — like a story you don’t finish.”

the ramen shop settled into a quiet stretch.

mikey picked up his tea. mitsuya took another bite of his egg.

draken sat there, still — jaw set, shoulders stiff. until—

“…damn it.”

he shoved his hands down on the table and stood up, the stool screeching under him.

“damn it, i have to see her again.”

mikey nearly choked on his tea. “finally.”

“took you long enough,” mitsuya added, but there was a grin in his voice now.

draken ran a hand through his hair, looking half-crazed and entirely alive. “i don’t even know where to start—she said her name was sundrop.”

mikey blinked. “like the flower?”

“or a soda?” mitsuya offered.

“no idea.”

“that’s the dumbest fake name i’ve ever heard,” mikey said.

“i know,” draken muttered, already pulling his phone out. “but it’s mine now.”

and just like that, the drum roll wasn’t over.

it was just beginning again.

draken was still standing, one hand in his pocket, the other gripping his phone like it might start ringing on its own. his brows were pulled tight, mind racing.

mikey and mitsuya stared at him from the booth, both half-finished with their ramen now, interest fully redirected to the drama unfolding.

“okay, wait,” mitsuya said suddenly, sitting up straighter. “you said her real name was…”

“y/n,” draken said, nodding once. “that’s all i got. no last name. no number. no workplace. just ‘y/n’ and that stupid fake name she gave me.”

mikey furrowed his brows. “sunlight?”

“sundrop,” draken corrected, sighing like the name actually hurt now.

“sundrop,” mitsuya repeated, squinting. “that’s so unserious of her.”

“and yet here we are,” draken muttered, staring at the name in his recent calls. “i can’t stop thinking about her.”

“okay, but listen,” mitsuya said, glancing at mikey. “didn’t y/n hang out with hinata at the reception?”

mikey blinked. “wait. yeah. they were definitely talking by the photo wall.”

“boom,” mitsuya said, gesturing with both hands. “there’s your link.”

“hinata,” draken echoed, eyes lighting up. “hinata would know who she is.”

there was a pause.

and then mikey frowned.

“…they’re on their honeymoon, bro.”

draken’s hand froze mid-dial.

“they just left for two weeks,” mikey continued, now slurping noodles again. “remember? takemichi said something about beaches and zero cell service. and ‘not even god is allowed to call us.’ direct quote.”

mitsuya nodded. “you should definitely wait until they’re back.”

draken slowly set the phone face down on the table. “…yeah. yeah, i’ll wait.”

a pause.

“you’re calling her right now, aren’t you?” mikey said flatly.

“yeah i’m calling her right now,” draken said, flipping the phone over again.

“don’t do it!” mikey exclaimed, pointing at him with his chopsticks. “don’t ruin their honeymoon!”

“you think she’s actually gonna answer?” mitsuya added, mouth half-full. “what’s your plan? leave a desperate voicemail?”

draken didn’t answer — just scrolled through his contacts like a man possessed.

mikey groaned and dropped his forehead dramatically into his bowl. “you’re the worst. they’re probably on a boat somewhere.”

“just one question,” draken muttered, holding the phone to his ear.

“draken—” mitsuya started.

“—and i swear i’ll be respectful—”

as the line started to ring, mikey leaned over to whisper urgently, “ask her about the cake.”

draken blinked. “what?”

“ask her where they got the cake,” mikey repeated, deadly serious. “it was so soft. like clouds. and the frosting wasn’t even too sweet.”

mitsuya nodded solemnly. “respectfully, i second this.”

draken rolled his eyes — but the smile tugging at his lips gave him away.

he wasn’t calling for the cake.

he was calling for her.

the line rang once.

twice.

a third time—

“hello?” a familiar voice chirped.

draken’s eyes widened. “…hinata?”

“draken?” she replied, equal parts surprised and suspicious.

he cleared his throat, forcing himself to sound casual. “heyyy hinata.”

mikey and mitsuya were already mouthing what is he doing? from the booth.

“i just—uh—wanted to say the wedding was so beautiful,” draken said, pacing in a slow circle now. “like… stunning. perfect weather. great venue. amazing speeches. and that dress? you? radiant.”

there was a pause.

“thank you…?” hinata replied slowly.

“also! how’s the honeymoon?” he asked quickly.

but before she could even open her mouth, draken steamrolled ahead.

“so i kinda met this girl at the reception and i was wondering if—”

“ohhh you have got to be kidding me!” hinata exploded.

“here we go,” takemichi’s voice groaned in the background.

“draken, twenty-four hours ago, you were inviting emma to the wedding—like, making a whole scene in the kitchen about how it’s ‘important’ and ‘we’re figuring things out’—and now you’re just suddenly over her?!”

draken winced. “i’ve… moved on?”

hinata let out a long, dramatic sigh — one that probably echoed across the entire island they were honeymooning on.

“what’s her name,” hinata asked finally. “and if it’s my fat cousin kaski, don’t lie. she has beautiful eyes and a killer personality.”

“it’s not kaski,” draken muttered quickly. “her name was y/n.”

“full name?”

“…just y/n.”

another pause. and then—

“well,” hinata said brightly, “you’re in luck!”

draken’s spine straightened. “really?”

“yep! lucky for you, i have my guest list memorized forwards and backwards.”

mikey gave a triumphant thumbs-up from his seat. mitsuya mouthed clutch.

draken exhaled, shoulders dropping. “thank god. i thought—”

“unlucky for you,” hinata cut in, her tone shifting instantly, “there was no ‘y/n’ on my guest list.”

draken froze. “…wait, what?”

“no y/n,” she repeated. “no y-n. no y period n period. no guest nicknamed sundrop. nada. zip.”

“what? that can’t be—”

“draken,” hinata said flatly, “i love you, but we’re on a boat. and takemichi just figured out how sunscreen works. goodbye.”

click.

the line went dead.

draken stood there for a full five seconds, phone still to his ear.

the silence in the ramen shop was deafening.

“…so?” mitsuya asked finally.

draken slowly turned back toward them, stunned.

“she wasn’t on the guest list,” he muttered.

mikey blinked. “you got ghosted by a phantom guest.”

draken dropped into the booth again, hands on his head.

“she’s not real,” he whispered.

mitsuya handed him the bottle of soy sauce like it was a shot of whiskey.

mikey leaned in, totally unfazed. “…did she say anything about the cake?”

“she wasn’t on the guest list,” draken repeated, still stunned, still reeling.

“so she crashed the wedding,” mitsuya said, piecing it together out loud.

“ohh,” mikey said, grinning now. “she’s good. she’s very good.”

mitsuya leaned back in the booth, nodding slowly. “maybe… maybe she gave a second fake name. like, for the rsvp.”

“a decoy fake name,” mikey said, eyes wide with admiration. “damn. she’s a pro.”

“i told you she was impressive,” draken muttered.

mitsuya, eyes suddenly distant, shifted gears again. “wait. what if… she didn’t want to kiss you because she was… a ghost.”

mikey sat up. “wait, yeah! and if you’d kissed her, your lips would’ve gone right through her and it would’ve felt really cold for a second!”

he slapped the table once. “yo. that’d make such a good screenplay.”

draken blinked at both of them. “guys.”

“she only appears under moonlight,” mitsuya added seriously. “only after bouquet tosses and ill-advised wine heists—”

“guys,” draken said louder, waving his hands. “she’s not a ghost.”

“you sure?” mikey asked, resting his chin in his hand.

“yeah. because she picked up the bouquet. solid object interaction. corporeal form. this isn’t ‘sixth sense,’ man.” mitsuya joked.

draken face-palmed.

“wait,” mitsuya said suddenly, sitting forward. “she was sitting across a few bridesmaids during the speeches, wasn’t she?”

“yeah!” draken snapped his fingers. “she was!”

mikey leaned back again. “okay, cool, cool — and how exactly are we supposed to get in touch with any of them?”

there was a pause.

draken looked at his phone.

then he grinned.

“i’m calling hakkai.”

mitsuya’s eyes widened. “you think—?”

“his brother definitely hooked up with one of the bridesmaids,” draken said, already dialing. “maybe she knows who y/n is.”

“that’s such a weird chain of people,” mikey muttered.

the line rang twice before hakkai answered, voice groggy and suspicious.

“…hello?”

“hakkai,” draken said, no time for pleasantries. “your brother hooked up with one of the bridesmaids, right?”

there was a beat of silence.

“…draken, what the hell—”

“i just need her number,” he said quickly. “i’m trying to find someone who might not even exist.”

“uh, no? i’m not getting involved with whatever bizarre scavenger hunt this is,” hakkai said immediately.

draken groaned. “come on.”

“hakkai,” mitsuya said suddenly, grabbing the phone and flipping the switch. “it’s me. listen. it’s romantic. it’s tragic. it’s maybe fate. you want to be the guy who stood in the way of that?”

silence.

then a sigh.

“…give me five minutes. if this girl blocks me, i’m blaming you.”

“deal,” mitsuya said, grinning as he handed the phone back to draken.

mikey blinked. “did you just romance-speech hakkai?”

“it works,” mitsuya shrugged. “i’m terrifying when i’m heartfelt.”

draken stared at the phone like it might unlock all the answers in the world.

and for the first time in hours…

he actually had a lead.

the phone was now on speaker, lying flat on the table between draken, mitsuya, and mikey — all leaning in like detectives on the edge of a breakthrough. on the other end, hakkai’s voice sounded deeply unamused.

“okay,” hakkai sighed. “she’s on the line. but i need more than ‘mysterious girl with a pretty face and a fake name.’ does anyone remember anything else about her?”

“what was she wearing?” the bridesmaid’s voice crackled faintly through the speaker.

hakkai repeated the question. “draken. clothes. anything stick?”

mikey scoffed. “he’s a guy. no way he can even remember her shoes.”

“actually,” draken said, sitting up straighter, “i do.”

mitsuya and mikey blinked in unison.

“wait, seriously?” mikey asked.

“yeah. they were silver — strappy, but with that thin heel, and glittery. like… obnoxiously glittery.”

mitsuya nodded, impressed. “okay cinderella detail, go on.”

“when we left the reception room,” draken said, leaning forward slightly, “i asked her, like, what’s the first thing she wanted to do after the wedding ended. and she said…”

he grinned a little at the memory.

“…she said, ‘take off these damn shoes,’ handed them to me, and then did a full cartwheel across the courtyard. like — no warning. just boom.”

there was a stunned pause.

mikey looked like he’d just seen god. “…you watched a woman do a cartwheel in a formal gown and didn’t immediately propose?”

hakkai’s voice came back, dry. “i relayed the info.”

from the other end, the bridesmaid’s voice lit up. “awww, that’s kind of adorable. they sound cute.”

“yep,” hakkai said, with all the energy of a man in hour seven of being emotionally held hostage. “real fairytale stuff.”

“does that ring any bells?” he asked, hopefully.

a beat.

then:

“nope! sorry,” the bridesmaid said. “but hey — you trying to hook up?”

hakkai deadpanned, “wrong brother,” and immediately hung up.

the line clicked off.

a long silence followed in the ramen shop.

draken leaned back in his seat, rubbing his temples.

“well, that’s that.”

“we tried,” mitsuya said with a sigh.

“you guys owe me,” hakkai’s voice came through one final time — a text, not a call.

mitsuya raised his soda in solemn respect. “legend.”

mikey, still clearly focused on the cartwheel part, muttered, “if i don’t get that at my wedding, i’m not signing the papers.”

draken slumped deeper into the booth.

back to square one.

the silence after hakkai’s hang-up sat heavy over the booth.

draken leaned back, arms crossed, staring at the condensation running down his glass of water like it held answers. mitsuya sipped slowly from his soda. mikey twirled his noodles with exaggerated effort, clearly unbothered by the existential crisis unfolding next to him.

after a few quiet beats, mitsuya finally said, “hey. don’t lose hope.”

draken didn’t answer.

“she could’ve been staying at the hotel where the wedding was, right?” mitsuya offered, voice calm but hopeful. “we could call them. ask if anyone checked in under the name y/n. or maybe just ‘y’ or ‘n.’”

draken raised an eyebrow.

mikey slurped loudly. “or sundrop.”

both mitsuya and draken turned to look at him.

mikey froze, chopsticks in mid-air. “…okay, maybe not sundrop.”

draken shook his head and exhaled, leaning forward with both arms on the table.

“you know what?” he said, voice steady now — not defeated, but resolved. “this is fate.”

mitsuya frowned. “what?”

“i was never supposed to see this girl again,” draken said. “that was the whole point of the night. no names. no contact. no kiss. just that one perfect moment.”

he reached for his drink and stared down at the swirling ice.

“and maybe this is the universe keeping it clean. keeping it beautiful. maybe i’m just being saved from myself.”

mikey blinked. “you being serious right now?”

“dead serious,” draken muttered. “i mean, we’ve wasted half our ramen. it’s cold now.”

“so we just let her go?” mitsuya asked, still not convinced.

“we let her go,” draken said, nodding. “and we don’t talk about her again.”

mikey raised his bowl. “to wasting food and emotional suppression.”

“cheers,” draken said dryly.

the three of them dug into their mostly-forgotten bowls. the clinking of chopsticks replaced the chaos of a few moments ago.

but even as he ate, even as he told himself it was done, draken knew one thing for sure.

he was not done.

not by a long shot.

(..◜ᴗ◝..)

evening settled over the sano house like a blanket — quiet, soft, almost too still.

mikey had just dropped face-first onto his bed, stomach full of ramen, brain full of half-formed theories about cartwheels, ghosts, and unexplainable connections. he was drifting between consciousness and a very necessary nap when—

knock knock.

his eyes cracked open.

“…what,” he groaned toward the door.

“it’s me,” came emma’s voice on the other side.

he rolled over and forced himself up, still groggy, then padded across the room and opened it.

emma stood there, already halfway through pulling her cardigan sleeves down, looking a little flushed but smiling.

“what do you want?” he asked, rubbing one eye.

“just came to tell you something,” she said. “i got the job.”

his eyes lit up a little despite himself. “oh shoot. really?”

“mmhm.”

he leaned against the doorframe, smirking. “look at you. big boss manager lady.”

emma laughed lightly. “it’s not that big of a deal.”

“no, it is,” he said honestly. “that’s huge.”

her smile faltered a little — just a flicker — and she glanced down at her hands. “i still feel bad, though. for flaking on draken. right before the wedding.”

mikey tilted his head. “don’t.”

“i told him i’d go and then didn’t,” she said softly. “he didn’t say anything, but… i still feel like i let him down.”

mikey took a deep breath and stepped back, motioning for her to come in.

“you didn’t,” he said. “and actually… you’re not even ready for this.”

“what do you mean?”

he flopped onto his bed again, head propped on a pillow, one arm behind it. “i’m about to tell you the wildest story. sit.”

she did — crossing her legs at the foot of his bed, eyebrows knit.

“so,” mikey began, “in fact… you flaking might’ve been the best thing that could’ve happened to him.”

and then he told her everything.

from draken getting stood up at the wedding entrance

to the silky dress

to the bouquet heist

to the drum roll

to the ramen shop

to the ghost theory

to hakkai’s wrong-brother hookup connection

to the cartwheel

to the dead end.

he told it with his usual dramatic flair, hands moving with every name drop, every twist, every dumb decision.

by the time he finished, emma’s expression had gone completely still.

“…and so now,” mikey said, “he’s pretending it’s fate, but we all know he’s lying to himself. dude’s down bad.”

emma didn’t say anything.

she just kept staring at him — not shocked, not confused — but something else.

heartbroken.

“…what?” mikey asked finally, sitting up.

her voice was barely above a whisper.

“i know who she is.”

mikey sat up straighter, eyebrows pulled together.

“wait, how do you know who she is? you weren’t even at the wedding!”

emma looked down for a second, then lifted her eyes again, steady this time.

“actually…” she said quietly, “i kinda was.”

“what?”

“i didn’t plan to be,” she started. “i had my interview that afternoon, and once it ended, i was feeling so good — so excited. and i just… i don’t know. i wanted to tell draken in person. to surprise him. so i went to the reception.”

mikey blinked.

“i got there late, right after the ceremony ended. no one noticed me sneak in. and that’s when i saw them.”

she paused, and mikey saw her swallow — like the memory still stung.

“they were in this side room. not completely closed off, but kinda hidden. there was a piano. and they were sitting there. on the bench. really close. laughing.”

she looked away.

“and it hit me. like, actually hit me. how he was looking at her.”

mikey sat there, stunned.

“so i ducked out and went to the bathroom. ladies’ room near the back hallway.”

emma’s voice got quieter, breathier now, almost like she was back there again.

“i went into the last stall. sat down. and just started sobbing. quietly at first. and then full-on snot-level crying. like… embarrassing.”

she gave a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “i kept whispering, ‘oh, damn it. come on. stop it. stop it. what the hell are you doing?’”

“it wasn’t even technically anything. not a kiss. not a confession. but it felt like something. and it made me feel so stupid.”

mikey’s face softened. he didn’t say anything.

emma wiped under her eyes again, even now.

“i’m still sitting there blowing my nose into cheap toilet paper when i hear this voice.”

she straightened a little. “‘hello? you okay in there?’”

mikey raised his brows.

“i panicked,” emma said. “so i went, ‘uhhh… yeah! i’m fine! um… just allergies or something!’”

and then she smiled, a little — but it was fragile.

“i looked down. and i saw her shoes under the stall door.”

mikey froze. “the shoes?”

emma nodded. “silver. strappy. thin-heeled. obnoxiously glittery.”

mikey blinked again, piecing it together.

“i was still crying,” she continued. “and she goes, ‘listen… do you wanna come and cry out here? i’ve been told i’m an excellent hugger.’”

“you’re kidding,” mikey muttered.

“i said no thanks. told her i don’t cry in front of people. or at all. but then i blew my nose again and said, ‘oh man, this is so gross. does everyone snot up this much when they cry?’”

emma laughed softly. “and she goes, ‘hey, you’re speaking to a fellow snotter!’”

that part made mikey laugh too — just a little.

“she was funny. and nice. and she wasn’t trying to pry.”

emma’s face sobered again.

“but then… she asked me. ‘so why ya crying?’”

silence filled the room like heavy fog.

mikey sat back, arms crossed, eyes still locked on his sister.

then he nodded once and said, deadpan:

“because you have feelings for draken.”

emma stared at the floor, arms folded over her chest.

“i don’t know,” she said softly. “maybe?”

mikey’s jaw dropped. his arms shot out like he was trying to stop invisible traffic.

“okay, what is wrong with the two of you!? seriously?!!”

emma blinked, startled.

“you like him! he likes you! just be together already!” mikey threw his arms up again, spinning in a tiny circle. “jeez louise, happiness is not that difficult!”

“oh, listen,” emma said, getting to her feet now, flustered. “yes, i cried in the bathroom. and yes, that was weird!”

she began gesturing wildly. “but that doesn’t mean i’m in love with the guy!”

“really?” mikey shot back.

“yes! the fact is, i don’t know how i feel!”

mikey stepped forward, pointing dramatically. “yes, you do!”

emma stopped mid-motion.

“seeing him with someone else and crying about it? guess what?! that’s how you feel! that is nothing but how you feel!”

the room went still.

they stood across from each other — both breathing a little heavier now, the tension having finally caught up with them.

emma swallowed.

“okay, fine,” she snapped. “i have feelings for him. happy?!”

mikey grinned. “kind of, yeah.”

emma rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful. she let out a long, frustrated breath.

“but it doesn’t change anything,” she said, calmer now, quieter. “i still want commitment. and he’s still draken.”

mikey’s smile faded just slightly. “yeah…”

emma turned to the door, but stopped herself. she took a deep breath.

“what i should do is tell him who victoria is. so he can be happy.”

mikey threw up his hands again. “or you could tell him you’re into him, and then you could both be happy!”

they locked eyes again — less heated now, but still intense. the kind of silence that isn’t uncomfortable… just waiting.

then emma nodded, almost to herself.

