#and also the vibe that maybe he's a little bit high all the time but you're not quite certain. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

orchidyoonkook · 3 months ago

Text

PG | KTH

Title: PG

Pairing: Older Brother's Best Friend!Kim Taehyung x (F)!Reader

Rating//Genre: (M) | One Shot, Friends to Lovers, Age Gap, Slice of Life, Angst, Smut and Touches of Fluff

Summary: You aren’t delusional enough to think anything would ever happen between the two of you, not for a damn second. Be it the age difference, the fact that he’s your brother's friend, or the extremely high likelihood that he sees you as nothing more than Fourteen’s annoying little sister that he can use to rile said best friend up.

But that’s about it. Nothing more. And reality is something you’re able to keep a solid grasp on when it comes to him. You don’t let it go for the sake of acting on a one sided and unrequited feeling you know will pass… eventually.

Warnings: nicknames! a disgusting amount, language, assholes being assholes but being put in their place, brotherly love, sibling antics, tae is a swimmer and knows judo, also a Dan is--for the lack of better phrasing--a high belt level in judo. think of it like a black belt, OC cant keep it in her pants and neither can tae, mutual pining, lots of great gatsby references because I'm tyring to be that bitch (I am joking), tae has tats, OC's brother is an overprotective idiot but we love him anyway, slight physical abuse not by tae or reader or fourteen--basically someone grips an arm too harshly, some panic but no panic attack,

Explicit warnings under the cut.

Word Count: 11,521

Release Date: September 15, 2024. 12:00PM

A/N 1: The biggest most huge thank you to @violetsiren90 for being my sounding board, tech support and beta. She's a real one and y'all are sleeping on her work if you haven't alread read it. Go check her out!

A/N 2: My access to the adobe suite was aha....revoked. So! this is my first time making a banner and divider without photoshop. Therfore, the banner and the divider are a bit different than what I'm used to having XD. Tumblr is also absolutely destroying the qualty which is sooooo great. It looks wonky and blurry to me on desktop but fine on mobile so it is what it is. If i ever get adobe access again I'll probably come back and update the graphics.

Explicit Warnings: *ahem* nicknames, teasing, kissing, biting, marking (several ways), hand and finger kink (duh), voice kinklet (duhhhh), hair 'pulling' (m rec), semi public if you squint, hella foreplay, tae has a big dick, penetrative sex, oral (m+f rec), fingering, handjob?, multiple orgasms, body worship, switch like activities but mostly dominant tae, posessiveness, confessions, reader takes what she wants but so does tae, exhibitionism if you squint, slight cum play/eating, implied squirting, choking, cream pie. Pretty sure thats all of them. i never reailse how many i need to put until the list is done and wow *chuckes while blushing*

“Oi, can you fucking not? My sister’s right fucking there,” your older brother, Fourteen—nicknamed for his forever mental age—ridiculously and unneededly overprotective as always, says.

It is especially unneeded and ridiculous as he’s saying it to Tae, when all he’s doing is taking off his shirt to go for a swim in your pool. Like he’s been doing since you were tweens.

Well.

Since you were a tween and they were nearing the legal drinking age. But that’s besides the point.

Best friend to your knuckle head of an older brother, you honest to god have no idea how they became friends.

Taehyung is poetry and jazz and button up cotton shirts. Old book smell and expensive cologne, ringed fingers and whiskey, neat. The kind of vibe someone would get from being raised by a very successful lawyer for a father and a top ranking university professor of literature for a mother, while Fourteen is… your older brother.

Maybe it’s a younger sister thing to not understand how her older brother has any friends. Considering you grew up with him, know all of his weird and gross habits, have a lovely dash of sibling bullying thrown in that you two share equally, and more. Yet, by some miracle, he and Tae manage to balance one another out.

Tae—fucking somehow—makes your brother into a more presentable human being. He showers more than twice a week and wears deodorant every day now—even puts the seat down after peeing, a habit you’ve been screaming at him to stop doing since you could use the toilet. While Fourteen gives Tae a rougher edge he previously never seemed to be able to grasp, despite trying his best too.

For example, the several delicate tattoos he now has all over his body, your favourite of which is an old timey record player on the inside of his forearm. They were something he’d been wanting to do for years, but only finally bit the bullet on and did once Fourteen took him when they were twenty two.

Since then the collection’s only grown, much to your inner glee and mental dismay.

And don’t even get you started on the delicate, thin rimmed glasses he occasionally wears—golden and the perfect shape for his face—or the ear piercings that just really fucking cement the tortured poet look that makes your heart clench every. single. time. you look at him.

Similarly to what it’s doing right now, though no one ever knows due to your truly oscar worthy talent for acting completely oblivious to the beautiful shirtless man about to dive in. Call it over a decades worth of practice, and the fact that it’s also nothing you hadn’t gloriously taken in all teenagehood long.

Every time you could get it.

Which was a lot because Tae was on the high school swim team.

For four years.

And then the university swim team.

For another four.

Teenage you was a lucky bitch. Now you’re only blessed with this sight when he comes over to swim laps or attempt to drown Fourteen. Which, admittedly, was still often. But not nearly as much as back then.

The sight in question however, is curled black hair that frames eyes so warm you swear the sun’s relocated to his irises, and a jawline that makes the Statue of David’s pathetic in comparison. It’s fingers that make your mouth water from the way they flip book pages and thighs that make you think thoughts and things you never thought you would.

It’s the scribbled text: ‘To err is human; to forgive, divine’ tattooed across his ribs, and a lean torso, muscled but not outrageously so. Just enough to have you forcing yourself not to stare at the delicate lines of his abdomen every time he comes over for a swim.

Thank god for sunglasses.

“Nah, I’m sure PG can handle it, Dumbass. I’ve only been using your pool every summer for the last 15 years give or take,” Tae says with a quirked brow and a half smile directed at you.

Behind your sunnies, you heat up a touch, and internally sigh. Have you mentioned his smile yet?

Because oh yeah, his fucking smile.

Tae’s a nickname kind of person, hence why even you call your brother ‘Fourteen’. Taehyung’s called him Fourteen for so long now that calling your brother by his birth name just feels wrong.

This being said, PG is Tae’s nickname for you.

It stands for the TV rating ‘Parental Guidance’ because you’re younger by enough that when you were still under the age of 18, they—see: your brother and Tae because they’ve been joined at the hip since they met—were usually assigned babysitting duty. Very much the ‘take your sister with you’ sibling, but they never complained. Not once.

As much as you and Fourteen bully one another, you’re actually quite close when you aren’t verbally sparring—which is where his annoying overprotectiveness comes in. Even when it comes to Taehyung.

“Yeah, Dumbass,” you copy, earning a smirk from Tae as he leans down to take his shoes off. “It’s just Tae.”

“It’s not about that YN, it’s about respect. You’re my little sister, and Fuckass over here,” you brother jabs a thumb in Tae’s direction, which earns you a second hidden smirk from the Fuckass in question, “Still doesn’t know how to respect that fact even after a decade and a half apparently.”