“i’m gonna go find him.”

she turned toward the hallway, steps already picking up pace—

“wait.”

she stopped in the doorway.

turned back.

mikey tilted his head. “which one are you gonna tell him?”

emma looked down at the floor.

at her hands.

at the door again.

“…i have no idea.”

(..◜ᴗ◝..)

the ramen shop buzzed with soft noise — the clink of chopsticks, the steady slurp of noodles, laughter bubbling up from booth to booth.

in the back corner sat draken, mitsuya, and nahoya, crammed into their usual booth, the remains of their meal scattered in front of them. nahoya was halfway through reenacting some wild interaction from earlier that day — something about a lady with a parrot in her bag yelling at a vending machine — and both draken and mitsuya were laughing hard enough that nahoya had to pause to wipe his eyes.

“bro, she threw a can of ginger ale at me like it owed her money!” nahoya wheezed.

“i swear, you live in a sitcom,” mitsuya said, shaking his head.

draken was just about to wipe his mouth when the bell above the door jingled.

“hey guys,” came a voice.

they all turned to see emma standing in the entrance, a little hesitant but wearing a half-smile.

“emma,” nahoya grinned. “yo.”

“hey,” mitsuya greeted warmly.

draken straightened, surprised but glad. “hey.”

emma shifted slightly, eyes flicking toward him. “um, hey draken. can i talk to you outside for a second?”

draken blinked. “uh—yeah, sure.”

he stood, wiping his hands on a napkin as he cleared his throat. “what’s up?”

but just then, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

emma opened her mouth again. “i have to tell you something.”

he glanced down at the screen. “um…?”

emma nodded, understanding. “go ahead. pick it up.”

draken answered and held the phone to his ear. “hello?”

“draken, it’s me. takemichi.”

draken smiled faintly. “yo.”

“my lovely bride would like to say something to you,” takemichi added with a chuckle, before handing the phone off.

“draaaakeeeeen,” came hinata’s voice, dripping in sarcasm.

he could already hear airport chaos in the background.

“i’m sorry i hung up on you earlier,” she slurred just slightly, “but my new husband and this vodka cranberry, which by the way cost ten dollars and fifty cents at the airport bar,” — a pause as she shouted in the distance — “when is this plane going to board?!”

a faint, calming “sweet pea” from takemichi followed, trying to gently reel her back.

hinata cleared her throat. “anyway. i realized that sometimes i can act like a crazy person. and i don’t want my new husband thinking i’m a crazy person.”

draken chuckled. “it’s fine, hinata. seriously. don’t worry about it.”

in the booth, mitsuya gestured wildly, pantomiming eating — shoveling invisible forkfuls into his mouth.

“oh,” draken added into the phone, “and the guys were wondering where you got that cake.”

“cake?” hinata asked, confused for a second.

but behind him, emma had gone still.

the noise faded into a dull hum around her as a memory resurfaced — sudden and vivid.

she was in the bathroom stall, sniffling, red-eyed and emotionally wrecked. and then came that soft voice:

“why don’t you take this?”

a bouquet slid under the stall wall.

emma blinked, reached down, and pulled it toward her.

“sounds like you could use it,” the girl had said from the other side.

emma’s voice had cracked. “thank you. you’re very sweet.”

and then: “so are you a friend of the bride or groom?”

a pause.

“actually… neither.”

emma’s heart picked up as the flash faded and she blinked back into the present.

on the other end of the phone, hinata finally answered draken’s question.

“we got it from this bakery downtown,” she said. “it’s called—”

“sundrop sweets,” emma whispered.

draken’s head turned sharply toward her, stunned.

“sundrop sweets,” hinata repeated. “you should go there sometime. amazing frosting.”

draken’s hand slowly lowered the phone from his ear, hanging up without another word.

his eyes widened as it clicked.

he turned to mitsuya, voice low but electric with realization.

“she made the cake.”

draken was pacing now, eyes wild, voice climbing in pitch.

“she wasn’t on the guest list because she wasn’t a guest!!” he turned to mitsuya, pointing like a man possessed. “she made the cake!”

mitsuya blinked hard, like something in his soul had just clicked.

“she made that cake.” he stood slowly. “draken. this is the girl.”

draken stared at him.

“you gotta marry her. today.”

“what—?”

“no, listen to me,” mitsuya said, suddenly intense, gripping draken’s shoulders. “she’s gotta move in with us. do you understand me? this woman bakes.”

“i’m going down to that bakery,” draken declared, spinning on his heel, already halfway out the booth.

but mikey jumped up, grabbing him by the arm and whipping him back around. “no no no. don’t do it!”

mitsuya’s voice shot up an octave. “what are you talking about?!”

draken pointed at mikey, arms flailing now. “yeah! all day long you’ve been busting my apple bag about finding this girl!”

“i know, i know!” mikey said, sweating. “but maybe she’s just… not that into you.”

draken’s expression froze.

mikey hesitated, then added, eyes darting to emma, “and… and maybe that’s why she didn’t give you her number.”

he turned, slowly, dramatically.

“emma? care to chime in with anything?”

all eyes on her.

emma stood frozen, eyes locked with draken’s.

“…yes, draken.”

everyone held their breath.

emma exhaled, quietly but firmly.

“go get her.”

draken’s face lit up like a firework. “going!! getting!!!”

he rushed toward the door—only for nahoya to dramatically slide in front of him like a basketball defense move.

“oh my gosh i love this moment!” nahoya said, giddy, bouncing on his heels. “you know why? because i’m gonna say it. and this time, you’re gonna say yes.”

draken blinked. “nahoya not now—”

“ready?” nahoya rubbed his hands together. “are ya ready to say yes??”

he took a deep, theatrical breath.

“draken… it’s time to get a perm.”

draken, adrenaline pumping, fist in the air: “YES!!”

nahoya threw his arms up in triumph.

then draken paused. blinked.

“…no.”

“oh come on!!” nahoya whined, tossing a napkin at him.

(..◜ᴗ◝..)

the city glided past the windows in a blur of neon and brake lights, muted under the low hum of the engine and the occasional shuffle of a ramen wrapper in the backseat.

draken sat in the passenger seat, eyes fixed out the window, but he wasn’t seeing anything out there.

he was seeing her.

the piano room had faded behind them, and they stepped back into the reception hall.

it was empty.

no lights strung up. no laughing voices. no cake crumbs on plates.

just silence and the leftover sparkle of a party that had already come and gone.

“guess we were gone a while,” she said, glancing around.

draken chuckled. “did we miss the entire party?”

“entire,” she confirmed.

they both laughed, quietly — not the big kind, but the soft, breathy kind that stays with you.

and then she pouted, just a little.

“kinda wanted one dance.”

draken looked at her.

then held out a hand.

“then let’s dance.”

they moved together slowly, no music, just the hush of the empty room.

his hands were steady. hers were light on his shoulders.

her dress rustled gently when she swayed.

it was the kind of dance that made time feel embarrassed for ever trying to pass.

“sundrop sweets! this is it.”

mikey’s voice pulled draken sharply out of his head.

they pulled up to a little corner bakery, pastel-painted and glowing from the inside like it had its own sun.

mitsuya leaned forward, giving draken a firm pat on the shoulder. “good luck, dude. grab me a cupcake.”

draken didn’t move.

he just sat there, fingers tapping against his knee, staring at the front doors like he wasn’t sure what he’d see on the other side — or if he even deserved to see it.

“draken?” nahoya said carefully. “you still with us?”

their dance slowed to a stop.

they looked at each other.

and leaned in.

but just before their lips met, she pulled away — not cold, not apologetic, just… gentle.

a breath away from something real.

“there’s one flaw with tonight,” draken had said, his voice low.

she looked up at him. “what?”

he smiled softly. “i’m gonna have to feel the pain of seeing you walk out the door.”

she tilted her head. thought for a moment. then reached up and touched his chest lightly.

“then don’t watch me go.”

he blinked.

“close your eyes,” she said. “and count to five.”

he hesitated.

but did it anyway.

“one…”

“two…”

“three…”

he could hear her breathing.

“four…”

and then—

“five.”

he opened his eyes.

she was gone.

draken still hadn’t moved.

the guys were quiet now — even mikey — watching him carefully like the wrong word might tip him over.

he stared at the glowing bakery sign ahead.

sundrop sweets.

his jaw was tight. eyes stormy.

“maybe we both need that,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

mikey turned slightly. “need what?”

“this,” draken said softly, nodding toward the bakery. “to stay exactly what it is. a perfect night. no real names. no regrets.”

mitsuya blinked slowly. nahoya was chewing his gum like it was making him nervous.

draken exhaled, long and heavy.

“i mean, so many things go wrong in life. you plan, you build, you fight for things—” he looked down at his hands. “and still, it all falls apart.”

silence.

“but this… this is the one thing that never will.”

his voice dropped, like he was afraid to jinx it.

“it’ll always, always be pure, unadulterated, awesome.”

he turned toward the window, not quite looking in yet.

“if i walk in there,” he said slowly, “i’m robbing both of us of what could be. of what stayed perfect.”

nahoya squinted, leaned forward between the seats.

“dude, the meter’s running,” he said flatly. “crap or get off the pot.”

draken snapped his head around. “what?”

“i’m serious. i will not pay a dime over this.”

“yeah, yeah, i’m going,” draken muttered, pushing open the door.

the city air hit him first — cool, sharp, stirring the ends of his jacket.

he took a deep breath.

then turned toward the bakery.

he slowed as he walked past the big front window.

and there she was.

behind the glass, under warm lights and surrounded by colors and sugar and laughter he couldn’t hear — she was frosting cupcakes.

a small tray balanced on her arm. her brow slightly furrowed in concentration. she was smoothing the top of a swirl, the back of her hand dotted with flour.

she looked so real.

so un-magical in the most magical way.

no red dress. no fancy lights. no soft music playing.

just her. still that girl. but here, in the world, in her element.

his heart thudded.

draken opened the bakery door.

the bell above it chimed, light and bright.

cold air curled in behind him.

and the scent hit him hard — frosting, sugar, maybe a little almond. something citrusy. vanilla in the walls.

his boots touched tile, and everything in him stopped moving.

but in front of him, she didn’t look up yet.

she was still frosting, lost in the rhythm.

just as he’d been, not long ago, lost in the memory.

(..◜ᴗ◝..)

you finish smoothing the last swirl of frosting with a careful flick of your wrist, setting the cupcake down in the display tray with a quiet satisfaction.

your fingers are still a little sticky with sugar when the doorbell chimes.

you don’t look up right away — the sound of the bell is familiar, background noise most days — but something feels different this time.

heavier.

weighted.

you glance toward the door.

and there he is.

standing just inside the shop, like he doesn’t know what to do next.

hair a little messier. jacket half-zipped. eyes locked on you like you’re the only real thing in the room.

your breath catches.

your heart flips over.

and before you even realize you’re moving—

“oh thank god,” you say, voice breathless with relief.

and then you run.

you round the counter without hesitation and close the distance between you and draken like you’ve been waiting forever.

his arms barely open before you crash into him — arms wrapping tight around his neck, face tilted up, and your lips meet his in a kiss that feels like catching up on everything you lost the second you let go that night.

he kisses you back instantly.

it’s not delicate. it’s not rehearsed. it’s not even perfect.

but it’s real.

and it tastes like sugar.

and you never, not for one second, want to pull away.

his hands settle on your waist, grounding you.

you don’t speak. you don’t need to.

the kiss says it all — the missed chances, the “what ifs,” the five-second countdown, and every second since.

when you finally part, it’s just an inch — just enough to breathe the same air and rest your forehead against his.

you smile. he does too.

and outside the bakery window…

“WHOOOOO!!!”

nahoya’s face is pressed to the glass like a kid in a candy store — fittingly.

mikey’s hands are cupped around his eyes as he leans in, squinting. “they’re kissing!! they’re literally kissing right now!!”

mitsuya is behind them, grinning from ear to ear, arms in the air like he just scored a goal.

“HE FOUND HER!! BAKER GIRL IS REAL!!!”

a passerby slows down, staring at the spectacle.

“are they okay?” someone mumbles.

“NO,” nahoya shouts through the glass. “THEY’RE IN LOVE!!”

inside, draken groans softly, his forehead still resting against yours.

“i swear,” he mutters, lips brushing your temple, “they follow me everywhere.”

you laugh.

and suddenly — this moment, this shop, this chaos — ends the most perfect night you’ve ever had.

copyright © t4kalcvr 2025 all rights reserved

💬, this came directly out of how i met your mother season 1 episode 13 😭😭 i absolutely love this episode !!! ANYWAYS ENJOYYYY HUNNIESSSS !!!

ko-fi 🎧

look here for your next read 📚!

permanent 🔖 : @sukunasrealgf @sinamew

[carlislefiles]

long distance | fushiguro megumi, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, kamo choso, nanami kento, yuuji itadori ╰►living apart for a little while didn't seem to big a deal when it first started, but now he realizes that you've made being alone absolutely miserable and he copes...not at all. 12.5k words

a/n: hi hi! back with another headcanon post about the jjk men being so embarrassingly down bad for you, so nothing new of course. this was actually a request, so I hope it's what you wanted!! thanks for leaving a request, I love to get them :] warnings: cussing, kissing, vaguely yandere!suguru but he's trying his best not to be. I think that's all. some are canon compliant, i.e. sorcerer au, cult!geto, etc. and some are not; don't read too much into it please because I'm stupid and don't think very hard. enjoy <3

he always got nervous sending you off on missions. it’s not that he didn’t think you capable of handling yourself. no, megumi knows that you are. but curses are capable, too. capable of pain, capable of torture, capable of damage, capable of murder. he’s watched it happen one too many times. he’s come close to it himself, much too close for comfort.

so that ache is already permeating when yaga assigns you a mission. but this is not like most missions. long games were for special grades or, at the very least, adult sorcerers. you were still in school, still learning. but yaga thinks that’ll be good for you. so he sends you with nanami to some shabby motel in the middle of tokyo to retrieve a cursed object. all in all, no big deal. 

you didn’t cry when you left, didn’t cling to him at the train station or demand nightly calls or send him with some obnoxious token to remember you by. you kissed him, told him you’d be gone for a while, and promised to text when you could.

he didn’t think it would be this hard. it’s been four days. no messages from you yet. nothing but an empty text thread and that stupid blinking cursor in the box where he keeps typing things and deleting them. did you eat? are you okay? I miss you. deleted. deleted. deleted.

megumi isn’t good at being needy. he isn’t good at much when it comes to feelings, honestly. he’s trying not to think about the fact that the dorm feels colder without you. that yuuji keeps asking if he wants to hang out and he keeps saying no. that even nobara noticed he’s been quieter than usual. and then, finally:

“hey!

things are quiet here. I’m okay. 

nothing’s exploded, no one’s dead. don’t worry too much, okay? I know you are.”

he stares at the message for a full minute before answering. it’s the most emotion he’s shown all day. 

“trying not to. 

can you call tonight?”

that night, you do. your hair’s messy, you’re already in pajamas, and the lighting is bad. megumi thinks you look perfect. you don’t say much. you eat in front of the camera—instant ramen in a paper bowl, chopsticks clacking softly.

“you can never repeat this or I will kill you…but I’m kind of missing gojo-sensei’s late night convenience store trips for sweet treats. I’ve eaten plain noodles for the past three nights.” 

“yeah, but you’ll live.” god, he’s such a little shit.

you grin through a mouthful of noodles. “barely. nanami lectures harder than yaga. and he watches me eat like I'm gonna throw my food away or something.”

megumi tilts his head a little, lips twitching. “I would’ve watched you eat too.”

“yeah, but you wouldn’t judge me for only eating the noodles and leaving the broth.”

“...yes I would.”

you gasp, mock betrayal written all over your face. “that’s rich coming from the guy who eats cold miso soup straight from the fridge.”

he doesn’t deny it. doesn’t even blink. just says, “it’s convenient.” you both pause, a lull in conversation. "well, you should go to bed." he says, almost longingly, like he really doesn't want you to.

"wait, no! I still have to finish eating and write a mission debrief. don't leave me alone to this torture," you whine dramatically.

"isn't nanami on the other side of the wall? won't he get annoyed with us talking?" but it's a feeble, pathetic excuse. he doesn't care if nanami's annoyed, he wants to keep talking to you. but megumi is so painfully polite.

"nah," you lie. "he's probably writing his mission debrief. or laying in bed trying to pretend he doesn't miss his girlfriend."

"fiancée," nanami corrects, from the other side of the wall. you roll your eyes and keep eating, and that settles the matter.

megumi watches you from his own desk, textbook open in front of him, highlighter in hand. he doesn’t get much studying done. he keeps glancing at the way your hair falls into your face. the way you hum a little under your breath while you eat. the way you keep glancing at him to see if he’s still looking.

you tell him about the mission in vague terms. enough that he knows you’re still safe. you tell him how boring the town is, how the cursed energy’s been faint but persistent, how nanami makes you check in at regular intervals like a human tracking collar. you joke about it, but megumi hears the fatigue under the laughter.

still, you smile at him. stretch your arms over your head. let out a soft sigh and curl up on your thin little bed in the background. “you tired?” he asks.

you nod. “gonna pass out in a second.”

“I’ll stay on the line.”

you don’t argue. just mumble something like “okay, ‘gumi,” and turn the camera so it’s angled toward your pillow. he hears your breathing first. then the quiet shuffle of your blanket. and then—nothing. he doesn’t hang up. just listens to the soft rhythm of you sleeping and sets his phone down beside his own pillow. it’s the only thing that keeps the nightmares at bay. from that night on, it’s routine. if you don’t call, he doesn’t sleep.

some nights you eat in front of him again. sometimes he reads to you from the literature class you’re missing. you tell him you don’t miss the essays, but you do miss him reading to you, even if it’s monotone and serious. he takes it as a compliment.

he tells you that yuuji says hi. that nobara’s plotting to replace you as his “emotional regulation buddy” with a plush panda she won at an arcade. that gojo told the entire class you’re devastated to be missing “your favorite, beloved, beautiful teacher.”

you make gagging noises over the mic. megumi smirks. “gross,” you groan. “if I die, let that be the last thing anyone hears from me. not gojo-sensei slandering utahime’s good name as my favorite teacher.”

“you’re not dying, and utahime isn’t your teacher.”

“I know. just saying. and she’s still my favorite.”

he doesn’t like that kind of talk, even in jest. but he lets it slide. mostly because your voice is starting to fade again, and he can hear the soft, sleepy rasp that means you’re seconds away from unconsciousness. “goodnight, gumi,” you whisper.

he swallows. “goodnight.” he stays on the call long after you’re out, usually the whole night. he wakes up and nanami’s already dragged you out of bed. but sometimes, early in the mornings, earlier than he’d need to get up, he wakes to the sound of you saying “bye gumi,” before leaving. 

the calls had become a rhythm. a soft beat he could rest his heart against. so when the call doesn’t come—when you don’t pick up—megumi’s world tilts.

it’s a wednesday, just past three in the afternoon. he calls because he misses your voice, because he’s been holding on by the thinnest thread and hearing you breathe over the mic somehow makes him feel like his chest isn't full of barbed wire. it rings once. twice. four times. and then it goes to voicemail.

he stares at his screen. tries again. still nothing. he tells himself you’re probably just busy with the mission. maybe you’re asleep. maybe nanami’s giving a debrief. maybe your phone’s dead. maybe—maybe you’re hurt. maybe you’re bleeding out in some cold concrete stairwell and your cursed tool slipped from your hands and—

he calls again. and again. it spirals quick. too quick. he forgets how to sit still. paces his dorm room like the floor’s going to fall out from under him. pulls his hoodie tighter around him. shoves his phone in his pocket. takes it out. checks his texts. nothing. checks the school emergency threads. nothing. pings gojo just in case—doesn’t get an answer, which just makes it worse.

he feels it building in his chest—this clawing panic he hasn’t felt since he was a kid, since he watched his sister's body be wheeled away, since he realized he was alone in a world that doesn’t care how scared you are.

and then—his screen lights up. [your contact]: incoming facetime call. he answers before the first ring even finishes. “hello?” his voice is raw, low, already cracking.

“gumi,” your voice spills through the speaker, breathless, warm, real, and he can see your face, your phone propped up on the pathetic excuse for a desk in your motel room. “m’so sorry I didn’t answer.”

he exhales so hard it’s almost a gasp. the air rushes out of him like a lung finally punctured, like he’d been holding it the whole time. “what happened?” he asks, too fast.

“nanami was ripping me a new one,” you sigh, dragging the words out like a dramatic retelling. “I dropped a cursed object. by accident. no curses escaped or anything, he’s just being nanami about it.”

from somewhere behind you, nanami’s voice cuts in, sharp as a blade, “it was for your own good!”

“yeah yeah,” you mutter, rolling your eyes so hard he can hear it. “for my growth as a professional sorcerer, I know.” megumi doesn’t laugh, exactly. but something like a breathless, stunned smile pulls at his lips. you’re okay. you’re fine. his fingers are still trembling.

“don’t do that again,” he mutters. “don’t—don’t scare me like that.” he knows it’s irrational, that you’re on a mission and if you’re busy–for example, getting your ass chewed for a dumb mistake—he can’t expect you to drop everything for his phone call. 

“wasn’t on purpose, gumi.”

he knows that. he knows. but it doesn’t matter. logic doesn’t cushion the way his stomach still aches from the half hour of imagining you gone. “when you get home,” he says, voice rough, “we’re talking about this. about these long missions.”

“mm,” you hum. “you know we can't avoid them forever.”

“don’t care.”

you snort. “so bossy.”

“promise me.”

you go quiet for a second. not teasing, not stalling—just watching him through the camera, reading the too-serious look in his eyes. “…we’ll talk about it when I'm back,” you say softly.

megumi doesn’t push it. just says, “fine.” but he’s already made up his mind. he’ll talk to gojo. he’ll talk to anyone. no more of this. no more weeks without seeing you. no more half-breathing panic every time you don’t pick up. because he needs you too much to keep pretending this is normal.

you get home just after 2 a.m. about three weeks later.

you don’t expect anyone to be awake. especially not megumi. but the second you creak open the door to your dorm, you feel the warmth of the heated blanket across your bed and the familiar smell of your perfume hanging in the air like a ghost. he’s curled up on your desk chair, long legs tucked beneath him, phone in hand.

his eyes snap open the second the door clicks shut. “you’re late,” he mumbles, already standing. “you said midnight.”

you grin, exhausted. “blame the traffic. and nanami’s rigid driving; he’s almost as bad as ijichi.”

he’s already crossing the room. grabbing your bag from your shoulder. pulling the blanket draped over your other arm. but then he pauses—just a breath—and pulls you to him. no hesitation. no asking. he grabs you hard. arms like a vice, face buried in your shoulder, breath shaky against your skin.

you groan half-heartedly. “m’all gross. smell like gas station snacks.”

“don’t care.”

he holds you for another thirty seconds. maybe more. long enough that your fingers twitch against his back, grounding yourself, grounding him. long enough that your eyes sting with something quiet and familiar and good. then you pull back, barely.

“gumi,” you murmur. “shower. let me shower.”

he sighs through his nose but lets you go. watches you shuffle off into the bathroom, yawning as you go. he doesn’t lie down. he just sits.

legs tucked up, back resting against the headboard like he’s trying not to make himself too comfortable. because this isn’t his room. this isn’t his bed. but it smells like you—your detergent, your body spray, something floral and sugary he’d never be able to name but would recognize in any crowd. and it’s unbearable.

he hasn’t smelled you in weeks. and now you’re twenty feet away, humming off-key in the shower, and the reality of it slams him in waves. you’re here. you’re safe. your voice doesn’t sound strained. you aren’t limping. you’re home. and he feels—well…he doesn’t know what he feels. something like grief. something like longing, bent inward.

he picks at a loose thread on your blanket. he can hear the muffled splash of water. you’re probably using the shampoo he restocked before you left. the thought—so small, so domestic—makes his throat feel tight.

he hadn’t meant to wait here. he told himself he’d just check your room. make sure everything was warm. maybe leave a note. but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. not when the hours ticked past midnight. not when his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, the leftover tremor of panic clinging to his fingertips.

he’s not used to missing people. not like this. not in a way that guts him clean. he’s used to solitude. used to quiet. used to locking every sharp emotion behind his teeth. but you—you’ve made his silence heavy. you’ve made being alone unbearable. his eyes flicker toward the bathroom door again. he can hear the faucet shut off. movement. a cabinet. your toothbrush rattling. nothing special. ordinary things. and it moves him in a way nothing else has in days.

he wonders if you ever felt this way when he was on a mission. when he went quiet for hours. when his texts were flat and dry and full of nothing, just the bare bones of logistics. he never knew what to say. still doesn’t. you had always carried the weight of their communication, laughing off his ellipses and single word answers. he hated that it took your absence to realize how much he had taken that for granted.

his hand drifts toward the spot on your mattress where you usually lie. he presses his palm to the indentation there, barely noticeable, like a memory. like the way your body had fit there so many nights, warm and half-asleep and reaching for him.

he closes his eyes for a second. just one. listens to the lock click open. you come out in an oversized shirt and…are those his socks? gross, he thinks. they’re yours now. your hair is damp and messy and you’re rubbing at your eyes like you’re already halfway asleep. you don’t even notice the look on his face. which is good. because he’s looking at you like you hung the stars.

he doesn’t say a word when you climb into bed beside him. doesn’t flinch when you tug his arm toward you, drape it around your waist like it belongs there. doesn’t speak when you whisper something about the drive, about being sore, about the ramen being even worse on the way back.

he just holds you. pulls you into his chest like he’s still scared you’ll vanish again. like if he doesn’t wrap around you tight enough, you’ll disappear back into the wind.

and when you mumble, “shouldn’t’ve waited up for me,” into the fabric of his shirt, his breath catches.

he wants to tell you how much it wrecked him to wait. how every second of not knowing was its own kind of torture. how his heart felt like it was bleeding out in the dark. but he doesn’t. he just tightens his grip. noses into your damp hair. “couldn’t wait,” is all he says.

he hated leaving. hated the silence of being apart from you. hated the dull throb that settled in the hollow of his chest the second he stepped outside your shared space. it wasn’t about control. it wasn’t even about the cult, not really—though geto did have obligations. rules to keep, people to placate, power to maintain. no one ran an empire of belief and blood by sitting on their ass. but still.

the thing about being away from you was that it felt like waking up in the middle of a dream and finding the world gray and unrecognizable. suguru had known grief. he had known rage and cruelty, had held the hand of sorrow like an old friend. but this? this constant ache of missing you—of living in days you weren’t part of? it was a quieter suffering, but no less violent. it chewed at him from the inside.

you didn’t help. of course you didn’t. he could feel your affection like sunlight on skin, even from miles away. you texted often—too often, really, if he were a lesser man. if he didn’t live for every single message.

there was the blurry selfie you sent one morning, barely lit by dawn. bedhead in every direction, your eyes puffy with sleep and your mouth slack, crust of drool shameless at the corner. you looked like a disaster. you looked like home.

the bed misses you, you’d written beneath it. oh, and I do too. he stared at that photo for longer than he should’ve. long after he’d replied with his usual: go back to sleep. it’s too early. (you replied with bossy. he smiled.)

there was a picture of miso soup you made. you’d captioned it with theatrical misery: I made enough for you and I. guess I’ll have to eat it all myself :/

he laughed. a real one, from deep in his chest. he scared one of his subordinates with the sound. what a shame, he wrote back. 

there was a day you sent him a photo of yourself cross-legged on the floor, nanako braiding your hair and mimiko painting your toes the brightest glittery pink imaginable. they’d hijacked your phone and typed with relentless confidence: she so pritty sensei u better come home soon or we keep her

he’d answered with: the prettiest. she’s mine, not yours, he’d teased.

it struck him then, for maybe the hundredth time, how strange this life was. his days were grim and sterile. the smell of iron lingered on his clothes. he spoke to liars, sycophants, zealots. he disposed of the wretched, the corrupt. and yet…you were sending him soup. selfies with sleepy eyes and too-big shirts. pictures of your toes being painted like you had nothing better to do. like you weren’t worried about the dark parts of his life clawing too close to yours.

he missed you like a wound misses the stitch. like a man freezing misses the flame. you were busy, he knew. but not too busy. you always made time to call. the sound of your voice through the phone cut through everything. made it easier to breathe. he’d been in the middle of a meeting once when your name flashed across the screen. walked out without explanation. no one dared follow.

you greeted him with a teasing pout. “aww, you look tired, sugu.”

he rolled his eyes, dragged a hand down his face. “do I?” he murmured.

“yeah,” you said, soft. “a little.”

he considered lying. pretending he was fine. that he was just tired from work, from travel, from the endless cycles of doing what he believed was right. but instead, he just exhaled. let the truth out like smoke. “I just miss you.”

there was a beat of silence. a rustle as you shifted in bed. “I know,” you whispered. “you’ll be home soon. you’ll be in my arms before you know it.” you know that if you tell him you miss him, he’ll be ditching whatever cult business he needs to tend to tomorrow and driving home to you.

he closed his eyes. let the sound of your promise sink into his bones like warmth. that one sentence carried him for days. suguru geto had built a life from ruin. constructed an ideology from loss and pain and righteous fury. there was blood on his hands, and there would always be. but the knowledge that you waited for him—chose him—that you wanted him to come home, not as a leader, not as a god, but as a man—it was enough to keep going. only for so long, though. 

he’d decided he’d come home early. your precious, domestic texts and sleepy phone calls were only sustaining him for so long—small, bright glimpses into a life he was meant to be living in full. he’d stared too long at a photo of your socked feet propped up on the coffee table, your caption reading, these little guys are cold without you, and just…decided.

he wasn’t needed as badly as he was wanted. his responsibility to the cult weighed heavy, yes, but not heavier than the one he gave himself the moment he started loving you. and god, he loved you. so earnestly. so indulgently. as if he could worship the loneliness out of himself just by touching you enough, giving you everything you never asked for, offering you every corner of his heart like he owed you interest.

you told him he didn’t have to. he knew that. you never demanded a thing. never pressured. never made him feel like love was something transactional. but he had made a quiet promise to himself, sometime in the crook of a sunday morning with you pressed against him and sunlight painting your cheek—he’d love you so well, the world would forget it had ever been cruel to him.

so he came home. late. quiet. shoulder-heavy from travel, but stomach-light with the anticipation of seeing you.

he slipped into the house like a ghost—except ghosts don’t bring bags full of wrapped sweets and your favorite soy milk. ghosts don’t stop to make sure their footsteps don’t creak. ghosts don’t pause at the edge of the kitchen, heart pounding like they’re sixteen and about to kiss someone for the first time.

you were there. barefoot. bent over the stove in one of his old t-shirts, hair clipped messily, humming something tuneless as the smell of pan-fried dumplings filled the air. the domesticity nearly knocked him out. you looked like a dream he’d never dared to wish for.

and then you turned. and screamed. and launched yourself into him, clinging with all the force of a hurricane wrapped in a t-shirt and lavender body mist.

“when did you get back—how long were you standing there—why do you smell so good—wait, aren’t you supposed to be gone for another week—are you hungry—”

he just shushed you, kissed your hair, held you so close you whined, and cooed softly as if calming an overexcited cat. “missed you too,” he murmured. “so much, I couldn’t wait.” you’re flushed and breathless and glowing. and for the first time in too long, he feels…calm. like his body’s no longer stretched across two continents. like he’s whole again.

you finish cooking together, except his arms never leave you. he presses himself against your back, kissing your shoulder when you season something absentmindedly, humming when you sway a little to the music in your head. you tell him things he already knows from the phone calls, but hearing them now—woven with your laughter, punctuated by your hands brushing his as you grab plates—feels different. realer. better.

he makes you sit on his lap as you eat, feeding you little bites with his fingers, biting them himself just to feel your giggle against his jaw. “so clingy,” you murmur teasingly.

“deal with it,” he says, nuzzling into your neck.

the compliments come in waves, unfiltered. he missed your voice. your hair. the way you sit, slouched and cozy. the way you smell like rice steam and your favorite lotion. he missed your laugh, your offbeat commentary, the way you act like his t-shirts were always yours first.

you tease that he’s acting like you’ve been gone for years. but he just cups your jaw, tilts your head to kiss you slow. “felt like longer.”

you clean up together. he dries, you rinse. he hums as you put the dishes away, as if it’s some sacred duet. then, without a word, he scoops you up bridal style. you shriek. he grins, soft and sleepy. “bedtime,” he says simply, and that’s that.

in bed, he tugs the blankets high over you both, arms wrapping like he never wants to let go. your back presses to his chest. he buries his face in your neck. he doesn’t even speak. just breathes. in. and out. like your skin is the first oxygen he’s had in weeks.

and then you whisper, so mocking and sarcastic. “looks like you’ve missed the bed as much as it’s missed you.”

he doesn’t even pretend to be annoyed. he just hums, nose still pressed behind your ear. no bed is a bed without you in it. no life is a life without your warmth next to his.

you’d known gojo for years. adjacent, mostly. orbiting one another like curious planets in a system too chaotic to align—too many curses, too many tragedies, too many times your paths almost crossed. he was always a few feet away. loud and laughing, or solemn and deadly. the strongest. the best.

everyone seemed to gravitate toward him. you didn’t. not out of spite—just…you didn’t need to. and that alone made you unforgettable. you weren’t dazzled by the brilliance. you didn’t stumble when he walked into the room. you just met his gaze like he was anyone else. and god, that was all it took.

he spent months chasing you. ridiculous, grand, pathetically sincere efforts to earn your attention, your time, your affection. he hated how much he loved it. and he loved it. because for once, it wasn’t about being the strongest. you didn’t want his power. you wanted him. and now that he had you, nothing else quite compared. not even close.

of course, hard, cruel missions were just a part of his life—ugly constants that weren’t going anywhere. and he accepted that. he didn’t whine about it (too much). but what killed him now, what actually made his chest feel tight…was missing you. this was new. this ache, this yearning. he’d missed people before. friends, students, the dead. but this was different. a slow, golden kind of missing. like homesickness, but gentler. like longing, but soaked in love.

he left for a month-long mission—business, training, extermination, bullshit—with megumi and nobara in tow. the only thing that kept him sane was the note you’d slipped into his pocket. “good luck, handsome. not that you’ll need it <3” written in your loopy, familiar handwriting, laced with your perfume, folded once with intention. he kept it in the pocket of every uniform he wore. reread it constantly. swore the ink still smelled like you even after week three.

and then there were the calls. the constant calls. megumi swore he was going to throw gojo’s phone off a mountain if he heard your voice through it one more time. “eight hours,” megumi muttered once, utterly horrified. “eight hours. what do you even talk about?” gojo just smirked. “everything,” he said simply.

because it was true. you two talked about everything. and nothing. from global politics to what cereal you had that morning. you talked like it was oxygen. like if you stopped, the spell would break. and god, when you weren’t talking, you were texting. constant little updates that meant nothing to the world but meant everything to him. took a nap on your pillow. it still smells like you <3

burned my toast this morning, please come home and fix my life.

yuuji just dropped kicked a vending machine. your son is out of control.

he replied to everything. with emojis. with voice notes. with dumb selfies and long paragraphs and out-of-pocket comments that made you laugh until your stomach hurt. he’d wait five hours in a hostile zone for a curse to reappear and spend all of it reading back through your messages like they were scripture. he loved your voice. your thoughts. your jokes. your complaints about the coffee machine. your book recommendations. your grocery lists. you.

sometimes, late at night, when he was finally alone and the world had quieted, he’d just…watch you. on facetime. your camera angled toward your desk or the stovetop or your bed. sometimes you were talking, humming, scribbling notes. sometimes just brushing your hair or stretching. and he’d be still. quiet. eyes a little glassy. you were so real. so alive. and so impossibly his.

he didn’t even know what to say, half the time. which was rare, for him. he’d just murmur your name, and you’d glance at the screen and smile. and that was enough. he didn’t realize this kind of love existed before you. the soft kind. the quiet devotion. the love that doesn't demand anything except presence. and now? he can’t imagine surviving a single mission without it.

yes, he misses you. terribly. desperately. consumingly. he misses you like it’s a full-time job. like it’s a cursed technique in itself—one that gnaws at his chest and makes him sigh like a victorian widow. megumi and kugisaki are beyond sick of it. 

“did you know she was valedictorian?” “she expelled a special grade curse today, did you hear about that?” “she’s thinking about getting blonde highlights, what do you think? 'cause I think she’ll look gorgeous.”

and to make it worse, he says all of this unprompted. out of nowhere. while they’re eating. walking. fighting a curse. like he’s legally obligated to mention you every fifteen minutes or he’ll spontaneously combust. megumi glares. nobara sighs. gojo just smiles like the happiest idiot on earth. because honestly? the ache? the missing you? it’s the most beautiful pain he’s ever felt. how lucky is he, really? to love someone so good it makes his chest hurt? to have a reason to want to come home at all? he thinks about that a lot. how he used to come back from missions to empty dorms and empty beds. how his life used to feel like an endless hallway with no one at the end. now? he’s got you.

so he sends you things. takeout from your favorite place, delivered to your door like clockwork on tuesday nights. trinkets from roadside stands. little notes, scribbled on receipts and napkins and hotel stationery, folded into snail mail envelopes with poorly drawn hearts and terrible handwriting. souvenirs from tokyo, as if it’s not your backyard. “this made me think of you,” he always writes. every single time.

and when he finally comes home—god, when he finally walks through that door…you’re there. his house is dark except for the lamp you’ve left on. you’re curled up on the couch, eyes fluttering, a blanket pulled halfway over your lap, waiting for him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. and just like that, he forgets he’s tired. forgets the drive. forgets nobara and ijichi bickering in the backseat. forgets everything except you.

his chest cracks open and sunlight pours out. he practically launches himself across the room to scoop you up, spinning you in a dizzy circle before you can even stand. you’re real, he reminds himself in his head, pressing kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, your forehead, your nose, like he’s checking if you’ve been replaced by a doppelgänger. you’re here. you’re mine.

you’re laughing, breathless, arms looped around his neck as he carries you like a bride to your own couch. he smells like wind and exhaustion and sweets. his hands are everywhere—tugging your hair gently, holding your face, gripping your waist like he might float away without you. and the talking—oh, the talking—it starts instantly.

you’re telling him about the neighbor’s cat and your lesson plans and the weird dream you had last night, and he’s telling you about the guy who tried to stab him and how megumi learned a new technique and how he missed you so much it made his stomach hurt. you don’t stop talking. it’s like trying to drink from a firehose of love. overwhelming and nonstop and absolutely intoxicating.

you both fall asleep in the living room that night. you, tucked into his chest. him, whispering half-conscious declarations of love into your hair.