You shrug as Fourteen finishes his point and narrows his eyes at his best friend. Tae gives him a shit eating grin that screams ‘what are you going to do about it’ and your brother gives him a two fingered salute before shaking his head and taking off his own shirt.

You take that as your cue to put your head back down because you don’t need to see that.

Currently in very comfortable linen shorts and tank, you’re sitting on a padded pool lounger, rereading The Great Gatsby for the hundredth time. It’s one of the classics that never gets old for you, has the benefit of being a shorter read—therefore perfect for the poolside—and happens to be the copy Tae’d gotten you for Christmas a couple years ago. Pure coincidence, you tell yourself. Nothing more.

With the beautiful addition of your very darkly glassed sunnies, it also makes the perfect decoy as you watch Tae over the top of the open book without risk of being caught.

You firmly follow the rule of a little looking can’t hurt.

You aren’t delusional enough to think anything would ever happen between the two of you, not for a damn second. Be it the age difference, the fact that he’s your brother's friend, or the extremely high likelihood that he sees you as nothing more than Fourteen’s annoying little sister that he can use to rile said best friend up—see: current shirt stripping debacle. It’s not the first nor the last time he’ll do something like it, and you’re pretty sure you and Tae have an unspoken agreement at this point to push as many of Fourteen’s buttons as you can together, just to see how far he’ll let it go before freaking out.

Despite the flames that rage and roar on in your heart.

Despite the green light on the dock across the way tackling your brother under the water.

You hold on. And only in these little moments of in between do you allow yourself to look. Pockets of time where a peek won’t be seen or recorded, and a moment of self indulgence keeps your sanity from trying to escape its tightly locked box.

You look and look and look until the green light is covered in fog once more, and the lid of the box seals tight.

Another day, another glorious abuse of best friend privileges, Taehyung thinks to himself as he continues his butterfly down the imaginary lanes in Fourteen’s pool.

He tries to come over at least three times a week. Four or five if he’s able, the more he’s over the higher chance he has to see you, not just Fourteen. But he’s rarely able to these days.

Though the wind appears to have shifted in his favour today. You’re sitting on the lounge chairs again, reading away in the afternoon sun.

It’s his favourite view. And it’s sweetened by the fact that you’re in the shorts he loves and reading a book he gave you. Something he’s done since before he could remember, really.

Christmases and birthdays, he’s always given you a book. Usually a classic, sometimes something else. If it caught his eye or reminded him of you, he’d grab it and save it until the next Christmas or the next birthday, whichever came first. And you’ve always loved them, so he’s never stopped.

They’re gifts that seem harmless to Fourteen, and for the most part they are. But these last few have been…different. Had deeper thought put into them. The titles, the story lines, the prose. He swears you notice it, but maybe that’s just his own wishful thinking.

And he sure as fuck can’t be doing any of that.

This cold water isn’t doing its job well enough.

Finishing his set, Tae swims over to rest before starting on his front stroke. Forearms hold him up on the edge of the pool, his chin balancing on stacked knuckles while his breath catches.

He also uses this little break as an excuse to talk to you. He only ever freely can when Fourteen isn’t around, and right now his best friend is inside grabbing drinks, towels and probably relieving himself–which, knowing Fourteen—could take anywhere from thirty seconds to thirty minutes. So he has to take advantage of every moment he gets.

“Got any new recommendations for me PG?”

Books are an easy starting point when it comes to you. Fourteen may be a graphic novel at best kind of guy, but your brain can’t seem to inhale enough books to satiate it. And just the thought makes his temples rush with heat.

He should dunk his head again.

You lower your Fitzgerald by one inch and raise an eyebrow to counter it. Just like your brother, you’re always one to give him a hard time. Make him work for every millimeter of ground conquered. And he’s pretty sure you have a smirk hiding behind the pages, though he can’t be certain due to the sunglasses hiding your eyes.

“Maybe,” you say. “What do I get in return?”

Answering that question about fifty different ways in his head, Tae decides none can be said out loud. He seriously needs to fucking reel himself in. Fourteen could return at any moment and the last thing Tae needs to have is a problem between his legs because you never make it easy for him.

But rather than listening to his very rational thoughts and very logical brain, he instead decides to say fuck it, and croons in the voice that used to fluster you as a teenager.

“What do you want in return, PG?” Hoping to soften you up, even the playing field a bit.

And it works like a charm.

Your body releases its tension on an exhale, your page is marked, book set to the side, and your legs extend and stretch before crossing at the ankle. It makes him wonder if your little girlhood crush on him still exists somewhere in the back of your mind. Probably not.

Scratch that.

Definitely not.

“What if I wanted a new nickname?” you ask.

Both his eyebrows raise in surprise. “What’s wrong with PG?”

“It makes me feel like I’m eleven,” you explain. And then hit him with a dose of his own medicine as you croon, “I’m not eleven anymore, Tae.”

No you sure as hell are not. And it kills him in a way that has him wanting to die over and over again.

He could consider it. But he doesn’t think he’ll change it, not when PG can stand for so many wonderful things. Things you would never think he’d let it when addressing you. Things that would have Fourteen trying for drowning attempt number two thousand four hundred sixty three, and succeeding.

“I’ll think about it—Fair?”

You ponder before agreeing. “Fair.”

“Now about those recommendations…” He reminds you, and that’s all it takes to get you going.

Fourteen comes out about ten minutes later, but by then, Tae has a new list of books to grab from the store, two laps under him with eight more to go, and you’re reading again—one bare leg bent at the knee he’s trying very hard to ignore when he comes up for air.

By the time he’s due for another breather, you’re talking to your brother about plans for the weekend.

“I’m going out early on Friday for Rei’s birthday, remember? And I’ll probably crash at her place after,” you say.

Fourteen is sitting on the second lounge chair across from you, most likely playing a game on his phone if Tae had to guess. But at your reminder, your brother looks up.

“Fuck that’s right. Okay so no dinner then, I’ll just grab something on my way in.”

“Sounds good. What about tonight?”

Fourteen gives it about two seconds of thought. “How about Don’s?”

Your face lights up at the suggestion. “Fuck yes! I’ve been craving their milkshakes for like a week. Hey Tae!” you call to him. “Don’s for dinner? There’s a chocolate shake with your name on it if you’re down.”

Tae pushes himself out of the water onto the pavement and doesn’t miss the sly once over you give him while Fourteen chucks a towel at his chest, covering your eyes with his other hand.

He catches the projectile before it can knock him back into the pool, and uses it to dry his hair.

“Dude! Seriously? Go find a fucking shirt or something, no one wants to see that.”

You swat your sibling’s hand away and give him a look that screams ‘grow up’ while Tae drapes the towel over her shoulders, a hand gripping at each end.

“I’m only down if Dumbass is paying,” he says, smirking at your brother.

“—What—”

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” you agree, holding out your hand in his direction.

“—Hey wait a seco—”

Tae grabs and shakes just to watch the steam flee Fourteen’s ears at the contact. He meets your eyes conspiratorially, and you both nod before rushing Fourteen.

“—You fuckers!—” is all he gets out before Tae and you are grabbing an arm and a leg each and throwing Fourteen’s fully clothed ass in the pool.