“I missed you so much, baby. like, actual physical pain. never leave me. ever. I'll die. actually. dead. gone.”

you just hum and stroke his hair. and he clutches you tighter. because this is his whole world. and it talks to him in your voice.

it was just a three-month internship. just one summer. twelve weeks, eighty-four days. not even a full season. but, to takuma, it felt like a lifetime.

and it was a critical opportunity—one of those shiny, brag-worthy, fate-altering positions that made people blink twice when they heard the name. working at a renowned fortune 500 company. a place with glass walls and brushed steel fixtures and a breakroom espresso machine that cost more than your entire rent. takuma was lucky to even be employed there. he was luckier to be handpicked. he couldn’t say no. even though he wanted to.

a whole summer away from you was a particular kind of torture he wasn’t built to survive. and it wasn’t like he’d be lazing about in a cushy little dorm, feet up, texting you all day. he’d be working. up before the sun. in meetings. taking notes. running errands. being important™.

and you’d be busy too. school was out, which meant full-time hours at a job that drained you to the bone. you were practical like that. no-nonsense. bossy in a way that only he could make soft. you took one look at his hesitation and gave him that look. and that was it.

you made him go. told him that your relationship could never come between him and his future. told him he had goals and ambition and plans—and none of them would matter if he didn’t take himself seriously enough to chase them. he called you mean. you kissed his forehead and told him to grow up. he left the next morning with tears in his eyes and your hoodie in his carry-on.

he was a good boyfriend. no, a great boyfriend. but long distance revealed a hard truth: you were the one managing all the actual boyfriend tasks. you texted him reminders like his mother.

take your lunch break. they legally have to let you.

coffee is not breakfast. I swear to god, takuma.”

we can only talk for five minutes. go to bed.”

go to sleep. do not respond to this. I'm serious.

and he whined about it, obviously. because he was a little brat and he missed you like hell. but being bossed around by you? being cared for by you from miles away? it melted him. reduced him to mush, to goo, to something warm and stupid and in love.

he thought about you constantly. obsessively. you weren’t just on his mind—you were his mind. his default brain setting. his internal monologue. his every other sentence in conversation. his coworker was going to snap.

by week two, the poor man knew your full class schedule, your favorite brand of hair conditioner, and the name of your cat from middle school. takuma would not shut up. not during meetings. not during breaks. not even while writing quarterly summaries. his fellow intern had to physically swat his arm to stop him from zoning out mid-presentation because takuma was daydreaming about you in too tight tank tops and daisy dukes. (which, by the way, you rarely wore, but in his fantasies, they were basically the only things in your closet.)

he was losing it. and the worst part? you weren’t even out partying. you weren’t living your best hot girl summer. you were at home, being responsible. studying for a semester that hadn’t even started yet. working long shifts at a minimum wage hellhole that absolutely did not deserve you.

he thought about you when he typed emails. when he walked through security. when he accidentally dropped his pen and found your scrunchie in his pocket.

you consumed him. and it was kind of…concerning.

you didn’t even text him much. you were sentimental in theory, not in practice. but he’d set your custom ping—something soft and sparkly and obnoxious—and every time it went off, he dropped everything. his clipboard, his sandwich, his laptop (once). nothing mattered more than those three words lighting up his screen.

miss you.

ate some strawberry pocky today. reminded me of you.

you better bring me a souvenir.

simple stuff. barely even emotional. but it had him blushing. smiling at his phone. kicking his feet like a high school girl in a shoujo anime. god, he was gone. he’d sigh and press his phone to his chest like it was your face. he’d write six drafts of his reply and delete them all. he didn’t want to sound too clingy—which was hilarious, because he was. completely. desperately.

he nearly sobs at his desk. a fellow intern throws him a concerned glance from across the boardroom. the last week of the internship, he’s jittery. manic. he can’t sit still. can’t focus. his work’s still excellent, but it’s powered entirely by the promise of you.

I bought the ingredients for your favorite udon to make when you get home :) 

oh god. a fucking smiley face. you never sent those. he throws his head back and groans like he’s been shot. the guy next to him asks if he’s okay. “just in love,” he sighs dramatically. seven days. seven days until he can lie across your lap and whine about capitalism and let you pet his hair while he tells you about his boss’ entire schedule from memory. seven days until he can finally, finally, come home.

he’s texting you dumb updates the entire train ride home. like, every single thought that crosses his mind gets sent to you as a message.

just passed a field of sunflowers. thought of you.

guy next to me is eating chips. I want to fight him.

I'm wearing the cologne you like. do I smell good from here?? 😏

and you’re reading them all. like they matter. like they’re important. because they are. you’re hearting each message. sending him little thumbs up emojis, laughing silently at his nonsense, and responding with fast fingers because you’re at work and you really shouldn’t be on your phone—but you can’t not. it’s takuma. he’s coming home.

the anticipation eats at you. he’s only hours away. and still, it doesn’t feel real. three months is a long time. three months is forever. three months made you forget what it’s like to hear him laugh in person, to feel his breath against your skin.

tonight’s dinner will be fun. your friends insisted. “celebrate!” they said. “you’ve been holding it down on your own, you deserve a night!” and yeah, they’re right. but when takuma actually gets there—god. it’s too loud. too many people. music blasting. laughter ringing. someone’s yelling about a spilled drink and someone else is screaming over a beer pong table. it’s overstimulating. and he’s exhausted. and he hasn’t seen you in eighty-four days. and all he wants is to be somewhere quiet with you.

then—he sees you. standing in the yard, talking with a few friends, untouched by the chaos. the rest of the world blurs.

he sees you. tank top. daisy dukes. a glass in your hand, your other arm crossed loose under your chest. hair kissed by sun, smile subtle, barely-there gloss. you are the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. and he’s not thinking anymore. he’s moving. across the lawn. through the bodies and beer and sweat and laughter.

you turn, meet his eyes—and that’s it. he kisses you like he’s trying to wake up from a bad dream. like he’s afraid if he doesn’t touch you fast enough, you’ll disappear again. his hands are wrapped around you, one in your hair, the other around your waist, pulling. he holds you like oxygen. he breathes you in. he kisses you like you’re a prayer he never said out loud.

someone whistles. someone cheers. one of your friends gasps out a half-laugh, half-“oh my god.” but none of it registers. just the way your fingers curl into his shirt. just the way your breath stutters when he finally pulls away. your eyes flutter open and you’re smiling—shy, surprised, soft.

and then—he grins, dazed and breathless. leans in again and murmurs, "I love your outfit.”

and you smirk, head tilted, knowingly smug. “I thought you might.”

"let's go home, yeah?" and you nod. yeah. home.

choso and you hadn't been dating for long. the concept of romantic love was still relatively new to him—foreign, even. for most of his existence, his idea of love was synonymous with protection, with blood, with survival. this was different. now, he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was definitely, 100%, desperately, ridiculously in love with you.

but that sensation was new. often overwhelming. sometimes he’d just stop mid-sentence, mid-step, mid-thought, and look at you—brows drawn, head tilted, eyes wide—like he couldn’t quite figure out how all that affection fit inside his chest. he wasn’t built for this. not really. he didn’t know where to put all of it.

he didn’t say “I love you” often. not yet. not because he didn’t feel it—but because he was terrified that once he said it out loud, it would never stop coming out. like a dam breaking. like a wound that wouldn’t clot. to cope, he defaulted to closeness. physical presence was grounding. if he could see you, then he could breathe. you didn’t seem to mind. neither did he. you spent so much time together that megumi started calling you “the parasite couple” under his breath. choso didn’t take offense. parasites were just misunderstood.

when you left on a two-week-long mission, he stood by the door, stiff and silent, while you packed. his stomach felt strange. not painful—just...loud. like there were nerves bubbling in his bloodstream. his general thoughts were that he was worried. he trusted you, sure. he knew you were competent. but humans were fragile. you'd once bruised your knee walking into a coffee table. what if something actually dangerous tried to hurt you?

he considers asking yaga if he can go too—just stay a couple towns over, pretend it's a coincidence—but yuuji talks him down. “dude. don’t be weird about it. she’s gonna be fine. they wouldn’t have sent her if she wasn’t capable.” he knows yuuji’s right. he hates that yuuji’s right.

he hugs you for a long time before you leave. he doesn’t want to let go. not because he’s being dramatic—but because his brain keeps cataloguing the things he might miss: the sound you make when you stretch, your fingers in his hair, the way your socks never match. he helps carry your single bag to ijichi’s car and lingers near the curb while you make small talk with your reluctant chauffeur. he’s glad you're not flying. planes are unnatural. “giant metal bird coffin” is what he calls them.

before you climb into the backseat, you kiss him. it’s not a dramatic, cinematic kiss. it’s soft, familiar. your lips are a little chapped. the kind of kiss that promises i’ll come back. his heart stutters so hard in his chest that he sways slightly on his feet. you smile at him—that smile—and he wonders how anyone survives this feeling.

maybe one day, your kisses won’t give him heart palpitations…maybe. but he doubts it.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” you promise, tapping your fingers twice against his chest, just above where his heart is hammering. “and now you know how to facetime me. you can see me anytime you want.” he nods solemnly. like you’ve given him a sacred task.

he tries to be subtle. he really does. he drafts every text twice, sometimes three times, trying to land on just the right combination of calm concern and casual curiosity. he thinks he’s being clever. he is not being clever or subtle in the slightest. he leaves you voice notes, asking questions, rambling.

what time did you go to sleep last night? don’t talk to strangers. did you bring your charger? what’s the exact longitude and latitude of your hotel? do you have enough socks? just double checking—when do you come back again? did you eat? you should eat. I'm not saying you didn’t eat I'm just—just checking. ignore me if you already ate. actually don’t ignore me. respond when you can. no pressure

“you don’t have to text her every five seconds,” yuuji says, halfway through a cup of instant noodles. he doesn’t even look up when he says it. “you’re gonna give her stress wrinkles.”

“she doesn’t get stress wrinkles,” choso says flatly, still staring at his phone. “her skin’s too perfect.”

“okay, see, that’s exactly what I mean.” yuuji finally looks up, waving his chopsticks for emphasis. “you’re spiraling.”

“I'm not spiraling,” choso says, with all the conviction of a man who is absolutely spiraling.

“you sent her fourteen messages in three minutes, dude.”

“she could be in danger.”

“she said she was taking a shower.”

“.......showers are slippery.”

by day three, the nerves have fully colonized his chest. he’s not just lovesick. he’s worried. anxious in the way only someone who's lived through the worst can be. you’re strong. he knows that. he believes that. but strength doesn’t mean invincible. it doesn’t mean untouchable. and you’re so selfless, so catastrophically kind. the kind of kind that gets people killed.

choso’s seen too many strong people fall because they were too busy protecting someone else. what if it happens to you? what if you’re too busy shielding a civilian to dodge a hit meant for someone else? he tries to explain this to you on facetime. several times, actually. but he always gets distracted.

because you answer the call, freshly showered, hair damp and curling, hoodie swallowing your shoulders, and look up at him with those wide, unassuming eyes like he’s not a man currently being held together by string and blood manipulation.

you talk about your day. every detail, every dumb anecdote. the mission report you had to rewrite because gojo kept adding dramatic sound effects. the vending machine that ate your change. a black cat you passed on the way back to the inn. you talk, and choso listens. listens like it’s scripture. wide-eyed, silent, lips parted slightly like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your voice. nodding slowly, rhythmically, like a metronome. “uh huh.” “yeah.” “that sounds…like him.” “uh huh.”

he’s so mesmerized that you swear, one night, you see a tiny sliver of drool start to escape the corner of his mouth. “choso,” you giggle, leaning closer to your screen. “you’re staring.”

he blinks. slow. like he’s waking up. “I'm always staring,” he admits quietly. “you’re the only thing I want to look at.”

you short-circuit a little. he doesn’t even realize what he’s said. he insists you fall asleep first every night, even though you’re exhausted and he’s clearly worse off. “I’ll sleep better knowing you’re okay,” he murmurs. and he does. at least for a few hours. you’re always gone by the time he wakes up—already off to scout a cursed site or drag gojo out of a sugar-induced stupor. and the anxiety…it creeps back in. like tidewater. slow but sure.

still, your texts help. short. direct. enough to tell him you’re alive and functional.

leaving to go scout out a site with excessive cursed energy. I promise I'm being careful. I’ll text again in a couple hours. gojo is the most annoying person on the entire planet, remind me of that next time I accept a mission with him.

he rereads every message five times. he takes screenshots. it’s pathetic. he knows that. but the truth is: he would give anything—anything—just to hold your hand for five minutes. to feel your pulse, warm and steady beneath his fingers, and know that you’re safe.

he didn’t realize love could feel like this. it’s always been, up until this point, soft. kind. beautiful. overwhelming in a lovely, poetic way. like the sun coming out for the first time and stretching warm fingers across his skin, melting all the snow left behind from years of cold. you made him feel safe. known. like maybe he wasn’t just a collection of trauma and blood anymore—but something real. something deserving.

but this? this kind of love? it hurts. it aches in places he didn’t know could hurt. a deep, bone-weary throb that settles in his chest and pulses every time he thinks about you being somewhere he’s not. every time he imagines you standing alone in a cursed place, facing something dangerous. every time he glances at the empty space beside him and remembers it’s going to be empty for another seven days.

he didn’t know missing someone could feel like this. he didn’t know it could feel like grief. it eats away at him that he can’t be with you. not even to interfere—just to be there. in case. what if you need something? what if you drop your water bottle and no one picks it up for you? what if your shoelace comes untied and you’re too busy to notice? what if your hair gets caught in your jacket zipper and it takes you ten full minutes to get it out and you end up frustrated and alone and—who will help you, if not him? he should be there. he should always be there.

his hands flex at his sides. his body hums with this low-level urgency he can’t shake. fight or flight. protect or perish. the same instinct that kept his brothers safe for years is now turned toward you—and he doesn’t know how to channel it when you’re not near him.

and he’s not sure what to do with that. not sure what kind of man he becomes when he doesn’t have a purpose. when his job is to wait. he hates the silence in his room. it’s the worst kind of loneliness. knowing you were here and now you’re not. but you always seem to catch him mid-spiral, facetiming him exactly when he decides it’s been too long since he’s seen your face and heard your voice. 

because for you, yeah, being apart was hard. you missed him—his quiet presence, his constant check-ins, his overbearing love masquerading as casual concern. it wasn’t easy. but you functioned. you coped. you did your job and stayed in touch and kept your head on straight. choso…did not. he was a mess. restless. worried. half-feral. the ghost of your warm body in his bed haunted him like a curse. now that you’re back, he’s not wasting a single second pretending he’s fine.

you get home late. everything is quiet. the streetlights are humming and the world feels soft at the edges, like it's been waiting for you to come back. you're not expecting anyone. you thought you told him not to wait up.

but there he is—choso, standing near the steps with his hood up, hands in his pockets like he’s trying to keep them from shaking. he looks like he hasn’t slept in years. like he’s rooted in place by some force bigger than him. his eyes catch yours in the dark, and something in his shoulders loosens.

you barely get a word out before he’s crossing the distance and crushing you into a suffocating hug. you’re mumbling something about needing to unpack or go turn in mission reports to yaga’s office. he mumbles, arms locked tight around your shoulders, “not important. I've got you now.”

you laugh into his hoodie. “hello to you too.” he hums. it might be a greeting. it might be relief. you’re not sure. you didn’t realize how much you missed him until you felt the way your body settled into his. your bones remember him. your heart remembers him.

“we should take more missions together,” he adds a moment later, voice still low and flat like he’s making a tactical recommendation.

you grin, tired and stretching like a warm, lazy cat in the cold. “okay. that would be fun.”

he doesn’t say anything to that, but his arms tighten around you. just for a second. you don’t know how much he needed to hear that. he missed you so much he thought it would kill him. not in the poetic sense. in the actual, physical, hurting sense. two weeks felt like a lifetime. it felt wrong. unnatural. like something vital had been ripped out of his life and taken on a mission without him. you always said you were fine alone. but he wasn’t.

he scoops you up. not because he wants to be cute about it. because his body demands it. because now that he has you again, he's not risking even the smallest chance of you slipping away. the steps to his dorm are a blur. the hallway barely registers. all he knows is the way your weight feels in his arms, familiar and right, like you were made to rest there.

he doesn't even let you unpack. he doesn’t ask. just lays you down in his bed like he’s tucking away a treasure. joins you seconds later, pulling you in with the neediness of someone who's been cold for weeks and has just found the sun again. you sleep, finally. and he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip.

by morning, his arms are deadlocked around your waist. his face is pressed into the back of your neck, breath steady, but there's a tension in him that never quite fades. like even in sleep, he’s preparing for the moment someone tries to take you away again.

you shift. once, twice. no give. you’re held fast. but it doesn’t feel suffocating. it feels nice, familiar. you press your hand over his, tangled at your stomach. his fingers twitch, tighten, tangle further. choso, even now, asleep and still, is reminding you: you’re home. 

nanami married you for a reason. and it’s not because he was feeling impulsive. he doesn’t do impulsive. no—he married you because he never wants to be apart from you. ever. even back when you were dating, before the shared toothbrush holder, before the joint tax returns, before you casually wore his surname like it had always belonged to you—he hated leaving. you didn’t live together yet, but every second spent away from you was filled with torment. not the dramatic kind—just the kind that gnawed slowly and methodically.

what if you got off work bone-tired and skipped dinner? who would cook for you? who would put a heating pad on your back and massage your feet and let you drool on his chest during a 90-minute documentary about the politics of Japan’s train system? what if your car broke down and it was raining and you didn’t have your umbrella and your phone was dead and your heels were too high? what if there was a sorcerer’s gala while he was away—who would hang off your arm, look stupid in a suit for you, worship the ground you walked on like a trained husband-shaped puppy? what if you opened a jar and the lid was too tight and you strained your wrist trying to twist it off? who would open it for you? who would kiss your wrist better and say, “you loosened it for me” just to make you feel strong? what if your neck hurt because you slept wrong and nobody was there to adjust your pillow, rub your shoulders, and scold you for not sleeping ergonomically? what if you had a nightmare and woke up reaching for him, but he wasn’t there? who would tuck you back in and whisper that you’re safe? who would pull you into his chest and fall asleep breathing in the scent of your shampoo? what if your zipper got stuck on your favorite jacket and you were late for something and already frustrated and flustered? who would help you without laughing, without teasing, without judgment—just gently fix it and kiss your forehead and say “you look beautiful”? what if you finally got around to assembling that bookshelf and it collapsed halfway through? who would wordlessly take over, follow the manual to the letter, and build it better than ikea ever dreamed?

he hates what-ifs. they make him feel helpless. because what if you needed him, and he wasn’t there? it simply eats him alive. so now that he has you, now that it’s legal and spiritually binding and signed on paper, he’s simply decided that leaving you is no longer an option. a trip away from his wife is inhumane.

he once went on a long mission right after you two got engaged and swore he aged five years in those short weeks. he didn’t sleep a full night. didn’t enjoy a single bite of food. got irrationally angry at a hotel pen. so, no—travel is out of the question.

which is why you’re currently shoving him out the door, a pressed shirt and briefcase in hand. “it’s gojo’s bachelor party,” you say. “it’s five days long,” he says, like the words physically wound him. “you have to go,” you insist, ignoring the withering look he gives you. “I don’t have to do anything,” he counters. “you’re his best friend.” the glare he gives is withering. “and, his only friend that isn’t 16 years old.” he scoffs. “I’m his coworker. and besides, he’s friends with shoko.” “oh please. ieiri would never admit to being his friend. she hates him more than you do.” so he goes. begrudgingly. and when the plane lands, he’s already got your contact pulled up. texts you: Landed safely. Will call you after I’ve unpacked. Love you. punctuation and all. capitalized. formal. very him. you read it at work and clutch your phone to your chest like a teenager.

he facetimes you as he unzips his suitcase—facetimes, even though he hates it, says it’s awkward. “you don’t even look at the camera, you look at yourself,” he once grumbled. but you pick up before the first ring finishes. “KENTO!” you squeal. “I didn't think you’d facetime!” he smiles, soft and slow. “I wanted to see your face,” he says, like it’s just a fact.

you coo. he blushes. you tell him you miss him. he immediately replies, “don’t tempt me. I have a browser tab open for a return flight in three hours.” you laugh. “you just got there. go have fun, kento.”

he sighs and props you up on the hotel room desk like it’s a Zoom call with a board of executives. “I’m not fun,” he mumbles. shocking. you tease him until he cracks a smile. you tell him you love him. you do the thing where you blow him kisses through the phone and he pretends to be embarrassed, but he loves it. gojo has to knock on his door for five straight minutes before nanami finally hangs up and leaves for the night’s events.

you get a text a few hours later. Goodnight, my love. the timestamp is ridiculously late.

you text back: good lord, how late did gojo make you stay out?

nanami: Why are you still awake? you: you’re texting me at 2am and i’m the one getting scolded for being awake?

he spends ten seconds too long responding, so you call. “if you thought I was asleep, why’d you text?” you tease. he sighs. “I was hoping you wouldn’t reply until morning.” “you know I can't ignore you,” you tease, but he looks so serious. he goes silent. just breathes into the phone. “sleep well, darling,” he says. “you too,” you reply, knowing he won’t, not without you there. 

the days blur together. calls in the morning while you’re brushing your teeth. calls at lunch while you eat in your car. calls when you’re off work and he’s getting ready for that night’s activity. you complain about having to ride the train home. “I hate that,” he mutters. “I hate that I'm not there to drive you.” “then come home,” you say sweetly, fluttering your lashes and smiling. “oh, don’t tease me. I’d do anything to be home with you. gojo signed us up to minigolf this evening.” the look he gives you says he’d rather driving a knife into his stomach. 

you jokingly suggest he take gojo to a strip club. he looks physically ill. “why on earth would you—?” “it’s a joke, kento.” “it’s not funny.” “you’re right,” you laugh. “you’d cry if a woman touched you that wasn’t me.” he doesn’t deny it.

he’s silent for a second, then says: “it wouldn’t be right.” you laugh; nanami kento, the eternal gentleman. 

he texts you on his final night, and he’s clearly drunk. not in a stumbling, slurring, karaoke-on-the-table way—nanami would rather set himself on fire—but in a way only you would notice. his texts lack punctuation. no capitalization. no perfect syntax. just: back at the hotel. alive. gojo is an idiot. and when he calls as he’s unlocking his hotel room, it confirms everything. there’s a muffled thud. a pause. and then, low under his breath, as he walks face-first into the bathroom doorframe: “fuck.”

you gasp like he just punched a nun. “kento kiyomasa nanami—did you just cuss?” “…it slipped.” “you never cuss.” “I do occasionally.” “kento. I’ve known you for three years. you’ve cussed maybe five times, and this is your first ‘fuck.’” he groans dramatically, and the sound is just shy of a whimper. when he finally tilts the phone to his face, he looks…wrecked in the softest way. tie gone. white shirt rumpled and unbuttoned halfway down his chest. slacks nowhere to be seen. hair tousled like he’s been pacing and running his hands through it nonstop. eyes sleepy, flushed, and glassy. he’s laying on his stomach like a teenager at a sleepover.

meanwhile, you’re sitting cross-legged on the bed, backlit by your nightstand lamp. damp hair clinging to your shoulders, your skin glowing from moisturizer, oversized sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder. and you’re giving him that look. that sleepy, “i love you so much it’s criminal” look.

he stares. you smile. minutes pass. finally, you tilt your head and laugh gently. “kento, what did you even call for? you’ve barely said anything.” he sighs like he’s just been caught mid-crime. “…I just needed to see your face.” “well, you’ve seen it. time for bed.” “no.” he shifts, gripping his phone like it’s a life preserver. “don’t go.” “okay…why not?” “I need to keep seeing your face.” you snort. “I'll stay on until you fall asleep, sweetie. but just think—if you sleep now, tomorrow will come faster, and you’ll get to see me in person.”

“...I could just stare at you all night and see you tomorrow.” “go to sleep, nanami.” “eugh, don’t call me nanami. it’s kento. or—sweetie. I liked that.” he doesn’t have the clarity to be embarrassed by that admission. you barely say anything, but your smile says it all. it floors him. nicknames weren’t your thing. you once told him calling someone “babe” felt like being cast in a cw show against your will. but he lives for these rare little indulgences, like a victorian man being handed an ankle.

he’s out in minutes. drunk sleep swallows him whole. and when he wakes the next morning—groggy, puffy-eyed, collared shirt all wrinkled and buttoned wrong—the call’s still on. your phone is face-down on your bed, but he hears you breathing steadily. you never hung up. neither did he. he doesn’t have the heart to end it.

you wake up not long after, hair wild, muttering about needing caffeine and how you’re out of creamer and if this is how society collapses. he listens, entranced, while brushing his teeth. packs while you throw on an outfit and kiss the phone goodbye. you don’t mention his drunken rambling. don’t tease him (yet). you just talk like normal, and he’s so grateful he could die.

when he lands—when he walks through the gate and sees you there, bouncing on your heels in the middle of terminal 9, grinning like the sun—you run to him. you launch yourself into his arms, koala-style, and he catches you with a grunt. you pepper kisses all over his face, ignoring the small crowd around you. you’re cooing, giggling, sing-songy voice saying, “you’re home, you’re home, you’re home,” like it’s magic.

once upon a time, there was a version of nanami who would’ve been mortified. who would’ve rolled his eyes and muttered about professionalism and “appropriate conduct.” that man is dead. this nanami holds you tighter than what’s probably allowed by airport safety regulations. he’s not letting go. not again. you finally pull back, brushing a hand over his jaw, cheeks flushed. “so…” you grin, wiggling an eyebrow. “feeling sober? or do I need to drive? might give you some more time to stare at my face.” he groans. but as you laugh—arms still locked around his neck, your perfume faint and warm and unmistakably you—he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder and breathes you in like it’ll fix every crack in him. and it does. it does.

after a week of blaring music, bad cologne, and gojo’s incessant, brain-melting antics, this—you—feel like quiet. like calm. like coming home in the most literal, soul-deep way.

I'm never leaving my wife again, he thinks, and it's not a casual thought. it's a vow. a personal mandate. a declaration of absolute truth. the world without you was gray, predictable, and painfully dull. but now—now you’re here and smiling, and suddenly everything is color again. texture. sensation. a rush of heartbeat and heat and softness that could crack a lesser man clean in two. he kisses your temple like it’s a lifeline and exhales, long and low, into your hair. god, he loves you. so much it might actually kill him.

“let’s go home,” he murmurs. “I’m never doing this again.”

you pull back, suspiciously pleased. “a bachelor party?” “no. leaving you.” you blink, pretending to swoon dramatically. “oh, wow. should I faint?” “you should be impressed,” he says flatly, “at how long I was able to stay away.” “I am,” you beam, cupping his cheek. “I love you, sweetie.” it’s a joke, but his soft smile is so painfully serious. 

“I can't believe fushiguro is letting you spend the whole summer with him,” you tell yuuji, voice tinny through the speaker but smiling all the same.

“I know! it’s probably gojo-sensei’s doing, but I’m gonna pretend it’s just ‘cause he’d miss me way too much to go the whole summer without me.”

yuuji grins so wide it nearly splits his face, angling the phone so you can see the infamous fushiguro in the seat beside him. the look megumi gives you both is deadpan—dry enough to wrinkle a desert. you almost feel bad for him. almost. but you know better. megumi loves your boyfriend almost as much as you do. which is saying something, because loving yuuji feels like breathing: unconscious, necessary, natural.

they're on the train heading toward gojo’s not-so-humble mansion—bachelor pad energy, unlimited snacks, a pool, no rules, god help megumi. you spent last summer together, you and yuuji. he’d visited your hometown, chased your nieces around the backyard, helped you carry groceries down warm, cracked sidewalks. he got sunburned and bought popsicles from your corner store and slept with his head in your lap while you rewatched your childhood favorite movies.

this year, it’s megumi’s turn to have him. and honestly? it sucks. you miss him. constantly. in the big, heavy ways and the small, sweet ones. but there’s something beautiful in this version of love too—in the kind that stretches across space without fraying. you send each other everything. pictures. stories. little moments from your day. he shows you a blurry photo of a sunset over the pool. you show him a neighborhood cat you’ve decided to name after him. he sends you a selfie soaked to the bone because gojo threw him in fully clothed. you send a picture of your niece covered head to toe in pink sharpie (her little sister’s doing).

it’s like you never left each other. but you did. and when the day winds down and the calls get softer, more tired, more sincere—when megumi’s asleep on the other side of the room and yuuji’s voice drops to a whisper—he admits it. “I just can’t wait to see you again.”

and it hurts. because you’ve both been pretending not to miss each other too much, but the ache is real. quiet. familiar. you miss his laugh in the room. you miss his warmth. his over-the-top affection and the way he always holds your pinky first when you reach for his hand. and yuuji—he’s doing fine, technically. gojo is chaos incarnate. megumi’s company keeps him sharp. but his heart? his heart is still at home with you. every night, every call, every time he folds his pillow in half to mimic the way you used to curl up next to him.

you send him a letter the first week. it's handwritten. covered in doodles of your faces, your inside jokes, your hearts and stars and half-scribbled lines that turn into love notes without meaning to. he opens it in front of megumi and immediately starts crying.

“you two are disgusting,” megumi mutters, smacking him upside the head.

“oh, shut up! I know you miss your girlfriend too, fushiguro. at least mine sends me cute things.” yuuji hugs the letter to his chest like it might run away if he lets go.

megumi smacks him again, harder. “yeah, well, my girlfriend’s not a sappy baby.” lies, they miss each other terribly, they’re just too proud to admit it. they bicker for twenty minutes, but yuuji tucks your letter under his pillow that night. sends one back the next day. it becomes a tradition. a sacred exchange of stickers and pages and half-dried tears all summer long. he saves every one of your notes. brings them back to school in september like precious cargo.

mid-july, you send him a photo of you wearing his favorite red hoodie. he calls immediately. “you are in so much trouble right now,” he says, dramatic, clutching his metaphorical pearls. “i’ve been looking for that hoodie all summer!”

“it’s summer,” you say sweetly. “you don’t need a hoodie, sweaty guy.” ironic considering you’ve been wearing it all season. 

“you think I'm sweaty?” he pouts, wide-eyed, like this is the most offensive thing you could’ve said.

you laugh—head thrown back, sound full of warmth and life and you—and it breaks him a little. in the best way.

he gets quiet. his eyes soften. he blinks hard like he’s trying to press back tears, but they still shine.

“aw, baby…I miss you.” and he means it. he means it. loving yuuji is the easiest thing in the world. and missing him might just be the hardest. but you’ll both make it. love like this? it doesn't disappear with distance. it travels. it endures. it always finds its way back home.

the last week of summer, yuuji is buzzing. like, atomic levels of energy. chaos barely contained by skin and bone. his mood is so hyper, it’s starting to annoy even gojo—and that’s saying something.

“you’re acting like it’s been ten years,” megumi mutters on the train, as yuuji bounces his leg like a caffeinated kangaroo.

yuuji groans and dramatically slumps in his seat. “it feels like it’s been ten years.”

megumi rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out. “you facetimed her literally seven hours ago.”

but yuuji is immune to logic. he’s a man possessed. you’re waiting for him. you’re probably already in his hoodie like the absolute menace you are, and he’s going to get to hold you again, finally, finally, finally. he practically explodes off the train the second the doors slide open, and megumi has to jog just to keep him in sight. yuuji tears across the campus like he’s running a marathon with a girlfriend at the finish line. because he is.

except. you’re not there. he skids to a stop outside your dorm. knocks. waits. nothing. he calls your name through the door just in case. checks the time, double-checks his texts—you were supposed to arrive yesterday. you’d even texted him earlier today about how your dorm felt a little cold without him in it.

confused and weirdly heartbroken, he drags his duffel to his dorm instead, figuring maybe you’re off getting groceries or finding your ra or something. he’s mid-sigh, phone halfway to his ear, when he pushes open the door.

and there you are. sitting on his bed like you’ve always belonged there. music playing low on his speaker. legs curled up beneath you. reading a book you’ve probably read ten times. wearing his red hoodie like the little criminal you are.

you look up. blink once. and then—“yuuji!!”

you scream it like your life depends on it. you launch yourself at him with all the force your body can manage. he catches you like he knew you’d do that, like he’s done it a thousand times, and you kiss him all over—cheeks, forehead, lips, chin, nose—endlessly.

he’s laughing so hard his abs start to hurt, tears springing to his eyes, because you’re real and you’re here and you’re warm and soft and solid in his arms and the hoodie’s all stretched out from where you’ve clearly worn it all summer and god, he never wants to let you go again.

he buries his face in your neck like he’s trying to breathe you in. you smell like home. he could cry. he might cry. megumi walks in just in time to witness it and looks seconds away from walking right back out. you turn, grinning wickedly. he flinches a little when you launch a hug at him too, but lets it happen. “I missed you, too, megumi,” you say, so bright it’s hard to tell if you’re teasing. “even if you completely ignored all the adorable letters and I sent you, you emotionally repressed little cryptid.”

he shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I kind of missed you too.”

yuuji practically melts at the scene. and then—you turn back to him. hands cupping his face. studying him like a miracle. “you look so tan,” you murmur. “and…did you get taller?” you always know just what to say to absolutely fluster him. 

your voice is so genuine it short-circuits his brain. he opens his mouth to respond and instead lets out something halfway between a wheeze and a squeak. you laugh again. the same laugh he’s been playing back in his head every night like a bedtime song. he kisses your forehead. he kisses your cheeks. he kisses your nose.later—once you’re both settled, once megumi has fled the scene like a man escaping a rom-com horror film, pretending he’s not off to go find his girl—yuuji turns serious for a second. his arms are wrapped around you, and he says it with all the honesty his full, stupid heart can muster: “I’ll have to tell megumi I’m sorry because I’m never doing another summer without you.” and you believe him. because when yuuji loves, he loves out loud. bold and bright and boyishly devoted. and you, wrapped in that love, never feel anything less than completely adored.

list of men who simply do not allow you to leave their presence:

sukuna ryomen

sukuna ryomen

sukuna ryomen

[pnutbutter-n-j-elyy]

When You Give Them Space | Chan + Minho | Pt4

pt1 pt2 pt3

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Chan

Chan had been restless for days, pacing his studio floor, his heart heavy with guilt.

You were supposed to be back home in Korea three days ago. But instead he got these strange texts and hadn't heard from you since.

He hadn't texted since either. A part of him wished he did but he was scared.

Because what if-

No. You weren't the type to do that.

He deeply regretted the texts he had sent to you. The replayed in his mind, the words he’d typed out, the anger, the frustration…the way he said he had shipped you off because, as he so rudely put it, you were “nagging” him.

You dumb fuck what were you even thinking sending that??

Sure it was annoying to get notif after notif- especially when he was trying to finish a track for a show that would be premiering in the upcoming weeks. But it wasn't your fault that the company had fucked up with the time management- since he had already had to help three girl groups with their production.

So he had gotten you a ticket home, hoping that maybe he could knock everything out while you were away. Since he knew you would make him take a break if you were here.

You would make him take care of himself.

But even when you were thousands of miles away you still made sure he was taken care of.

And he took that for granted; and was an absolute jerk.

What the hell was I thinking?

Chan groaned, running a hand through his hair, trying to make sense of his own stupidity. His phone buzzed - a message from Han:

Lights are on at Y/N's place. Bro, fix it.

He didn't need any more encouragement. Grabbing his jacket and keys, Chan headed straight for your apartment, determined to set things right, even if he had to grovel.

I'll grovel. For as long as you make me.

Arriving at your apartment, Chan noticed a pair of men’s shoes at the door. Combat boots.

He stopped, confusion twisting in his gut. That wasn’t right. They weren't his. It was brand he was unfamiliar with; one he hadn't purchased from before so who-

No...Y/N wouldn't.

His heartbeat quickened as he pushed open the door cautiously. The smell of food wafted out from the kitchen, and he could hear someone rummaging around. Then, out walked a guy- tall, broad, and way too casual, holding a bowl of ramen in one hand a fork in the other and looking at Chan like he had every right to be there.

"Oh, hey bro," the guy said, grinning as he stuffed a mouthful of noodles in his mouth. "You must be the ex." He stretched out the "x" sound, stuffing a forkful of noodles in his mouth.

Chan froze. The word ex sent a sharp sting through his chest. "Ex?" he repeated, his voice low with disbelief.

"Yeah," the guy continued, setting the bowl down like this wasn’t the most awkward interaction ever. "Heard you shipped Y/N off. A little bit harsh, if you ask me, but hey, Y/N can be a handful."

Chan's jaw tightened, anger flaring up. Who was this guy? Why was he acting like you were-

"Who the hell are you?"

The guy smirked, wiping his hands nonchalantly. "Oh, me? I’m just the guy who loves Y/N."

Chan took a step forward, his fists clenched. "You better start explaining yourself before I-"

Before Chan could finish, the sound of your voice cut through the tension.

“What the hell is going on here?”

You stood at the bathroom doorway, still in a towel with wet hair dripping onto your shoulders, eyes narrowing in frustration.

Chan whipped around, his expression a mix of confusion and anger. "Who is this?" he demanded, pointing to the guy.

The guy grinned, looking entirely too smug. “Haven’t told him yet? Wow, you’re brutal.”

You shot him a deadly look. "You, sit your ass down and shut the hell up. I swear, you have no sense. Must have been all the times Dad dropped you."

Chan blinked, his anger momentarily paused by his confusion. "Wait…what?"

You sighed, rubbing your temples as if dealing with two idiots at once was too much. "Chan, this is my brother. He’s on break from the military. And you," you turned your glare toward your brother, "are being an idiot for messing with him when you know damn well what’s been going on."

Your brother had the audacity to smirk, plopping down on the couch and grabbing his ramen again. "Well, maybe if someone hadn’t sent you those dickish texts, I wouldn’t have had to step in. You've always been a pushover." He stuffed his mouth again, speaking around the food. "You forgive too easily so I had to give your boyfriend a little hell for it."

Chan looked bewildered, turning between you and your brother. "Wait, you sent those texts?"

Your brother chuckled. "Yeah, saw what you sent her before, and well- someone had to put you in your place. ‘Nagging too much’? C’mon, man, that’s some weak stuff. Didn’t your mom teach you better than to talk to your partner like that?”

You slapped your brother’s arm. "You idiot! Do you know how much drama you just caused?! Chris is an overthinker!"

“Yeah, well, I figured it was time to teach your boyfriend some respect."

"How the hell did you even figure out my password?!"

"JiminJinfangirl21 has been your password to everything for the longest time. It was an easy guess."

Your face turned read and you looked at Chan. "I can explain-"

Chan, still processing the fact your brother sent the messages turned to you. "Wait- so when I got those texts-"

"I was taking a nap, and he was being an instigating moron!" You gestured to your brother, who just winked at Chan, clearly not sorry.

"But why didn't you come home..."

You rose an eyebrow. "Because I wanted to be petty. And my brother was going to fly out to meet you anyways- it was going to be a surprise- so I just waited so we could be on the same flight."

Chan looked between you two, and then it hit him. Everything. The argument, the misunderstanding, his own stupidity. His expression softened. “Y/N… I-I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how much trouble I was causing by acting like this. You've always been forgiving and I was just expecting to apologize and get your forgiveness like always. Its idiotic of me to think that's a good excuse to say things like that to you. What I said, it was wrong. I have no excuses."

You crossed your arms, your tone firm but softening. "Yeah, well, you shouldn’t have said what you did. It was mean. And extremely hurtful. The fact that you would 'send me away' for it really made me feel like my existence is just a burden to you."

Chan's eyes widened in fear. "It's not! Y/N please please believe me it isn't."

"I know it isn't, pabo..." You sighed. "I do nag you sometimes, but it’s because I care. I care too much because I love you so much. I thought maybe if it came from me, you’d actually listen. But if you don’t want me to, I’ll stop."

"No." Chan stepped closer, his eyes filled with sincerity. "Please don’t. Don’t stop. I’d rather have you nag at me a thousand times than not hear from you at all. I-" he swallowed, his voice catching slightly. "I need you, Y/N. You’re my anchor. I know I’ve been an idiot, but I don’t want to lose you over my own insecurities and frustrations."