He curses the both of you out several times as he treads, drenched and dripping, up the stairs and out of the water. Tae throws him the towel.

“You’ll pay for that, Asshole,” Fourteen tells Tae, and Tae grins.

“Oh, I’m counting on it. Worth it though.”

“And you!” Fourteen says, eyes on you. “What the fuck dude? The betrayal to your darling, one and only brother hurts. I’m wounded,” he lays it on thick, walking up directly beside you.

You're a hairsbreadth too late to realize when he shakes his hair out directly over top of you and you shriek, pulling your knees up, protecting the book under your shirt and behind your legs at all costs.

“Fourteen! The book! I will kill you if you damage it!”

Fourteen chuckles. “Payback’s a bitch Little Sister.”

You sneer at him, checking your prized possession for injury. Not a scratch.

“And sopping wet is your colour, Jackass.”

“Big words for someone who can just as easily be thrown in the pool.”

You pause. Eyeing him directly.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

Your brother looks at Tae with an evil plot in his eyes and you screech as they both nod once. You drop your book behind you as they yank you up by your arms and fling you into the pool, too much momentum from them and not enough resistance from you leaving you matching your darling, one and only brother.

As you come up for air, two colossal splashes ricochet from the left and right. Tae and Fourteen having both cannonballed in on either side of you. You choke on splattered water for a second before you’re attacking them with splashes, merciless in your pursuit for revenge.

“You both suck!” you half giggle half yell.

“Yet you love us anyway!” your brother falsely—correctly—claims.

You roll your eyes before trudging out, heavier and dripping with your soaked clothes.

And it's not until weekend plans are cast aside for current memories, Taehyung treating you all to dinner, and you treating everyone to milkshakes, that all is forgiven.

It turns out Rei’s dad knows the manager of the most exclusive club in the city—Youth—and managed to call in a favour. So now you, her, and your other bestie, Lea, are all on the dancefloor to celebrate her birthday.

Rei’s first request for the night besides not paying for a single drink, was to dress up in the hottest, sluttiest outfits the club's dress code would allow for.

This, for you, meant a black, square necked, low cut, and thin strapped satin slip dress that hugged you in all the right ways, matching heels adored with ankle strap bows and a sultry makeup look. Lea chose a dark blue shimmery number with a high leg split, vibrant graphic eyeliner, and wedges, while the birthday girl found the skimpiest forest green mini dress you’ve ever seen paired with heels that wrap ribbons up her legs, and a subtle dewy look on her lids.

She’s glowing, and needless to say, they both look hot and so do you.

Rei’s second request for the night was to dance until you either collapsed or threw up, whichever came first. A goal you were all making a steady descent towards as the night progressed.

That is, until your blood runs cold at the sight of your cheating ex boyfriend making his way through the crowd in a direct beeline towards you.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

You’re alone right now. Rei and Lea are taking a bathroom break.

You insisted you’d be fine for ten minutes. It was just ten minutes. What could possibly go wrong in ten minutes?

But apparently god just loves to play jokes because here you are, three shots in, not emotionally prepared enough to be near him, let alone speak to him, and by yourself in this huge crowd of strangers while he’s making very good time on his route to you.

Fuck! You do not want to deal with him right now or—fucking ever, actually.

He’d cheated on you four times that he admitted too throughout your two and a half year relationship, all while faking being blindingly happy directly to your face. He’d lied to you and hurt you and made you wonder what you did wrong for him to do that to you. It took all of your third year of university and more therapy sessions than you care to admit to realize you were never the problem, and that he was a piece of shit.

So, with the fifteen feet between you two quickly shrinking, you try your best to hide from him in the crowd, only to run directly into him when you duck past a fellow club goer.

Son of a b—

“Heyyy Y/N, how’ve you been?” he says like he didn’t destroy your entire sense of self worth for a couple quick fucks.

You want to down three more shots just to be able to puke all over him. Intentionally, you haven’t seen him in years and just the reek of his stale ass cologne has you close.

“Fuck off Micah, don’t you have somewhere you need to be sticking your dick—like a garbage disposal?” You snark, doing your damndest to not let him get close. But the throng of bodies surrounding you have other ideas and you’re thrown against your least favourite person in existence.

Delusional as ever, Micah sleezes, “Doesn’t seem like you want me to leave just yet, Kitten,” and you shove him off you as hard as you can while bile rises at the horrible name you used to beg him not to call you.

You need to get off the dance floor.

Now.

Before you can, Micah grabs your arm and he pulls you back into him, hard.

Tae watches you out of the corner of his eye, wondering why in the hell you came to this club, of all the clubs out there.

The club he was at. Wearing that and truly testing the limits of his self control.

Music blasts through speakers that move the ocean on the dancefloor. Bodies sway like waves, some crashing into one another with teeth and tongues and passion, others pushing with the current, grinding and gripping and grabbing at anything they can get their hands on. The louder and faster the notes whirl over their swells, the harsher the storm rages on, people flowing in and out of the eye when needed.

He’s sitting at a booth on a dais high enough to watch you in the hurricane whilst being out of eyesight, notably with one or two faces he barely recognizes enough to most likely be your friends.

They appear to be currents. They drag you into deeper waters and you let them, helpless to their siren call. Leading you to your place amongst the sea life, and reveling in the way the melodies wash over you again and again with every song that plays.

His eyes follow you as you dance, curious if Fourteen knows you’re here before flinging the thought out of his head as quickly as it entered. You’re grown now, don’t need protection anymore. A lesson he learned the day you returned from university after graduating.

No longer his best friend's kid sister who they kept an eye on, but a woman who was and still is growing into herself beautifully. A woman who is steadfast, strong and more often than not, correct in her opinions. A woman who is well read and equally if not more so well spoken when she deigns to acknowledge his existence. A woman who knows how and when to turn all of that off in order to team up with him in a roast battle for the books against her brother.

He thinks of that day as the beginning of his downfall.

He can humbly admit that his intelligence, demeanor and education are things that have been nurtured into existence by his parents and carefully maintained by himself with practice and both mental and physical exercise. He takes care of himself, inside and out. Exercises regularly, eats well, has good hygiene. He’s level headed and patient. Respectful and responsible. Controlled and competent.

He prides himself on these things. Actively works towards keeping them maintained.

And yet.

Somehow when it comes to you, he is little more than a single brain celled idiot.

All of the things he uses to measure his self worth evaporate whenever you enter his field of vision and he becomes fucking ravenous. And all of his focus goes into controlling himself.

He’d never noticed before, never thought of you in the way he does now. How when your currents break from formation and head towards the bathrooms, their outgoing force creates a riptide that some fuckhead with a stupid haircut uses to sweep in and dance with you.

But you push him away.

He doesn’t get the memo, and the mophead tries his best to yank you out to sea again.

Magma flows through Taehyung's veins, thunder cracks in his ears and all he can think about is storming through the crowd to steal you from said fuckhead by claiming you for himself.

But he won’t.

Can’t.

All because of his darling best friend.

Fourteen doesn’t know about his feelings for you of course. And Tae rather likes being alive and in one piece, two things he most definitely would not remain should he act on any of these feelings.