Your eyes softened, the weight of his words sinking in. "Chan I don’t want to lose you either. Ever. But you have to start listening when I’m trying to help, not just push me away. Rather than just me everyone. We all want to help. And you can't treat me like that because you know I will forgive you...it's a bit manipulative. And I know that's not you which is why I'm forgiving you. But you wouldn't feel so stressed if you listened." You pouted stubbornly.

He nodded, stepping closer and reaching for your hand. "I promise. I’ll listen, baby. I’ll be better. Just…please, don’t give up on me."

You rolled your eyes. "Chan, what in this conversation made you think I would ever give up on you. You're insufferable." You said giving a breathy laugh and planting a quick and light kiss on his lips.

Your brother, who had been watching this exchange with mild interest, suddenly chimed in, “Aww, look at you two. This is cute and all, but I’m too young to have nieces and nephews.”

Both you and Chan turned to him, your annoyance in perfect sync.

“No, that’s not what-” Chan stammered, waving his hands in protest.

"Didn’t I tell you to shut up?" You grabbed a throw pillow and launched it at your brother, who caught it with a grin.

“Oh, come on, I’m just playing-”

Before he could finish, you charged at him, and within seconds, the two of you were wrestling on the couch. Chan watched in half-horror, half-amusement as your brother tackled you, the bowl of ramen teetering precariously on the edge of the table before falling onto the floor with a crash.

"Y/N!" your brother howled, dodging your attempts to hit him with another pillow. "You’re too slow!"

“I swear, either you’re going back to the military today or we're doing bathroom surgery with my foot and you'll never give me any nieces or nephews." You growled as you tried to kick your brother off of you- him just dodging that DIY vasectomy as you struggled under his weight. “Babe, help me!”

Chan, shaking his head with a fond smile, stepped forward and pulled your brother off you. "Alright, man, that’s enough. She’s gonna break your neck at this rate."

Your brother sat up, wiping a bit of ramen broth off his cheek, still laughing. "Fine, fine, I surrender. But only ‘cause I don't think a 2v1 would be fair." He eyed Chan's muscle definition. "You box?"

You got up, smoothing your hair with a huff and looking at Chan cutting him off before he could answer your brother. "Can we please lock him out of my apartment?"

Chan chuckled softly, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "Maybe after I get him to clean up his mess." He said squatting down to pick up the fork.

Your brother raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Clean up? If Mom were here, she'd tell you to do it since you started it. Unless your boyfriend wants to-"

This time it was Chan who grabbed the pillow and aimed it right at his face.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Minho

As Chan’s car rumbled down the gravel road, Minho stared anxiously out the window, his leg bouncing restlessly. A location pin in the middle of nowhere. No explanation although he asked.

His mind was racing, the earlier argument replaying in his head on a constant loop.

"I bet Y/N is fine. There is no reason to lie about being fine in this kind of situation. If there was any immediate danger I'm more than sure there would have been a deeper explanation." Chan said as he swerved through the wooded road.

But Minho's mind was racing with other things.

You were fine. He believe you. But this was a harsh reality check for him.

God forbid if you weren't okay...

He would have lived with an immense guilt.

The words he had thrown at you- inadvertently calling you a moocher, saying you texted too much, basically calling you useless- they weren’t true, not really. Not at all.

He willingly gave you everything he had. And would give you more if it wasn't for you constantly saying he was too generous.

He’d just been frustrated, tired. In the middle of another useless meeting, coming back from an argument with a choreographer. But now, sitting in the car with nothing but the quiet hum of the engine, the crunch of the tires and gravel and his guilt gnawing at him, he wished he could take it all back.

As they neared the spot where you were supposed to be, Minho’s heart pounded in his chest. The second he spotted you illuminated in Chan's headlights standing in the distance, his breath caught in his throat while his Hyung letting out a traitorous gasp. You were hunched over something, and as the car rolled to a stop, his heart plummeted.

Blood.

Streaks of red were smeared across your white shirt. His stomach twisted, ice flooding his veins.

"Oh my God-" Minho’s voice cracked as he fumbled with the seatbelt, barely getting it off before stumbling out of the car. His hands were shaking, his mind racing through a million terrifying scenarios. His entire body felt like it was seizing up with fear. "Are you hurt?!" he shouted, his voice louder and more frantic than he intended. "Jagi, are you hurt?!"

Chan was quick to jump out after him, grabbing his arm to keep him grounded. "Minho, calm down," Chan said firmly, trying to steady him. "Let’s just see what’s going on."

Minho barely heard him, his eyes fixated on the blood staining your clothes. Not even able to notice the utterly calm look you had on your face. Although that hadn't been overlooked by Chan.

His heart was in his throat, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. Every worst-case scenario flooded his mind in an instant.

"Y/N!" he called again, stumbling toward you, his knees weak. But as he got closer, his eyes shifted to what was in your arms.

Not you.

The blood wasn't yours.

It was a cat.

Minho stopped dead in his tracks, his panic still buzzing in his veins, but slowly starting to ebb as he processed what he was seeing. The cat in your arms was bloodied, its fur matted and filthy. You were cradling it like it was made of glass, your expression filled with worry.

Chan’s hand was still on Minho’s arm, and he felt the pressure ease slightly as his best friend let out a long breath. "See? Y/N is fine," Chan said in quiet relief, though there was still a hint of concern in his voice.

Minho’s chest tightened, his heart hammering in his ears. Fine? You were standing in the middle of nowhere, covered in blood. Sure, it wasn’t yours, but the shock still rattled through him, his pulse thrumming wildly.

You only acknowledged your boyfriend when you looked up to see him hovering. In an instant he was sat next to you.

Minho’s fingers brushed lightly through the cat’s blood-matted fur, his touch so delicate you almost didn’t feel it. He gently took the cat out of your arms and cradled it closer, his thumb running carefully over its ear in slow, soothing motions. You watched as his face softened in a way you rarely saw, his eyes wide with awe, as if this was the first cat he had ever seen.

"Pretty girl..." He murmured as the cat purred lightly. "Such a pretty girl...shh it's okay...tsk tsk tsk." He bopped her nose.

It was almost amusing, the way he looked at the cat like it was a rare treasure. You knew Minho loved cats- he always had -but this was on another level. His gaze was intense, focused entirely on the creature in his arms, like nothing else in the world existed. It was hard not to crack a smile despite the situation. His affection for the cat was so consuming that it momentarily made you forget the harsh words from earlier.

The entire reason you had gone on a walk to clear your mind- which had turned into looking for the cat you had texted him about.

His fingers moved in a rhythmic pattern, slow and deliberate, as if he was committing every inch of the cat’s fur to memory. "You’re okay, baby" he whispered to the cat, his voice barely audible, yet full of so much tenderness it made your chest ache.

For a second, it was like he was in his own world, completely absorbed in comforting the injured animal. It was almost absurd, watching him act like this was the only cat that had ever graced the earth, and you internally laughed at the thought of Soonie, Doongie, and Dori seeing their dad like this.

The way his eyes never left the cat’s mismatched ones, like they had some sort of silent understanding between them- it would have been funny if it weren’t so strangely touching.

"“You’ve seen cats before, Minho," you teased lightly,brushing some dirt off of yourself and picking at the dried blood. "You look like this is the first one you’ve ever laid eyes on."

Minho didn’t even blink, his attention still locked on the cat, but the corner of his lips tugged upward slightly. "This one’s different," he murmured, and his voice held a possessiveness that surprised you. It was like he was staking a claim, not just over the cat, but over the moment itself, like this was something only the two of you shared.

You couldn’t help but smile softly at the sight of him. The earlier argument seemed to fade into the background, and for a moment, it was just you, Minho, and the cat- your cat, you realized. In the moment you had decided she would be yours. There was something strangely comforting about the way he handled the situation, so focused on caring for the small, fragile life in his hands.

"I think it's just a rough cut...like she got her paw stuck in something." He said as he gently prodded the small creature. "She'll be okay if we bandage her up."

"Then I’ll take my baby home," you whispered after a while, trying to reclaim a little of the tension that had ebbed away out of pure pettiness, but it came out more tired than you expected, thus not receiving the response you wanted. You reached for your cat but Minho pulled back.

Without missing a beat, his eyes snapped up to yours. "Our baby," he corrected, his voice firm yet soft, almost possessive as he held the cat closer to his chest. There was a protective edge to his tone, like he wouldn’t let anyone, or anything come between him and this cat.

You blinked at him in surprise. "What?"

"Our baby," Minho repeated, more certain this time, his thumb brushing against the cat’s ear again with so much gentleness it made your heart twist. His eyes were locked on yours now, no longer just on the cat. "Ours."

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. There was something about the way he said "ours" that made the pit in your stomach ease, a warmth spreading in its place.

The ride back to your place was quiet, with Minho still cradling the cat like it was the most important thing in the world. You leaned back in your seat, your mind replaying the argument from earlier. His words had hurt, but now seeing him like this- so tender and protective -it was hard to hold onto the resentment. You glanced at Chan through the rearview mirror, who gave you a small, reassuring smile from the driver’s seat.

After a long moment of silence, you decided to poke fun again, if only to see how Minho would react. "Seems like Minho cares about the cat more than me, huh, Chan?" You tried to keep your voice light, but a hint of sadness and hurt slipped through.

Chan’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, but before he could even respond, Minho cut in, his voice surprisingly soft. "That’s not true."

You turned toward him, eyebrows raised in surprise. He was still looking down at the cat, but his grip tightened just slightly, his thumb stroking its fur with the same gentle, careful touch. He bit his lip and swallowed.

Minho’s gaze lifted slowly to meet yours, his dark eyes holding an unusual tenderness. "You know…" he began, his voice quiet but steady. "This cat…it’s our first kid."

You blinked, caught off guard. "Our first kid?"

He gave a tiny nod, his lips curving into the faintest smile. "Yeah. It’s ours. Our baby." He paused as if he wanted to say more. "Y/N I'm...I might not be great with words, but I care." He glanced down at the cat again, his voice dipping lower. "A lot. More than you could ever know."

It was so Minho- awkward, roundabout, but sincere. It wasn’t a straightforward apology, but it was his way of telling you he regretted what he said earlier. His gaze softened even further as he looked at you, his grip still tenderly holding your "child".

Your heart swelled, the hurt from earlier dissipating as warmth replaced it. You smiled at him, leaning closer. "So, this cat is our first kid, huh?"

He hummed in agreement, his shoulder brushing against yours. "Yeah…our first kid," he said, the possessiveness in his voice almost endearing now. "She's so pretty just like you, hm?"

For the first time since the argument, you felt a sense of peace wash over you. The way Minho looked at the cat like it was something precious and irreplaceable made your heart soften.

And the way he looked at you with ten times the amount of affection on a daily basis.

Maybe he wasn’t the best with words, but moments like this reminded you that his actions often spoke louder. And to take somethings woith a grain of salt.

As the car continued down the road, you leaned your head back, sneaking another glance at Minho. He was still holding the cat with the same delicate care, his fingers lightly stroking her fur as she rested in his arm, his eyes filled with a tenderness that made your chest ache. He hadn’t let go of her for a second, as if she was the most precious thing ever.

Watching him now, the earlier harshness of his words seemed distant, like a bad dream that was already fading in the daylight. The Minho beside you- the one who was petting the cat like it was his lifeline, who quietly called it "our baby" -wasn’t the same person who had called you useless just hours ago.

You smiled softly to yourself, feeling a weight lift from your chest. This was how you knew that the hurtful words he had sent your way were nothing more than frustration, born out of a heated moment. They held no truth deeper than the fleeting anger that had fueled them. His actions now- the way he cradled the creature, the gentle way he spoke to you, the intimate words he used; even the panic in his voice at the mere thought of you being hurt -revealed the real Minho, the one who cared deeply, even if he wasn’t always great at showing it.

And somehow, in this quiet moment, that was all the apology you needed.

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Edit: People keep telling me Minho should have groveled😭 🙏 i know guys but i wanted to bring a little diversity cause unfortunately there are people in the world who wouldn't apologize for something like this or they will go about it in a roundabout way 😭🙏 And I figured either Minho or Seungmin would best fit those roles so that's why I wrote him that way - but next time I'll make him grovel 😭 🙏

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[chanelgrll]

Could you please do Ronin taking care of a reader who caught the flu or something similar (just sick!reader in general haha)?? I love your works and how closely you write Ronin to the source material! <3

A/N: aaaaa thank you so much!!! <3

You’re Breathing Wrong (But I Guess I’ll Let It Slide)

You didn't remember falling asleep on the couch.

You definitely didn't remember Ronin carrying you to bed, though the ache in your bones told you you'd been moved, maybe a few times as he fussed with blankets and temperature controls you vaguely registered as too hot, then too cold, then too everything.

You wake again to the clink of something ceramic and a muffled curse. "Shit."

You try to respond but your throat makes a noise between a whimper and a dying animal. You settle for blinking at him again. He sighs.

Fifteen minutes later, you're still horizontal and thoroughly miserable, but now you’ve got a glass of water, two cold meds, a damp towel on your forehead, and, possibly the most shocking part of all, a bowl of instant noodles. The good kind, too. Not the ones you bought in bulk for emergencies, but the ones Ronin always hides in the back of the cabinet like a dragon hoarding spicy treasure.

“You’re giving me your good ramen?” you croak, voice rasping against your sore throat.

He shrugs, dropping onto the armchair like his joints are optional. “Figured it’d be your last meal.”

You snort, and then immediately regret it as it turns into a coughing fit. Ronin glances over, eyebrows drawn.

“Christ. You sound like a haunted accordion.”

You wheeze out a laugh anyway. He looks half-proud of the line.

Eventually, you manage to slurp down some broth and nibble a few noodles, though you don’t get far before your arms feel too heavy to lift the bowl. Ronin’s watching from across the room, one foot propped up on the coffee table, arms crossed.

“You’re doing that thing,” you mutter between sips.

“What thing?”

“The… looking at me like I’m about to break thing.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he says, voice dry. “I’m just trying to figure out whether I should take out your enemies while you’re down or let them have a sporting chance.”

A wheezy laugh escapes you before it turns into a cough, your whole body curling up with the force of it. He’s there instantly, one hand at your back, the other grabbing tissues and lifting the soup out of splash range.

“Okay, okay—slow down. Jesus. You’re like a dying ferret.”

You try to flip him off. Your hand barely twitches.

“Wow. Powerful.” He adjusts the cloth on your forehead again with unexpected gentleness. “Don’t get up. Drink this.” He puts a cup of water to your mouth, and helps you drink it. He then brushes the hair out of your eyes with the back of his hand, and presses the thermometer under your tongue. He doesn’t say anything when he sees the number, but his frown deepens. You know what he’s thinking.

“I’ll live,” you mumble.

Ronin snorts. “Don’t jinx it. I already promised your ghost I’d keep the apartment clean.”

You let your eyes flutter shut, the warmth of his hand at your temple enough to lull you halfway into sleep again. But then you feel him shift. Pull away. You reach out.

Your hand finds the hem of his jacket and tugs, weak and awkward. He stills.

“…Stay,” you whisper.

There’s a long pause. He’s quiet for so long you think maybe he didn’t hear you—or that he’s going to say something sarcastic—but then you feel the mattress shift.

He climbs in next to you, above the covers, just close enough that your knees bump. You feel the weight of his arm settle beside your head. Not touching you directly—he’s always careful like that, especially when you’re vulnerable—but he’s close. Tangible. Warm in a way that doesn’t suffocate.

“…This doesn’t mean I want your germs,” he mutters.

You make a small, amused noise.

“You always act like you’re so tough,” you murmur. “But you made me soup.”

“Shut up.”

“You tucked me in.”

“Shut up.”

You smile.

“Bet you even kissed my forehead while I was asleep.”

His hand twitches like he’s deciding whether to shove you off the bed. You grin wider. You know you're right.

“I should’ve let you marinate in fever dreams,” he grumbles. “Let you hallucinate your way through the week.”

“You love me,” you whisper sleepily, triumphant.

He doesn’t say anything. You drift in and out of sleep after that, fever dragging you under and shaking you around like a snow globe. Sometimes you dream. Sometimes you just hallucinate that Ronin is talking to you in the form of a large crow on the windowsill. But between the blurs of light and sound, there are moments. Moments of warmth and quiet.

Ronin adjusting the blanket over your shoulders. Picking up the tissues you dropped. Sitting on the floor beside the couch, back against the armrest, humming low under his breath. Not music. Just something to fill the silence. At one point, when the sun’s gone down and you’re too weak to hold a glass on your own, he holds it to your lips without a word and waits until you finish drinking.

“Don’t tell anyone about this,” he mutters afterward.

Your lips curve in a faint smile. “Tell them what?”

“That I’m not letting you die horribly.”

“I’d never snitch,” you whisper.

He grunts. “Better not. I’ve got a reputation.” The next morning, you're barely any better, but you wake up tucked under Ronin’s arm. You’re pretty sure he ended up there by accident. His fingers twitch when you stir, like they’re unsure whether to withdraw or cling harder. His mouth moves like he wants to complain but can’t find the energy to do it.

“You’re still breathing,” he mumbles.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Don’t be.” He squeezes you briefly, like a secret. “I don’t think I could make good noodles again if you weren’t around to call me dramatic.”

You hum. “You are dramatic.”

“Shut up and die quieter.”

But he doesn’t let go.

And you don’t die.

[sweetlyvibe]

PAIRING : Naruto Uzumaki x GN!Reader

GENRE : Fluff

WC : 3.3k

SUMMARY : Naruto’s head is spinning — he likes you, but Sasuke seems to have caught your attention too. Feeling like the underdog has never been this hard. | the request

CONTENT WARNINGS : None ( This story is soft, wholesome, and fluff-centered. Only slight angst, violence, or triggering content.)

Naruto knew he wasn’t subtle. Not even close.

When you walked into the room, his whole face lit up like a sunrise and every other thought in his brain disappeared like a puff of smoke. He’d go quiet for maybe two seconds — a miracle in itself — before he started talking way too fast, way too loud, and laughing at jokes that weren’t even funny.

He liked you. A lot. That part was obvious to literally everyone but you.

But lately… something had changed.

It started with the way Sasuke had started standing next to you more often. Nothing dramatic. Just little things. He handed you your scroll before anyone else. Sparred with you a little longer during training. Even gave you a rare, genuine compliment after that mission with the rogue mist ninja. (“That genjutsu counter you used… it was smart. Effective.”)

And Naruto saw it all.

He saw the way you smiled after Sasuke spoke, the way your expression softened like you were letting your guard down. And every time, Naruto felt like someone had punched a hole right through his chest.

“Oi, Naruto,” Kiba said during lunch one day. “You good?”

Naruto’s chopsticks hovered over his bowl of ramen. He didn’t even realize he’d stopped eating.

“Huh? Yeah. I’m fine,” he said quickly, forcing a grin. “Just thinking.”

That was a lie. He hated thinking lately.

Because no matter how many times he tried to tell himself it was fine — that you were just being polite, that Sasuke didn’t like you like that — deep down, he knew better.

Sasuke was cool. Strong. Quiet in that mysterious, brooding way people liked for some reason. Girls had always liked Sasuke. Naruto had seen it since the Academy. And you… you were amazing. Kind and funny and crazy smart and always two steps ahead during missions. You were out of his league — and now you and Sasuke were spending more time together than ever.

Naruto jabbed at his ramen again.

“Hey,” Shikamaru muttered from across the table. “You’re gonna break your bowl if you keep stabbing it.”

Naruto scowled and mumbled, “I’m not stabbing it.”

But he was. Kind of.

౨ৎ

The worst moment came during sparring practice.

It was a warm afternoon. Sun overhead. Birds chirping like they didn’t know Naruto’s world was collapsing.