You are wholly off limits, forbidden. A little too young, a little too immediately related to his best friend, a little too perfectly his fucking type. It kills him every time he can’t even look at you without Fourteen going into what he calls ‘asshole mode’.

So you remain in his very close periphery. Untouchable to the fingertips he aches to caress you with as you dangle your existence in front of him. Your wicked tongue, your delicious intelligence, your sexy fucking legs—fuck!

He has to stop thinking about you like this.

But that only makes him want you more.

It’s like the gods handcrafted you for him. Every piece, every detail of you immaculate, but he committed one to many sins in his past life, and now they’ve locked you away forever as punishment.

You float across the night sky, stuck in a golden cell. Its fourteen bars hold you hostage amongst the stars, all while he’s chained to the bottom of the ocean floor gasping for air.

But fuck the gods and fuck their gilded cages.

He’d break from his chains, swim to the surface of the sea and grow wings. Would break your prison apart with the sheer force of his wanting, then drag you down to the depths if it meant he got to keep you for himself.

He would. He really, really fucking would. If his world wouldn’t implode completely if he did.

So he keeps these thoughts to himself. Forces them down as they try their damndest to bubble over and burn him, because they will if he lets them. If any of them get outside these little moments, the ones where he allows himself to feel, he would burn and burn and burn until there was nothing left.

Therefore, Taehyung has never been more grateful that his best friend was stuck on the night shift while he watched you dance and enjoy yourself, because it granted him this sliver of time to pretend like your brother doesn’t exist.

That you are something he could let himself have, if you wanted him to.

And he’s solid in his decision to only observe, to stay inside his little moment, until fuckhead doesn’t get the message for the third time and Taehyung is out of his seat before he can think.

Because Fourteen isn't here.

And old habits die hard.

“What the hell? Let me go, Micah!” You see his eyes then, red rimmed and glazed. He definitely has more than one thing in his system as his grip on you hardens further. The more you struggle, the tighter he grasps and—ouch, ouch, ouch, yank, fuck! Ow!—it’s really starting to hurt.

“Just give me one more chance Kitten, I promise I’ll do better,” he whisper in your ear over the music, and you cringe back from how loud he is. But that doesn’t stop him from continuing, “I fucked up, I know I did. But that was years ago, and I learned my lesson. Just one more chance Kitten, just one more, and I—I promise. I promise it won’t happen again. It won’t. I really miss y–AH! What the fuck!?”

The hand on your arm releases the second Micah yelps in pain. You look down to see familiar ringed fingers around Micah’s wrist, clutching so hard they’re white knuckled and skin bruising.

A broad chest comes to rest at your back, and an arm snakes around you. Its large palm rests on your stomach and hip as it pulls you tightly against its owner.

Words covered in sharpest ice are spoken from behind you, their baritone so recognizable they have you melting back into him.

Safe.

You’re safe.

Exhale.

“Do. Not. Touch. Her.” Taehyung growls so deeply, so powerfully, you feel the rumble from behind his sternum reverberate into your body.

Micah’s focus shifts from his wrist to the man several inches taller and several years his senior still holding it. You watch as his face contorts from pained to confused and then to murderous.

“The fuck are you to tell me not to touch my girlfriend?” Micah seethes, and you stiffen because no the fuck you are not, and haven’t been for several years.

How blitzed out of his mind is he right now?

You don’t even get the chance to deny his words before Taehyung’s on Micah like fire to dried grass.

“Don’t make me laugh, Asshole. No way in hell an pig faced looking fucker like you could pull a woman like her. Now,” Tae roughly shoves Micah’s hand back to him, and it forces Micah to stumble into the people behind with the force. “Get the fuck away from My Girl before I make you My Problem. And trust me,” Tae says in a tone so dangerous, you’ve never heard him sound so terrifying in the fifteen plus years you’ve known him, “You don’t want me to make you my problem.”

And you realize, that this isn’t the Taehyung you’ve grown up with; seen through his awkward teen years and watched come into his adult life with. This isn’t jazz music and poetry Taehyung.

This Taehyung has only ever come out the handful of times you’ve ever been in trouble. The one who studied Judo with Fourteen growing up, the one who has his fourth Dan.

The one who does not play when it comes to you and your safety.

It’s enough to know that Taehyung is more than pissed off, and more than a little ready to beat the absolute shit out of Micah, if the whiskey on his breath says anything about his loosened inhibitions.

Micah seems to sense this too, and decides to back off. But not without a stupid macho expression and two middle fingers directed at both of you as he disappears into the crowd, and out of sight.

You can feel the tension radiating off Taehyung in waves, a coil so tightly wound that a gentle breeze could set him loose, so you turn around and attempt to safely unwind. His hand moves from your stomach to your lower back, and you ignore the trail of wildfire it leaves in its wake because Tae’s eyes haven’t wavered from the spot where Micah just stood.

“Don’t.” You say, loud enough for him to hear. And his flame filled irises snap to yours, burning. “He’s not worth it.”

Your words seem to bring him back somewhat because Tae sniggers. “Damn right he’s not,” then softens. “Are you okay?”

You look anywhere but at him, the reality of the last three minutes crashing down onto your head like broken glass while the both of you are still caught in the middle of the dancefloor.

The people around you seem to understand something’s happened, and you’re left mostly untouched aside from the gentle nudges of inebriated party goers whose balance isn’t the best at the moment.

Like the mellowed waves in the eye of a storm.

Taehyung seems to make sense of this at the same time you do, and lifts his free hand for you to take. Slipping your fingers into his, he leads you to an unused and out of the way emergency exit hallway somewhere in the back of the club. It’s completely empty and dark, undisturbed besides the occasional server passing by.

It’s private.

It’s safe.

You’re safe.

He lets go of your hand and looks at you again. “Now, are you okay?”

The adrenaline is wearing off, and you can feel yourself start to shake. You ignore it. Sort of.

“I’m okay,” you say. But he’s eyeing you suspiciously and rightly so, so you repeat yourself, trying to convince your own brain more than his right now.

“I’m okay, really! I’m good. I’m–” you exhale a shaky breath and he doesn’t ask before pulling you to his chest. Wrapping both his arms around you, one around your back while the other holds your head protectively to him. Your own go around his waist as you grip him back tighter.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

“I’m okay,” you say again, muffled into his black high necked shirt, taking deep breaths of his soothing, familiar scent. You do it and again, and again. Repeating the pretty lie to yourself again and again until it becomes the truth.

He doesn’t let go until you do, and you don’t let go until you’ve finally stopped shaking.

You look up into his eyes, and all signs of his previous wrath are gone. It seems the hug didn’t ground just you, it grounded him too. Got him out of the headspace that would’ve been required for action first, words later. But now the sun is back, it shines down on you, and you bask in its warmth.

“I’m good now. Thank you,” you say in an even and unwavering voice, because you are. The panic and immense relief having washed over you, and you’re once again simply, pleasantly buzzed.

Though you do have a new problem in the form of the warmth pooling low from the feeling of both his hands still on your lower back.

You’re trying to convince yourself it’s his way of keeping you safe.