You were up next. Paired with Sasuke.

Of course.

He stood across from you, calm as ever, his eyes already analyzing your stance before you even moved. You smiled — that soft, unreadable smile you gave only when you were focused — and nodded at him once.

Naruto stood at the edge of the training field, arms crossed, trying really hard not to sulk. But he couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t stop comparing.

Your fight was so smooth. No yelling. No clumsy punches or flashy jutsu. Just two skilled shinobi moving like you’d known each other for years. You even paused once mid-combo to dodge a kunai Sasuke had thrown behind you — and he smirked, clearly impressed.

Naruto felt like throwing up.

By the end of the match, Sasuke extended a hand to help you up from the dirt. And you took it. Smiling. Laughing.

Naruto turned away.

“They’ll never pick me,” he muttered under his breath, fists clenched at his sides. “Sasuke’s so much cooler than me.”

That night, he didn’t sleep. Just lay on the roof of his apartment, staring at the stars, wondering what it would’ve been like if he were someone else — someone quieter, smoother, someone you could actually like.

He didn’t know that everything was about to change.

౨ৎ

You found him two days later, sitting under a tree behind the training grounds, legs sprawled out in front of him and his hands behind his head.

“Oi,” you said gently, “you’ve been quiet lately.”

Naruto startled and sat up fast, like he’d been caught stealing.

“W-what? Me? Nah. I’m fine.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“What? No way!” He scratched the back of his head, clearly lying. “I’ve just been… training. Y’know. Getting stronger. Gotta beat Sasuke one day, right?”

He grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

You didn’t smile either.

“Speaking of Sasuke,” you said carefully, “he asked me something yesterday.”

Naruto blinked. “He—he what?”

You sat down next to him, and his heart practically launched out of his chest. You were close. Too close. Your shoulder barely touched his.

“He asked if I wanted to get tea with him. You know. Like… a date.”

Naruto’s stomach dropped to the floor.

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. His throat was dry. His brain stopped working.

You glanced over at him, watching the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes darted away.

“I said no.”

Silence.

Naruto turned back slowly. “Wait. You—what?”

You smiled — a real smile this time — and shrugged like it wasn’t that big of a deal. But there was a faint blush on your cheeks now.

“I said no. I told him I wasn’t interested.”

Naruto stared at you like you’d grown a second head.

“But… but it’s Sasuke,” he said, baffled. “He’s, like… cool. And serious. And strong. Why would you—?”

You turned to face him fully now, your expression soft but steady.

“Because I like loud people,” you said, nudging his shoulder with yours. “People who smile like sunshine. People who talk too much and make stupid jokes and never give up.”

Naruto’s mouth opened slightly, eyes wide.

Your voice dropped a little, quieter now. “I like you.”

And for the first time in days, Naruto’s heart didn’t feel heavy.

It felt like it was about to explode.

Naruto blinked.

Once.

Twice.

“…What?” he finally croaked, voice cracking halfway through.

You laughed — not a teasing laugh, not like you were making fun of him, but like you were nervous too. Like maybe this meant as much to you as it did to him.

“I said I like you,” you repeated, still smiling. “As in… you.”

His brain short-circuited.

Naruto Uzumaki, Number One Hyperactive Knucklehead Ninja, Hero of Konoha, literal jinchūriki and future Hokage — had absolutely nothing to say.

You picked him?

Not Sasuke. Not Mr. Cool-and-Silent. Not tall, dark, and broody with a fan club bigger than the village library.

Him?

“You—you know I’m not like… I mean, I’m not cool,” Naruto blurted, gesturing vaguely at himself like that somehow explained everything. “I talk too much, and I eat ramen every day, and people think I’m annoying and—and I mess up a lot—”

You reached over and flicked his forehead lightly.

He stopped rambling instantly, stunned.

“Don’t say stuff like that about yourself,” you said gently. “You’re strong. And brave. And you make people feel safe just by being around.”

Naruto felt something in his chest tighten, then loosen all at once — like a knot that had finally come undone after being pulled too tight for too long.

“…Really?” he asked, voice small. “You really like me?”

You nodded. “I’ve liked you for a while. You’re just… kinda dense.”

“Hey!” he said, but he was grinning now, wide and bright and absolutely glowing.

You bumped your shoulder into his again. “Sasuke’s great. But he doesn’t make me laugh like you do. He doesn’t light up a room when he walks in. He doesn’t make my heart feel like it’s racing just from a stupid smile.”

Naruto stared at you, lips parted slightly, as if he couldn’t believe this was real.

Then:

“Can I… can I hug you?”

Your heart jumped, and you gave a breathless little laugh. “You don’t have to ask, dummy.”

And then he was pulling you into him — all warmth and sunshine and too-tight arms around your waist, his cheek pressed to your shoulder like he was afraid to let go.

“You picked me,” he whispered, as if saying it made it more real.

You wrapped your arms around him and whispered back, “Of course I did.”

౨ৎ

Later that day, Naruto saw Sasuke leaning against a tree at the edge of the field.

Their eyes met briefly. Naruto held his breath, unsure of what was about to happen.

But Sasuke simply looked away, arms crossed, and said, “Good for you.”

That was all.

No anger. No tension. Just… acceptance.

Naruto blinked. “…Wait, are you not mad?”

Sasuke gave him the smallest glance and rolled his eyes. “You think I don’t notice how you look at them?”

Naruto flushed instantly.

Sasuke pushed off the tree and turned to walk away.

“I’ll get tea with Sakura instead,” he muttered.

Naruto blinked again. “…What?”

But Sasuke was already gone.

౨ৎ

The next time you trained together, Naruto was different.

He was still loud. Still smiling. Still shouting “Believe it!” before nearly tripping over his own feet during a taijutsu drill.

But now, when he caught you watching him, he grinned a little softer. Brighter. And when you walked past, he reached for your hand — not all the way, not yet, but enough for your pinkies to brush.

You smiled.

Later, you and Naruto sat together on the Hokage Monument, legs dangling over the edge, the village glowing beneath you.

He turned to you suddenly, eyes wide and worried. “Hey… if I mess this up… you’ll tell me, right?”

You blinked. “Mess what up?”

“This. Us,” he said. “I’ve never… done this before. But I wanna do it right. I wanna be good for you.”

You looked at him — really looked — and saw everything he tried to hide: the fear, the doubt, the way he didn’t quite believe he deserved something good.

So you leaned over and kissed his cheek.

“You already are,” you said.

Naruto blushed so hard he nearly fell off the mountain.

And for the first time in a long, long time… he believed it.

[lia-linny]

summary: Your boyfriend Minho comes home after a busy week and just wants to relax.

words: 0,8k

genre: fluff

"Ok im not letting you cook ever again."It was the first sentence your boyfriend uttered after entering your shared apartment.

You had offered to cook for him despite your lack of cooking skills. Minho had had a stressful week. From photo shoot to video shoot to dance practice to interviews. He hadn't had much time to relax so you had thought about taking at least a little stress off him. You had cleaned the whole apartment, fed and bathed the cats and last but not least you wanted to cook dinner for him.

Even though it was a bit late, you knew that minho hadn't eaten yet. So you sent your boyfriend a message about two hours ago and asked what he would like for dinner. His crative reply "I don't care" didn't really help you. So you decided to go off on your own, go to the supermarket and pick out everything for his favorite meal.

It already started badly, as it was quite late and half of the ingredients you needed were already sold out. But instead of seeing this as a sign to simply go with ramen or take out, you decide to improvise. What could possibly go wrong?

Quite a lot, as it turned out. Because that's how you ended up here. In the large kitchen of your apartment. There were ingredients and bowls everywhere. Everything was dirty, including you, and the ingredients that had ended up in the cooking pot were burned.

You were on the verge of tears when you heard the door open. Which could only mean that your boyfriend was home. Minho came into the kitchen after some time and snorted when he saw you standing there in such despair.

"Ok im not letting you cook ever again Jagiya." You just glared at him. He came over to you and ran his hand over your hair to remove what you thought was a little flour. A long, blessed sigh escaped you and you wrapped your arms around Minho's torso. He buried his face in your hair, laughing.

"I'm sorry," you mumbled against his neck.

"I just wanted to cook something for you because your week has been so stressful..." he laughed softly at your apologies.

"You're sweet... What do you say I order us dinner, clean up your mess and you take a shower in the meantime?" You just nod, but don't move, not yet ready to give up your boyfriend's body heat.

He breaks away from you and starts to order food for the two of you on his cell phone.

"Thank you for trying... with the cooking Jagiya." He doesn't look up from his cell phone. Not even when he adds:

"But please do me a favor and never touch our kitchen again. Especially not with the intention of cooking something, otherwise you'll probably burn down the building." He laughs lightly as your lips curl into a pout.

"I hate you, Minho." You grumble and head to the bathroom, where you take a much-needed shower while your boyfriend cleans up your kitchen grinningto himself.

Just as you finish, you hear Minho taking the food delivery. Exhausted, you plop down on one of the chairs at the dining table and wait until minho places two plates of food in front of you. One for you and one for him. He sits down opposite you and pulls his plate towards him, which contains a little less food than yours.

Sometimes it's hard for minho to show or express what a person means to him and little things like that have always been proof that he cares about you. You smile as Minho immediately starts shoveling the food into himself.

"Does it taste good?"

"Yes," he replies curtly and goes back to eating. You start eating too and you both enjoy the silence that has settled over your apartment. After dinner, you get ready for bed, still in silence, until you and your boyfriend finally slip under the covers.

You lie quietly and relaxed next to each other and are almost caught up in a dream when you feel your boyfriend wrap his arms around you.

"Thank you for always taking such good care of me and the cats." He whispers in your ear as he snuggles closer to you.

"And that you tried to cook... I really appreciate it all. I don't know what I would do without you." You turn into his embrace so that you can wrap your arms around him and that's enough for an answer. No words needed between you and Minho. Because you both know how deeply you care for each other.

You hear his breathing become more even and feel yourself relax more and more. The two of you snuggle together, nourished by each other's body heat, and soon drift off to sleep.

[queenendless]

♡•° PURE °•♡

A/n: Spontaneous unplanned White Day fic.

SFW, fluff and romance with the ONLY ONE I wanna spend this day with. I miss him so much! 🥺😭🤧❤️‍🔥💘💖

“If there's one person in all of New Eridu you want to be with today, then it's gotta be — !” Belle didn't have time to finish as you cut in, your ramen bowls shaking as you slammed your just now finished one against the counter.

“I can't help it. There's no one like him. An honorable fighter, a romantic, with cheesy puns galore. Sure his flashy persona as the Champ goes hand in hand with his real self being awkwardly cute and —!” You dramatically sighed as you collapsed on the counter with your blushing goofy face cupped in your hands. “Who wouldn't want a giant adonis littered with scars on top of all that? He's so … perfect.”

Belle’s smothered giggling and General Chop's piqued interest expression got you curious. The rough coughing right behind you got you stiff as a board. The brush of warm leather against your arm and the matching familiar glove immediately seeking your hand already got you melting. The rosy tint from his cheeks to the tips of his ears you spotted got you smiling all silly.

“Thanks, I think. I'm used to getting praised on the job. Your praises though …” Lighter pulled at his scarf, clearing his thick throat. “Still getting used to it.”

“I'll go ahead and leave you be. Wise and I got our own dates to look forward to. Have fun~”

After giving you both a group hug, you both watched her upbeat self waving at the finely dressed wolf Thiren stepping out of the driver's seat of a fancy loaned parked car in the middle of the road, kissing her hand like the suave partner he is, opening up the passenger door for her. You spotted Astra and Wise sitting in the back, her gushing to him about anything that had him look so invested.

“Double date with Lycaon and Astra Yhao … oh our Proxies are moving on up in the world~” You mused as the car drove away when a heavy thump in front of you got you jumping in your seat.

A plastic wrapped gift basket with a bow on top. Spotting some cans, cards, tapes along with a Red Moccus doll.

“Lucy got the plush custom made, Burnice wants your opinion on her new blend, Piper and Pulchra only chipped in some gift cards, and Caesar picked out the movies.” Lighter listed off, kinda embarrassed but still grateful his faction helped him put this together.

“They wanted to repay you for giving them chocolate last month. Plus they thought just gifting you lollipops wasn't nearly enough. So,” A heart shaped box with a painted symbol matching the one on his scarf he hid behind his back then presented it to you with that tender smile of his.

“Your adorable goofy self deserves all the love there is and so much more. For being there for me at my best and worst. For accepting my literal flaws and sharing the burdens I bear. For giving me your unbridled … well everything. I'm grateful to you, Y/n. I truly am.”

His breathless laugh met your cheek as you hugged his waist, nuzzling your face against his own burning cheek. “You won me over the moment we met. No one else can compare to you in my eyes.”

He hummed deeply. “Took the words right outta my mouth. So, you up for a ride? Maybe hit up my place after? Movie marathon and all that?”

Gently tugging on his red scarf, you have his head dip down and meet yours below in a searing kiss.

“Lighter Lorenz, I love you. All of you.” Your beaming e/c eyes might as well have shown hearts to further strike him at his own at how open you are with your feelings.

His nose brushed yours, his forehead resting against yours, his blazing green eyes trembling with tears, and his elated smile capturing your very soul. “I love you too, angel. More than anything.” His whispered vow got you both holding your heart shaped box together as you were left with leaving kisses all over his lovestruck grinning face.

General Chop wept happily in the corner of his shop at witnessing such pure universal love.

[sooniebby]

𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫

𝗪𝗲𝗲𝗸 𝟰: 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱𝘀/𝘀𝗶𝘇𝗲 𝗱𝗶𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲/𝘀𝗽𝗮𝗻𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴

Bottom male reader. A character I’ve used before. Reader is 19 while OC is 28. His face claim. Lite Degradation. Reader is mentioned to have a cock. Lite dub con but reader consents for most. Reader hates OC so bad lol.. kinda long too :/

“What the fuck?! Why are you here?”

You stormed over to the living room to see your archenemies, Vincent Yamada, sprawled out on your couch. He looked over at you with mild annoyance before looking back at the tv to watch his soap opera.

“Hello??”

“Motorcycle.”

“Tch, you’re like 35! Get a car like a real adult!”

Vincent didn’t even look at you, knowing you would’ve wanted him to start yelling you or something. He rolled his eyes.

“I’m 28.”

“Don��t care, didn’t ask, old man!” You yelled as you stormed over to the kitchen. On the fridge, you saw a note that was in your sister, Karina’s, handwriting.

‘Sorry, (Name)!! I know it’s weird, ex boyfriend staying at our place but his apartment complex’s electrical system went out so he just needed a few days at someone’s place and I was the only one with room for him… please don’t bother him I’ll be home after work <3 ily! ~ Karina’

You crushed the note in your hand and sighed. Fuck, you were stuck here with that old man for who knows how long?! You shook your head and decided you needed to eat something before you died from anger.

“You cooking something?”

You slammed the pot down on the stove and bit your lip. “Shut the fuck up I don’t want your old stench near me!”

“….im in the living room.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

Vincent seemed to take the hint as he didn’t say anything else. You sighed in peace and began to cook some instant ramen for dinner. The smell of health-ish noodles filled the air as you spilled in some wontons to eat with it.

Just when you were finished, you grabbed some chopsticks only to have it pulled from your hand. You glanced up, god you fucking hated that he was taller than you, and glared at Vincent.

“Thank you, baby.”

“Ba—?! The fuck, that’s mine!”

Vincent grabbed the bowl too and you couldn’t exactly do much with how much taller he was compared to you.

“Hm, I think it’s mine. Compensation for having to deal with your disgusting attitude.”

“I’ll show you disgusting, damn beanstalk!”

Before you could do anything, Vincent placed the bowl back on the countertop and easily grabbed both of your wrists with… just one hand.

He was saying something but all you could really do was just stare in shocked awe that his hand was so large to hold… and properly restrain both of your wrists with ease. You weren’t sure what this feeling was but it felt so.. odd to not feel angry that he was touching you.

His hands were large. Quite large. You could see his veins. Oh god—his veins. One paper cut—you shook the thought away and just continued staring. Shit…. If his hand was this big against you… was… everything else…?

“Hey, are you listening, brat?”

Vincent pulled your wrists up, effectively making you look up at him. Your arms were now up above your head, Vincent’s grip still there on your wrists.

It took you a minute to prepare your comeback as your face soon twisted into a snarl.

“I’m not a brat, old man!”

“Can’t come up with a better insult? I’m pretty sure you called me that already.”

He released your wrists much to your dismay as you let out a whine. You clamped your mouth shut, hoping Vincent didn’t notice. It seemed he didn’t as he grabbed the bowl of ramen.

“Thanks. I’ll enjoy it.” He smirked before walking away to the living room.

You stood in the kitchen for a moment, trying to think about what the fuck you had thought about. His hands. Fuck, his hands. You groaned as you tried to stop thinking about his hands.

What the hell? Was this the first time you noticed just how big he was compared to you.

He was like… 6’3! And muscular… a good amount of muscle. You shook your head and sighed, trying to think about anything else beside your nemesis’ body.

You didn’t like him. You couldn’t. Seeing him always sent you into a bad mood.

He broke your sister heart… well you hated him even when they dated so that wasn’t quite the reason why you hated him.

Why’d you hate him?

Don’t ask that—it didn’t matter.

With a huff, you stormed off—again—to your room. You slammed the door shut and plopped down onto the bed. It was only around 5 pm. How long would I take for Karina to get home?

God, what the hell was she insist to take night shifts?

You turned on your tv and decided to just wallow in your bed watching some random kdrama.

Deep into the kdrama, when the main couple was having their steamy kiss—you (unfortunately) began to think how it’d be to kiss Vincent.

You shook your head and continued watching the drama until you fell asleep.

It was when your door slammed open that you shook awake in fear. You stared at the door in shock and saw an unimpressed Vincent. He glanced around your… more kiddish room and walked inside.

“Guess you haven’t had the time to change it, huh?” His finger moved around, pointing at your more kiddish decorations that looked out of place to your more mature furniture.

You rolled your eyes. You didn’t feel in the mood to do anything. Vincent seemed to take notice of that but he didn’t say anything.

“Did you eat? It’s past ten.”

“Why’d you care?”

You look over at his face, a curious expression on your own. He didn’t actually care—he was just making stupid small talk. But—

His face.

His face when you saw it showed pure anger. His lips pulled up into a snarl as you blinked in shock. Wow. You never got him to be this angry—only one time.. that time you—

“Did you even eat at all today?”

You blinked. How’d…?

“I was here all morning, damn brat. I knew you didn’t come to the kitchen once and unless you have food stored in your room— you didn’t eat a single thing this entire day.”

“Why… do… you… care?” You muttered.

Vincent didn’t say anything. He worked over to you and with great strength, grabbed your arm and pulled you out of bed. You yelled at him to let you go but you didn’t much to his grip.

He dragged you out of the room and to the living room. Vincent forced you to sit down on the couch and he walked over to the kitchen. You stayed in the couch, a bit scared in how he’d react to you moving.

Why was he so angry? It wasn’t like you didn’t eat all the time..

It’s just one day.

Before you knew it, a bowl of ramen was being placed into your hands. You glanced up at him as he plopped down on the couch, staring straight at you.

He didn’t say anything—his gaze straight on you.

You blushed heavily and began to eat, trying to ignore his gaze on you. It wasn’t until you were finished that you felt a bit more relaxed. You were pretty hungry.

You couldn’t help but glance over at Vincent once you finished, curious to see how he’d react. And.. he smirked. Fucking jackass.

You huffed and placed the bowl on the coffee table. “Idiot.” You whisper to yourself.

“What was that?”

“Idiot. What; can’t hear properly anymore? Must be the old age.”

“You really are just a little brat…”

“Asshole! You can’t just call me a brat!” You moved close to him, ready to try and hit him but he grabbed your wrist.