But the lock on your box has the key inside it, and it’s just begging for you to turn it.

“Good,” he replies, still not letting go. And it’s chipping away at your sanity. “Who was that guy? I only caught the last bit of his pathetic ramblings.”

You wince. Due to a lovely combination of not being very active on social media, not being much of a picture taker, and the newly dyed hair Micah seemed to be sporting tonight, you’re not surprised Tae didn’t recognize him.

“Ah. Uhm…That was...Micah,” you admit, unable to meet his eyes again. That’s when you notice his outfit tonight is all black.

Oh you are so fucked.

“As in Micah, Micah?” Tae asks neutrally, familiar with what your ex had done, just not what he looked like.

“...Yeah...”

“I see.”

“Yeah...” You say again. Because what else could you say?

Tae cracks a smile. “Should’ve let me kick his ass. The balls on him not only to approach you, but to call you his—” he cuts himself off, biting the inside of his cheek before continuing in a hushed, caring tone. “After everything he’s done to you, you should’ve let me, PG. Consequences be damned.”

Your cheeks flame at the nickname so close to your ears. So tenderly said. And you honestly can’t tell if you still hate it in this moment, or if it’s only adding kindling to the fire his hands are fueling at the base of your spine.

The new name he’d called you earlier, its ignition point.

My Girl.

You swear, even in your panicked state, you’d momentarily forgotten how to breathe before inhaling far too much all at once.

Fuck, what you won’t give to hear him say it again. But you’re 98.9% sure that’s the three shots of vodka talking. Trying their best to turn the damn key. And maybe they succeed in turning it half way—hell, maybe all the way, because you look him back in the eyes and hear yourself say,

“Maybe I should’ve, but I was far too distracted by the new nickname you finally gave me to give a single fuck about anyone else.”

The moment the last word is out Taehyung stiffens beneath your touch, fingers locked on your back, and you’re very pretty sure you just fucked absolutely everything up.

Years of good behaviour, of keeping yourself in check. Of pockets of time and side long glances and knowing nothing would ever happen, stolen from you. By your own big, fat, adrenaline depleted, vodka loosened mouth.

You're a second away from damage control before his grip shifts from your lower back to your hips.

Higher. Tighter. Controlling. Oh fuck.

He leans down to murmur, “Liked the new name, did you?” in your ear.

Shivers shoot from your crown to your core and down to your toes. Having his deep, deliciously inviting voice so fucking close to your pulse point has you millimeters away from drowning in it. You know he can feel it course through you, just like you can hear the smile it makes him display away from your eyesight as he does.

“You did then,” he responds for you, a cat toying with its meal as he lifts his head once more to look into your eyes.

You don’t need a mirror to know the state of your pupils. Your gaze is glazed over in the sinful kind of way.

“I did,” you needlessly confirm, looking up into similarly blown out ones.

The fingers twined behind him release, and make their way around to his abdomen. They pause to splay for just a second at the defined ridges, before slowly crawling up his chest and meeting again at the nape of his neck.

They play with the soft hair there, gently scratching their nails at the skin beneath where it grows and you watch as your ministrations cause his eyes to roll back, flutter shut, and his head to meet the wall behind him. A barely audible moan escapes the confines of his lips before he swallows, the divine bob of his adams apple as he tries to regain his composure is the dawn of your undoing.

“Fuck, PG that isn’t fair,” he groans towards the ceiling, his hands on your waist clamping down harder, pulling you so close your bodies touch in more places they definitely shouldn’t be. The contact has you reeling and all you want is more, more, more of it.

More of him.

“PG isn’t the name you called me earlier,” you hum, yanking on a single loose strand and Tae sucks in a steep breath, biting the corner of his smirking lip with a canine.

You want to hear him say it again. Badly. So you release the sensual grip you have on his nape, and let his head lul slowly back down to where it was, his deepening amber wholly fixated on your now entirely onyx. Your heart is begging for release from your chest, and for a moment you wonder if he can see your pulse thrumming in your eyes, because you sure as hell can feel it.

“No, it’s not. But it also hasn’t meant to me what it means to you for quite some time now,” his voice like honey, thick and dripping its way over your body. It’s making you dizzy and weighty with want. It has your mouth opening slightly as he leans closer still, knocking his nose gently with your own. Inhaling in your exhales. Teasing you. Making you work for it.

“And what does it mean to you?” you ask, barely above a whisper, irises never straying from his as your bottom lip brushes against his in one solitary, intoxicating moment that has you more buzzed in one touch than three shots has had you all night.

“Pretty Girl,” he breathes onto your lips, pushing his thigh between your legs at the same time he pulls you impossibly closer. You hear yourself moan ‘fuck’ at the contact it gives your throbbing cunt. Too focused on the need coursing through you like a live wire—your body pure water—to think about what you’re saying.

It’s a sweet sound and a violent pleasure he devours as his lips finally, finally, finally crash into yours, pinning you in place and allowing him to take every piece of you he wants. One hand slithers up your naked spine to hold you, your backless dress doing you every favour imaginable as his other continues to help you grind over his thigh.

His tongue slips into your mouth and you suck on it, causing him to jerk into you once with the rapidly growing want pressing into your lower belly. But your hands hold firm at his neck as you pull him into you, a knee lifting to meet his hip. Needing more contact.

The electricity filled pathways his fingers leave down your back, over your ass and across the bottom of your thigh to support your search for pleasure do nothing but spur on the overwhelming need to touch him everywhere.

No holds barred. No clothes worn. Nothing stopping you.

He uses his new grip to spin you around and press his hips into yours as your shoulders meet the wall. You’re left to moan sickly sweet sounds of bliss into his ear as Taehyung frees your mouth in favour of your jaw and neck, sucking gentle purple hues down the column of your throat and onto your collarbone.

“Pretty Girl,” he whispers between love bites, “My Pretty Girl.” Over and over and it has you melting so far into him, the only thing keeping you apart is fabric and a potential audience. Though from the colour you’re going to have to cover with far too much concealer tomorrow, you don’t think he quite cares about that last part.

It drives you farther into insanity. Years of want and restraint and pretty white lies you told yourself are crashing down on one another and it shows in the fervor of your touch, your wants, your pleads.

“Fuck, Tae—please. Please, I need you— please,” you beg, and the bite he leaves at the junction where your neck meets your shoulder has you gasping for air that refuses to be consumed gently.

But Taehyung is a man on a mission. One who will not be deterred, and you can’t tell if he will be your pinnacle or your inevitable end.

With what is very clearly great effort, Tae pulls himself back from your decolletage, only to kiss your lips once more. Open mouthed and dirty, tongue clinging to you like the only thing he’s concerned about is swallowing down as much of you as he can while you’ll let him, and you’ve never felt more desired in your life.

He’s hoarse as he says, “Not here. Not for the first time. Not…not here.”

“Then where,” you ask, near impatient and far too eager as you let your hands roam wherever they want. And you find your thumbs tracing the waistline of his pants, dipping a nails width below where they should. They trail over the indented V of muscle you know is hiding under his shirt. He shudders.

It makes you smile wickedly.

“Then where, Taehyung,” you murmur into his neck with that wicked smile in your words as you trace your nose along his jaw.

“Fuck, you’re something,” he says, almost pained, bringing you immense delight. To know you affect him as much as he does you. That you have him as much as he has you.

Sly hands slowly pull his shirt from his trousers in an attempt to urge him on. It works, and his response is quick.

“My place. It’s a ten minu—fuck PG,” he almost scolds as your digits toy with the hair at his navel, dipping lower—enough to feel the beginnings of something—but not low enough to discern anything.

Yet.

“Can you behave for that long?”

You smirk.

Retracting your hands, you hold them up to show you can be good, do a quick once over to make sure you're decent and spin on your heel to walk towards your booth. Tae is behind you immediately, hand placed low on your back, thumb rubbing circles on the sliver of skin it touches. You ignore the goose bumps that arise.

Rei and Lea are at your table, thankfully. You explain to them you ran into Micah and that it really shook you, so Tae’s going to take you home. They know who Tae is, so they’re not worried when they give you goodbye hugs or when they tell you to text them when you're home safe.

You promise you will, and hope that the rest of Rei’s birthday goes well.

True to his word, it’s a ten minute rideshare before you’re pulling up to a tall, black windowed apartment building.

You’ve only been to Tae’s a handful of times with your brother, mostly for things like pick ups for concerts and such, but now that you’re here—alone with him—you’re trying hard not to jump him in the fucking lobby.

The pulsing between your legs has only worsened since you removed your hands from his waistline, and you’re close to crawling out of your skin with need.

His hand stays in its place at your lower back as the elevator climbs.

It’s not helping and completely helping at the same time.

Fuck.

Tae lives on the sixteenth floor and the view is incredible. It’s the first thing you see past the island when you walk in the front door. There’s the kitchen to the left past the entrance, which turns into the living space that’s furnished in a way you can only describe as pure Tae.

Books littering every surface, warm neutral toned furniture to counterbalance the colourful artwork he keeps on the walls. There’s an old record player with a collection of vinyls in the corner and what you assume is this morning's coffee mug on the art book filled coffee table.

To the right of the living space is the bedroom. It’s a studio apartment, but Tae’s managed to keep the flow of the place beautifully with some creatively put, gorgeously decorated room dividers. And the tall floor to ceiling windows wrap around it all, showcasing the lights of the city as they blend into the stars in the night sky.

Mesmerizing.

Just like the man locking his door behind you.

A kiss is placed on the back of your neck as you slide out of your shoes at the front door. You angle your head to allow more space, letting the arm that folds around you bring you closer to him. The feel of his arousal begins to grow behind you once more and you push back against him. A faint grunt meets the shell of your ear before his hand delicately slides up from your lower stomach and past your sternum. It teases your neck for just a moment before it meets your jaw to turn your lips towards his.

He captures them in a brutal kiss, drinking you in for all you’re worth and then some as his other hand replaces the one that now holds your jaw in place. He pulls you into him but you spin in his hold, throwing your arms around his neck once more and dragging him towards the living space. He sheds his jacket in the process, uncaring of where it lands on his floor so long as you are still kissing him.

You only stop when your ass meets the top of the couch and Taehyung palms the back of your thighs to lift you, your legs wrapping themselves around his hips as you sit on its edge.

He growls at the contact and it has you raking your nails down his neck and over his shirt as you open for him once more, tongues clashing and teeth scraping at the desperate nature you both share. You yank his shirt up and he breaks from your embrace for only the amount of time it takes for the fabric to hit the floor before he’s back on you, adding twin bruises to the other side of your throat.

You let the strings holding up your dress fall naturally to the side, revealing your chest to him, and a low, “Fucking hell,” is murmured somewhere below your ear before a nipple is in his mouth and you’re arching into his touch, slices of need shooting straight downwards. Giving no mercy to your attempts to draw out the pleasure.

One large hand cups a breast, molding it to his wanting before he switches and you’re groaning into the air above you, begging him for more, determined to have his tongue anywhere and everywhere you can get it. He lavs at your peaked bud, roaming over the sensitive flesh, making you squirm at the sensations he’s drawing from you.

You never want it to end as he makes his way back up to your mouth, dragging his bottom lip over all of the freshly deepend skin it trails in its wake, making you hazy with the feel of him and his marks.

His delicate touch wanders the insides of your thighs and your cunt aches for it the higher it climbs. But it slides up not down, reaching around to your ass and hoisting you onto his hips.

Turning, he walks the eight paces to his bed, places a knee on the mattress for support before setting you down. His lips never leave yours he crawls over you, settling his hips over yours for mere moments, allowing you to thrust only twice before he’s removing himself completely and sinking to his knees.

The fingers you’ve spent way too much time thinking about can’t get enough of your skin as they skate down your sides, taking the dress bunched at your hips with them. You raise your hips to help him get the scrap of fabric off, leaving a delicate, black lace thong the only thing keeping any of your remaining modesty intact.

You watch as his now fully blackened gaze takes you in, jaw dropped in slight at the sight of you with your legs opened on his bed. Like you were the prize he’s been waiting years to claim, and now that you're here and that you’re his his, he can’t quite believe it.

It’s then you realize that he wants you, and has been wanting you. That your attempts to stay in reality these last couple years weren’t just harder for you, but for him as well.

It hasn’t been one sided.

He wants you.

Taehyung.

Off limits, older brother’s best friend, swim club participating, jazz and poetry loving, judo knowing, book gifting, perfect smile having, protective, Taehyung.

Wants you.

You can physically feel the gush that rushes from your core at the thought and you know Tae can see it through the lace.

“Holy fuck…you’re fucking drenched and I haven’t even properly touched you yet,” he rasps, unbelieving.

“Then touch me and find out just how much I want this,” you whisper. Begging, pleading, praying your words have their intended effect. “How much I want you, Taehyung.”

The sound that leaves his throat is a mixture of a whimper, a groan, and a guttural noise indicative of pure desperate want as he takes hold of your legs and spreads them further. Those mother fucking fingers trace from your ankles to your knees accompanied by the occasional light kiss, back up your inner thighs, and finally to the spot where you’ve been weeping for him for the better part of thirty minutes with a heaping side of ten years yearned.

He places one open mouthed kiss on the top of your clothed clit and that simple touch has you arching, lightning crackling through your veins with the pleasure it brings. Tae slides one single finger down your covered slit before pushing it under and pulling it to the side.

At the mere sight of you he’s swearing so fiercely under his breath that you involuntarily clench and he can’t fucking take it anymore.

His mouth is on you and you buck at the sensation. Yielding you no mercy, his tongue swipes from opening to clit in one long lick that has you gasping, clutching bed sheets above and below your head to keep from screaming.

“Oh my—Fuck—Tae. Ohmygodohmy—” you’re rambling. Incoherent. A mess.

He’s consuming your very being, no nerve left untouched, no reaction too minimal for his learning as he snakes his hands around your legs to haul you closer, pull you deeper into his mouth and you can’t fucking take it. You’re screaming out at the intensity he circles you with, and you can feel your impending orgasm come rushing to the surface. You’ve barely even processed it’s begun before you’re spasming so hard Tae has to remove an arm from your leg to throw around your pelvis.