Oh god.

“You aren’t acting like an angel are you? Where’s the thanks for preparing your food.”

“Tch, you stole my own dinner, dick!”

Vincent rolled his eyes. “So dramatic. It was just instant ramen, you could’ve made another.”

“Piece of sh—”

You raised your other hand but was swiftly grabbed by Vincent’s free hand. It was so weird—to be so close to your sister’s ex boyfriend. He kinda smelled like motor oil.

Damn motorcycle…

“You’re such a virgin…” he suddenly laughed, moving one of your hands to his other and keeping it together as he easily pulled you close, draping you over his lap. “You think I couldn’t tell from those looks?”

“You….! Those weren’t looks, damn pervert!”

You flinched as you felt his hand rub against your shorts, pulling at it as it snapped back against your skin. You didn’t whimper—no way!

“And these shorts… fuck, you walk around the house with these with any man here?”

“They’re normal shorts!”

Vincent only hummed as he rubbed your ass a bit more through the shorts. He reached up and grasped the waistband, pulling it down slowly. You squirmed, trying to move but his other hand kept you down on his lap.

“You practically fit your role well… a little brat who needs a good spanking.”

“Span—?!”

You cry out, your body shaking at the first ever slap you felt against your ass cheek. Your shorts saved it from any direct contact.. but it was close—so close.

Your legs were tight together for a sense of comfort as you tried to think of ways to run away. But you didn’t really try moving…

You wanted to see how far he’d go. How far he’d go in fucking his ex girlfriend’s little brother.

“You’re like those small dogs—picking fights with the big ones.”

A whine left your lips as he spanked your ass again—the shorts once again a barrier.

“Count.”

“I’m not—”

He spanked you.

“Three!”

A soft little rub against your ass was your reward. Vincent reached back up and pulled down your shorts to your knees. His hand rubbed your ass a bit—as some sort of prep before rising up.

“Four!”

You whimpered, clutching at the couch beneath you as a lifeline. Your body shook this new direct slaps on your bare ass. It felt so odd to have someone else, especially him, touching your butt.

Even if you didn’t see, you could feel that his hand easily engulfed your ass cheek with one hand. Your body didn’t even fully cover his thighs.

“T…ten!”

You weren’t even sure how you didn’t even get side tracked.. or even remembered the numbers. Your ass cheeks feel sore—this was so brand new and even though your cock was leaking you felt overwhelmed.

Just as his hand raised up again, you began to squirm violently.

“No…! No more! Stop it!” You cry, having no hope that he’d actually stop. But he did. Vincent maneuvered you to sit properly on his lap.

“What’s wrong?”

He… actually looked concerned. Wow.

Ugh, you didn’t like that look.

“Tired…” you simply muttered, too embarrassed to state that.. you were getting scared. You never thought about kinks or what not—so springing this on you was just—a bad idea honestly.

Vincent hummed, his hand moving to rest on the curve of your hip. It felt nicely there. You couldn’t help but blush at the thought… he should rest it there more often.

You blinked. Fuck.

“Need to cum?” He asked, glancing down at your leaking cock.

“Yeah.”

Vincent raised an eyebrow—as if he was waiting for you to answer him. Properly.

You frowned and rolled your eyes. “Pl… ugh—”

“—I guess you don’t have to cum.” He began to remove his hands from your hips.

“No…! P…pl…. please….”

Vincent’s lips pulled into a cruel smirk as he reached over and grabbed your cock. You flinched and immediately began to thrust into his hand, but his hand… still large hand reached down and gripped your leg, holding you down.

“I didn’t say you could move, brat. Take what I give you.”

You whimpered and despite every fiber in your being wanting to move, obeyed his command. His hand job was slow and teasing, daring you to buck into his hand. But you did your best to keep still.

“Y….your hand..”

He raised an eyebrow.

“So… big..”

“This is big for you? Imagine… my actual cock inside of you.”

You blushed, staring at Vincent in shock.

“Aw~ the brat is shy? Don’t be… I’m sure you imagined it—my cock deep inside that hole of yours.”

His free hans trailed up your stomach, circling around an area of it as he gently pressed down on it.

“Can’t wait to see how far my dick print will be.”

You cummed.

Fuck, you actually came at the thought of his dick would look deep inside of you. You shook as your first ever orgasm from another person practically changed you forever.

You groaned and leaned into Vincent’s chest, resting your head on his shoulders.

“I didn’t say you could come… but I’ll allow it—this time. Now clean.”

His grip on your hair pulled your head back. Fuck, you definitely wanted more of that. His fingers that was covered in your cum, was shoved directly into your mouth.

You choked, tears prickled your eyes but you didn’t bite his hand. You were once again too tired to act like a brat. You diligently licked his fingers and moaned around them.

You could hear Vincent grunt as you unintentionally began to suck on his fingers, swirling your tongue between them. Certainly looked like sucking a cock.

“Fuck… you little—”

“(Name)! I’m back, I hope you did….”

Karina’s voice trailed off as she caught the sight of you, bottomless and sucking Vincent’s fingers. And Vincent, rock hard in his jeans and a look of want in his eyes.

Well…

At least it wasn’t cheating….?

This was way longer that it needed to be :( hope it was still good lol it’s fun writing a reader who is actively a bitch to the character

Tag list: @the-ultimate-librarian @kiiyoooo @chill-guy-but-cooler @smellwell @nakedtoasterr @ofclyde @tomoeroi @remdayz @mello-life69 @iwishtobeacrow @kaedezu @tehyunnie

Special tag for @teyvat-writer hopefully I delivered on a naive brat reader lol

[steponupbabe]

Track 05

Pairing: 2000s!Kwon Jiyong x Fem!Reader

Summary: jiyong gives you a CD, and you come to find out it’s a confession.

Trope: friends to lovers.

Warnings: none.

───────── ༺♡༻ ────────

It started with a CD.

Not just any CD. A silver one with a smudged Sharpie label that read:

“summer mix // don’t judge me.”

You found it stuffed in your school locker one rainy Tuesday, tucked inside a case with an orange Post-it stuck to the front.

From: Ji (yeah, I made it. yeah, it’s kinda lame.)

That was Kwon Jiyong for you. Confident in the spotlight but secretly soft behind the curtain. Your best friend since middle school. The one who passed you folded lyrics in class and called you at 1AM on a school night just to ask if a beat sounded better in C minor or D major.

And somewhere between those long nights and quiet bus rides, he’d become your favorite part of the day.

༺♡༻

Jiyong was already different from everyone else. While your classmates were stressing about exams or SNS profiles, he was scribbling verses in his math notebook, beatboxing under his breath, or running off to YG after school with headphones dangling around his neck.

But he always made time for you.

Every Friday, like clockwork, you’d meet at the little ramen shop near the bus station. He’d get spicy, you’d get mild, and he’d sneak a boiled egg and a fish cake into your bowl like he always did.

That day, though, he was quieter.

“You didn’t listen to it yet, did you?” he asked between bites, flicking a noodle at your arm when you hesitated.

“I was going to! I just…” You said smiling softly—then you paused. “Was scared it was, like, a confession or something.”

He choked on his drink, fanning his face, eyes slightly wide.

You laughed as he coughed, red in the face, hiding behind his hand. “You wish,” he said, grinnging. But his ears turned the same shade as the kimchi.

You didn’t say it, but maybe you wished too.

༺♡༻

You finally listened to the CD that night.

Track 01 was a beat he made from scratch—looped synths and soft drums, layered under a muffled voice clip of him saying “for her, but don’t tell her.”

Track 02 Usher. Track 03 was Destiny’s child. Track 04? Neyo.

But Track 05 was what made you sit straight up in bed, breath hitched and eyes slightly widening.

It was him. Just him. Singing, rough around the edges, like he recorded it late at night with a blanket over his head—but full of something warm. The lyrics weren’t polished. They didn’t rhyme half the time. But they were about you.

Your laugh. Your walk. The way you always double-knot your shoelaces.

And that line—

“If I make it, I want her to be the first to hear.”

You held the CD case against your chest and smiled until your cheeks hurt.

༺♡༻

The next morning, you cornered him at the bus

stop.

“You said it wasn’t a confession.”

He blinked. “It’s not.”

“Then what is it?”

“…a draft?”

You hit him lightly on the chest. “Idiot.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t think you’d actually get to Track 05. I was gonna burn a new version and delete that one.”

“But I heard it.”

He didn’t look at you. “Yeah. I figured.”

The bus rumbled up to the curb, and you stepped closer, heart hammering in your ears.

“I liked it,” you said quietly.

His eyes finally met yours. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Especially the part where you said you’d let me hear it first.”

He smiled, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“Okay,” he said. “Then… when I debut someday, will you be there?”

“Only if I get front row.”

“You can have backstage,” he murmured, softer now. “Forever, if you want.”

You blinked. “Jiyong…”

He suddenly looked nervous. “Too much?”

You shook your head, grinning. “Just right.”

───────── ༺♡༻ ────────

A/n: ahhh first part of my series is done :D i love 2000s jiyong and there’s barely any fics so i decided to take matters into my own hands hehe hope u enjoy 🥰

[slytherinshua]

♩　HEAL THE SOUL 　( 최범규 )

genre sickfic , fluff , angst , beomgyu x fem!reader   cw implied abusive parents for both beomgyu and reader , cold symptoms (cough/headache) , beomgyu and reader are homeless and ran away from home lol inspired by 0x1=lovesong and loser=lover , not proofread   wc 1089   request yes   note i swear this txt emo era needs to go away (or not and that just means more txt fics)   net @kstrucknet @moadiarynet

You were sick. Nothing too serious, but something unpleasant enough to remind you to not take being healthy for granted. It was even worse now that you didn’t have a bed to sleep in, or warm food, or a shower. Beomgyu would have to drive another hour or two to the nearest public gym, and you really didn’t want to bother him enough for that just so you could ease your body with hot water. 

Your head ached, though. And your throat felt a bit dry. You had coughing fits every hour or so, and not much appetite. But Beomgyu was paying close attention to you whenever he could, feeling your forehead for abnormal temperatures, and making sure you had enough layers to stay warm. It definitely wasn’t the most ideal time for you to fall ill, but there wasn’t much you could do to prevent it either. 

Running away from your old town, your old life, with Beomgyu months ago had easily been the best decision of your life. Away from the constant headaches, the pain, the discomfort. Two broken souls in a beat up car driving until they found somewhere new to call home. That’s the life you two had now. But it wasn’t so bad. As long as you had each other, you got through alright. 

Beomgyu had left five minutes ago to buy whatever the cheapest hot meal was at the gas station. You were parked in the empty parking lot by the old laundromat, bundled up in one of Beomgyu’s old hoodies. You couldn’t run the heating in the car while you were parked, much as you would like to. Already tight on money as it was, you both knew how important it was to save gas. 

Your mind wandered as you looked out the window, headache pounding at your head as you shivered. You wondered what your mother would think of you if she saw you right now. How she would mock you for surviving off a twenty-year-old car and your old savings. You had worked hard to leave. Saved up as much money as possible from old part time jobs and bake sales. Although you had to give up luxuries like a warm bed, a functional kitchen, and the stability of a proper home, your current “homelessness” felt much more homely than your childhood house ever had. 

Beomgyu joked about it with you all the time. How your similar childhood experiences of abuse had led you here into each other’s arms. How it wasn’t quite so bad if it meant you could spend the rest of forever with each other. Perhaps the scars were just pathways to a better future.

A cough bubbled in your chest and you scrunched your eyes shut in frustration. You were tired of this stupid cold. You rasped out a few painful coughs before your throat cleared, burning and sore as always. You tucked your legs up to your chest, staring up at the pink sky. It was pretty as always, but the earlier the sunset, the more you anticipated how cold the night in the car would be. You could hardly enjoy the pretty clouds or colours thinking of how much you would have to rely on Beomgyu’s body warmth again that night.

“Ramen and painkillers for only fifteen thousand won,” Beomgyu grinned as he slid back into the drivers’ seat of the car, two steaming bowls of ramen in each hand. One spicy and one mild chicken flavour. A small packet of Advil was stuffed into his pocket as well. 

“Fifteen? How much of that was for the pills?” you asked a little on edge. What was not in your plan was to have your sickness burden down your expenses. It was already tight as it was.

“Ten thousand— But I won’t let you argue with me about this. I want you to feel better as quickly as possible,” Beomgyu said simply, placing the ramen on the dash of the car. 

“Beomgyu.”

“I said I’m not gonna argue. I already paid for them, so you’d better take them,” he reiterated a little more sternly, giving you a stubborn look which you had rarely seen directed at you. You sighed, recognizing a losing battle before it even started. Grabbing that packet out of his hands you pushed one small pill out of its casing and gulped it down with a little water. Beomgyu’s smile came back on his face as soon as you swallowed. 

“Now eat.” He grabbed a pair of chopsticks and scooped up a few noodles between them. Blowing on them softly, he held them out to you, carefully feeding you the warm broth-coated noodles. You hummed in thanks, grabbing the bowl from his hands and sipping more of the warm soup part.

It had been a while since you’d had a hot meal. Even if it was just instant ramen, it soothed your throat better than anything else had. Your headache was starting to subside thanks to the painkillers, and you were once again grateful for how attentively Beomgyu took care of you. He knew exactly what you needed without you even having to ask. 

The feeling was foreign. Of course, it had been years since you had first fallen in love with him. But having someone who truly cared still took adjusting to. You’d always had to beg your parents for basic things like clothes without holes in them and medicine for flu season. Years of being ignored and neglected made the switch hard to properly process. 

You hoped you could at least repay him with the same amount of love and attention that he showed you. Out of anyone you had ever met, Beomgyu certainly deserved it. 

After you both ate and cleaned up, driving around the deserted roads until you found a safe spot to park for the night, Beomgyu took out his grandpa’s old guitar and gave it a few strums. Adjusting the tuning of the old strings only took him a minute to do thanks to years of practice. He played almost every night. And on nights when he didn’t, he would still sing you to sleep while you were wrapped safely in his arms. 

The life you had chosen to live with Beomgyu certainly wasn’t easy, but every hour you spent in his company you felt your hope grow a little more. Some little voice inside your heart told you everything would work out. Because if you had Beomgyu by your side, what else did you need?

txt taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @kangtaehyunzzz,, @eternalgyu,, @90steele,, @ddeonudepressions,, @cham3li,, @wolfmoonmusic,, @98-0603,, @weird-bookworm,, @candewlsy,, @blossominghunnie,, @amara-mars,, @wccycc,, @seunghancore,, @ujisworld,, @sobun1est,, @bananabubble,, @talkingsaxy,, @sxmmerberries,, @talking-saxy,, @nicholasluvbot,, @cupidslovearrows,, @50-husbands,, @hursheys,, @stannwjnss,, @gong-fourz,, @nonononranghaee,, @forever-atiny,, @stantxtforabetterlife,, @loserlvrss,, @lexeees,, @cupidslovearrows,, @hyukabean,, @nicholasluvbot

[jellybelly-may]

❝𝐓𝐨𝐤𝐑𝐞𝐯 𝐒𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬!❞

Kawata Twins (with a younger sibling!) [platonic!]

"gah! stop it nahoya! souya help me!!"

cw: smiley being smiley

✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.

General Hcs:

If you think the Haitani’s were protective

Think again

The twins will need to know your whereabouts, locations, or heck even escort to wherever you wanna go

As the youngest sibling, you’re the precious baby sibling of the Kawata twins, and they take their role seriously

always on high alert when it comes to your safety

calls you “Squirt” because you’re the youngest and smallest

The twins will play harmless pranks on you like switching places to see if you can tell them apart

You’ve gotten so good at recognizing the subtle differences that you can always tell who’s who, much to their frustration and to your delight

ofc there’s always some sibling rivalry between the three of you

video games, racing bikes, or even who can eat the most ramen 

You name it, you’ve done it

movie nights! the three of you have a tradition of watching movies together on weekends

Smiley always picks action movies, Angry prefers emotional dramas, and you’re stuck in the middle, trying to find a compromise

In the end, you usually end up watching a mix, with lots of popcorn and commentary from Smiley and loud yips from your pet dog pomeranian (check smiley’s official character book about the dog)

Matching accessories!!!

The three of you have matching bracelets that Smiley insisted on getting.

it’s a silent reminder that your brothers are always with you, even when they’re not physically around

✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.

Nahoya/ Smiley 😆

teasing galore from this a-hole

loves to tease you endlessly, especially about your height or how you look up to him (literally and figuratively)

despite his constant teasing, you know it’s all in good fun

if someone else tries to tease you, he’s the first to step in

definitely has a soft spot for his siblings

shows it through his protective actions, like checking in on you more often than needed

probably forces you to learn how to ride a motorcycle “in case of emergency!” he says :D 

laughs at you when you stall the bike 

also probably teaches you how to fight 

“for fun!” :D 

✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.

Souya/ Angry 😡

the one to patch you up! surprisingly good at it too!

when nahoya is teasing you, souya tries to defend you

but ends up getting teased as well

like nahoya, souya is protective of you too

he may not be most talkative compare to his brother

angry quietly leaves snacks or small gifts in your room when you’re feeling down

or he will silently sit with until you feel better 

souya’s has a knack for fooling people too!

especially you 

“who ate my ramen? :c ”

“probably ‘hoya, saw him going through the pantry >:c ”

with his serious expression, you always fall for it 

until you notice his minor gesture he does when he lies

asshole

don’t be mad though! he buys back more snacks for you to replace the ‘missing’ food

✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.✧˖°.

Bonus scene:

Movie nights at the Kawata household were always...lively.

The three (more like two) are in full-on bickering mode as you all scramble to prepare snacks and argue over what to watch. In the middle of it all, PomPom, your family's Pomeranian sits on the couch, tilting its head in curiosity at the chaos unfolding around it.

Nahoya grins widely, holding up two action DVD's.

“C’mon, let’s just watch something exciting! This one’s got explosions!” He waves the DVDs at you and Souya, clearly excited.

“I mean, who doesn’t like a good explosion?”

You roll your eyes while searching through the pantry for snacks.

“Yeah, 'hoya, but we’ve seen that one, like, five times already! Besides, it’s my turn to choose, and I want to watch something funny.”

Nahoya groaned at your response.

Souya softly mutters while carefully pouring popcorn into a bowl.

“Anything but horror, please. I won’t be able to sleep for a week…”

Nahoya laughs and ruffles his twin's hair. “Afraid of ghosts, huh? Fine, no horror.”

He pauses, looking at you with a mischievous grin. “But we’re still watching something action-packed. No arguments!”

Grabbing a bag of chips, you narrow your eyes at Nahoya.

“Who made you the boss of movie night?! I’m picking comedy! PomPom agrees with me, right?”

You glance at the small Pomeranian, who simply yips energetically from the couch, clearly excited but having no idea what’s going on.

With a rare smile, Souya offered PomPom a piece of popcorn. "PomPom’s vote doesn’t count. Besides, I’d rather watch something calm, not too loud.”

Nahoya snatches the remote with his trademark grin. “Too bad! Action it is—majority rules!”

He gestures dramatically toward PomPom. “Me and PomPom, we’re a team!”

You chased after him. “Not fair! PomPom just wants snacks!”

Souya sat on the couch with PomPom by his side, his expression serious but soft.

“How 'bout this? Action-comedy. No explosions, just funny fights.”

The peach-haired boy pouts slightly but shrugs. “Fine, fine, I’ll allow it. As long as there’s a little action.”

You grinned and tossed a chip at Nahoya.

“Deal! Let’s finally settle on something before PomPom falls asleep waiting.” With a truce in place, the three of you settle on the couch with snacks in hand.

The movie starts rolling and for once, the chaos subsides as you all enjoy the night, occasionally laughing or teasing each other during the best scenes. PomPom snuggles into a blanket, letting out a content sigh, clearly the happiest with the arrangement.