His devious fucking eyes meet yours for one earth shattering moment as he slips two fingers inside and begins a secondary merciless pursuit on your already overwhelmed senses. Using the pads to press upwards in time to the motions he never ceased with his tongue, a second wave is cresting before the first has ceased and you feel yourself clamping down, legs holding him in place as the intensity of your release climaxes.

You’ve never felt a pressure so intense before, it’s like your body is a volcano and you’re erupting for the first time while someone sets off fireworks from its peak. The lava flows in waves, your hand holding his hair as you ride his face, shuddering at the vibrations his moan into your cunt leaves on the most sensitive parts of your body.

Gentle strokes and licks calm as your pleasure begins to wane and you can breathe in more than just stuttered inhales again.

“Holy fu–” you try to get out, but your voice is hoarse, like you’ve been screaming the entire time.

And fuck, maybe you have been. You sure as hell can’t remember or think of anything more than the warm fuzzy feeling currently radiating from every single pore in your body. The damningly deliciously dizzying feeling in your head not allowing for coherent thoughts to pass. Your limbs are loose, your body wholly relaxed.

You’re…Well. You’re fucking perfect right now. If you could stay in this moment forever you would without second thought. Locked in this room with him for all time sounds like the best way to live out the rest of your days.

Until you wince as Tae blows warm breath on your core and he chuckles, then does it again.

“Hey,” you say, sounding much clearer now, “Stop that and come here.”

You slip your hand down his face and grab him by the jaw, pulling him up and over you. Tae tastes like fire and whiskey and ambrosia and you as you kiss him with abandon, near feral as you take what you want from him and he revels in it.

He’s on his elbows and a knee over you, and you use it to your full advantage to palm him over his pants and—Fuck he’s big. No wonder he was so thorough on you. This is going to hurt no matter how much prep either of you did.

He hisses at the contact and that only spurs you on, grasping firmly at his base and roving up and over the head with the heel of your palm, squeezing gently in time with his reactions.

“Christ PG, if you keep doing that I’m going to cum in my pants,” Tae laughs into your neck before rising to sit back on his heels. He gets as far as undoing his belt buckle and button before you take over, sitting up and pulling him out.

He is disastrously beautiful, just like the rest of him, and your mouth waters at just the idea of him in your mouth.

Licking your lips, you hear him curse quite colourfully as you take the tip into your mouth and swish your tongue over the head. Once. Twice. Thrice.

Tae raises one hand to his eyes and the other behind him to hold him up as you take him deeper, shaking from restraining himself so hard, murmuring to himself, “Oh fuck. Fuck me, can’t believe—so fucking good, pretty—perfect—ohmygod,” and you seal the motherfucking deal by taking him into the back of your throat and looking up into his eyes at the same time.

Taehyung barks and bucks once into your throat before removing himself and throwing you down onto the bed. He looks furious in the way that gets your heart racing, your cunt thrumming and your breathing so fast your chest feels like it might shatter from the crosscurrents.

He grabs each of your hands and raises them above your head, sliding his fingers up your wrists and between your own, holding them in place on his pillow.

Leaning down, he uses his lowest timber to speak darkly into your ear, teasing your swollen clit with the tip of his cock. Sliding back and forth, sending bolts of white hot need through you.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he starts, thrusting, teasing, torturing. And you moan at the contact.

“You make me want to throw away a decades old friendship just for the chance to touch you.”

Thrust, tease, jolt, whine.

“And what’s worst of all is you’re the best thing I’ve ever tasted, the most beautiful I’ve ever seen, and you turn me into a complete idiot the second you enter the room. It’s like your fucking presence takes away all the working functions in my brain and leaves me with only the incurable fucking desire to make you cum until you can’t remember you own fucking name. Only mine.”

Thrust, squeeze, glide, jolt. “Tae...” you whine, delirious with pleasure, drunk on his greed and delighted by his torture.

“I call you PG because it’s the only way I can get away with calling you anything more than your name around him.” He sounds almost angry with how low he growls. “And it means so much more than you could think.”

He leans further into you, so close now that his lips brush your ear as he speaks.

“My Pretty Girl,” thrust, “My Precious Girl,” moan, “My Perfect Fucking Girl.”

He releases one hand to line himself up with your entrance. “That’s who you are to me. That’s what I’m calling you when I call you PG. My Pretty, Precious, Perfect Girl. My Girl.” He slips past your walls, sinking deep and you both groan in euphoric unison. “Mine.”

Tae pulls out, slow and controlled.

Blissful.

Then pushes back in, methodically.

Torturous.

Feeling every inch you can take, which is every single fucking one.

Inevitable.

Bottoming out for the second time, you whisper, “Yours,” into his ear, and he turns fucking ravenous.

Setting an absolutely ruthless pace, he claims your body, taking what’s so clearly always been his. Your legs wrap around him again, digging a heel into his ass as you drive him closer, harder with every push. Then lay claim to the one thing you’re able to, taking his lips with yours and biting down hard enough to draw the most sinful groan from the back of his throat. Hoarse, deep, almost broken with how raw it is.

One hand bruises its fingerprints into your hip while the other holds him up over you, and you use this to your advantage, slipping one leg around his and flipping the both of you over.

You trail your tongue down his jaw to his clavicle, he tastes of sweat and lust and sex and it is the most intoxicating thing you’ve ever consumed. Creating your own gardens of little blooming flowers down one side of his neck and up the other, Taehyung moans greedily into your ear as your ride to match his thrusts, sending him deeper while you decorate your willing canvas.

Because as much as he wishes to lay claim to your body, you want to claim his as well.

“Mine,” you say, positioning yourself to take over completely, using the springs of the mattress to do most of the work for you.

“Yes,” he says. But that’s not good enough.

“Mine,” you demand, and let loose, pressing down on the mattress with your knees rapidly, creating the glorious effect you wanted. You watch as the up force from the mattress causes Taehyung to be driven into you so quickly he throws his head back, mouth dropped in pure ecstasy.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, YN, What the fuck—” he rambles, lost to the pleasure, biting his lip, going slackjawed, clenching and unclenching his fists into bedsheets that already have your handprints seared into them.

And you keep going, a little torture creation of your own.

“Mine,” you demand again, and this time, it clicks.

“Yours! Fuck, yours. All yours, only yours,” he surrenders and you slow back down to a regular pace, breathless.

It’s a great move but it’s exerting.

You all but collapse on his chest and he takes over, thrillingly pissed off due to your power play.

“So that’s how it’s going to be?” he asks, and you clench at his tone.

He removes himself and you whimper, but he’s maneuvering you like a ragdoll on the bed and you’re more than fucking willing to be thrown around.

He’s kneeling on the bed, lifting your hips and sliding into you in a doggy style, but then he’s doing the most insane thing you think you’ve ever seen. With an arm around your stomach he brings your back to his torso and twists you both to face the open floor to ceiling windows. One of your legs is thrown over his that’s up to splay you wide for the skyline to see, and you can see your reflection in the glass.

You look beyond fucked out, and so does he, and it’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen. But then his hand is sliding to your throat, and a whispered, “Is this okay?” finds your ears. You nod.

Gripping the sides of your throat, he slides his other hand to graze your clit before beginning his own version of the move you just pulled. Pumping into you at a pace that has your g-spot screaming from all of the attention it’s receiving, his fingers swiping deftly over the bundled nerves at the apex of your thigh whilst lightly cutting off the blood supply to your brain.

It has you twitching and hazy and dizzy in seconds. You can see yourself losing to the feeling so steadily building at the base of your spine in the glass. Mouth open, body willing, the man who’s been at the center of your wanting for longer than you can remember, its deliverance.

Dark, sex tousled hair, muscled forearms holding you up and driving you insane. Blackened eyes focused on you and only you through the mirror the darkness of the night’s sky has created for you.

It’s that visual that sets you over the edge when he releases your throat, and you feel a gush flowing from where you two meet.

“Fuuuck yes. My Perfect Girl, cum all over my sheets, drench my cock. That’s it,” he purrs in your ear and it’s doing nothing but sending shock after shock into your already over sensitive and pulsing cunt, letting your consciousness float somewhere above or below you, you don’t really care.

All you know is that you feel light as a feather and not of this earthly plane.

Taehyung removes himself and lies you down gently. He’s back inside soon after and it just feels right as he fills you, like it’s where he’s meant to be.

He hovers over you once more, and you lift a single knee to his hip, mimicking your position from the club as he thrusts into you with fervor, chasing his own high after delivering three mind shattering ones to you.

Reaching one hand to his cheek, you hold him as he kisses you, working himself to completion.

Using your other to deliver a few expert circles to your clit, so you can come together, you breathe in each other's release and drown in once another’s embrace.

You leave his name on your tongue this time. A gift. A cry so delicate that a tear falls from your cheek and he kisses it away.

Taehyung inhales sharply, before stuttering his exhale and an exquisite warmth fills you.

“F-f-uu-ckkk,” he shudders as he lets the aftershocks of his release claim you in the most basic and animalistic of ways. You drink in the vulnerable sound, taking his mouth with yours one final time as you bask in each other's pleasure. Silent but for catching breaths, exertion evident as you hold one another.

Taehyung rests on your chest. Lines are sketched gently with your nails up and down his spine and into his hair as he comes down, content in the afterglow, where nothing is wrong and everything is perfect.

Before consequences kick in and regrets form.

When he decides he’s ready, Tae lifts and removes himself from you and you can feel the remnants of your combined efforts slide down to the bedsheets.

Tae takes a single finger and gathers it up before pressing it back in. You hiss at the now tender flesh. Though the pain doesn’t stop the warmth newly pooling at the sight and feel and meaning.

He pumps it back in once, twice before removing his finger and placing it in his mouth to clean off. Your cunt flutters at the sight and Tae smirks, leaning forward to share his findings with you in the form of a filthy, open mouthed, tongue filled kiss. It’s slightly salty, slightly metallic but you pull him back for one last lick when he tries to pull away.

Watching him kneeling there, in the glow of moonlight, you realize just how truly beautiful he is. The shape of his illuminated profile, the expanse of his chest as he breathes in, the colour of his skin under silver rays. He’s stunning.

You smile up at him, spent, sated and so astronomically fucked if your brother ever finds out.

Tae must see the thought on your face, because he says, “Don’t worry about him. I’ll handle it.”

But you honestly don’t give a fuck about that right now. That’s a tomorrow issue. What you want to know is, “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what, exactly?” He specifies.

You sit up, eye to eye as he sits on the edge of the bed, one leg on the ground.

“All of it. Any of it.”

There.

Now it was out in the open. And the rest is up to him.

You could drag yourself back down to reality. Chalk this night up to booze and bad timing and perfect timing. Could convince yourself it was just one night and that it would have to be enou—

“All of it,” he interrupts, the most sincere expression you’ve ever seen on him on full display. “Definitely all of it. Every last fucking word.”

You slump on your exhale, so fucking relieved you didn’t have to keep trying to lie to yourself that you could forget this happened.

You’re laughing before you can fight it off, shoulders shaking. Smiling so wide it hurts.

“Uh..YN?” Tae asks, clearly not sure how to take your reaction and you compose yourself.

“That’s PG to you,” you say as you crawl onto his lap, and kiss him into oblivion.

It’s interesting to finally sit on the dock across the way in East Egg.

The fog is gone, the sky is a brilliant blue, and the little box you kept sits open next to you, the lock and its key lost somewhere to the depths below your feet. Funny how harmless it seems now that there’s nothing locked inside anymore, like it could never really have hurt you in the first place.

You take in your newly emptied creation, and quirk a brow when you see it move.

A wiggle at first, before it’s shaking and spinning and shrinking, turning from a box into a glass windowed locket. Golden and delicate and beautiful, with a matching chain. You ponder for a moment what it could be for, before turning to look down at the green light to your right.

An idea strikes.

Unclasping the little window, you lift the opened pendant to the green light. And to your delight, the emerald hue hops into its new home, closing its tiny windowed door.

You smile at the clever little light, lacing the chain around your neck, resting it on the middle of your sternum, right above your heart. Its brilliant hue shining brightly through the pane for all to see.

Funny how the green light you so longed for, longed for you back, and is now yours for keeps.

A/N 2.5: This is what has been rotting in my brain for the better half of two weeks so please enjoy, it was supposed to be short and trope filled to cure my writers block but apparently I am incapable of short. But trope filled it clearly is. Overall tho, I'm quite pleased with this one.

A/N 3: As always, thanks for reading, loves. Xoxo, - Yoon <3

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viennakarma · 10 months ago

Text

Everything I Wanted III.

LESTAPPEN x READER (PART 3/FINALE)

Summary: Your journey to become a Motorsport legend wasn't easy, especially when your path clashed with your greatest rivals, Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc.

Word count: 10k

Tags: Driver reader, mentions of crash, angst, abusive parent, daddy issues, trust issues, character death (not reader), cursing, strong rivalry, misogyny in motorsport, invasive media, aggressive fans, reader suffers with cyberbullying and hate, smut, female reader, +18, unprotected sex, voyeurism, exhibtionism, edging, filthy, porn with plot, queer! everyone, polyamory lestappen, bit of dirty talking, pet names, open ending, HEA, not beta read

Relationships: Lestappen x Reader

Mentor!Kimi Raikkonen x Reader

Sebastian Vettel, Fernando Alonso, Lewis Hamilton x Platonic!Reader

Notes: this is full of motorsport inaccuracies, just go with the vibes please. There are also a few inaccuracies regarding other drivers' lives, but they are just to fit the story. This chapter is a tiny bit angsty. Maybe I should've mentioned it before, but both Max and Charles are single in this story. I'm sorry if it feels rushed or if it has any mistakes, I just let my heart go with the flow!

Find me on Twitter!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

You spend a few days in some happy daze, just shamelessly bashing in your Championship. Everyone knew because you were positively giddy during the last race week in Abu Dhabi, you were seen smiling more during that one week than you had been seen smiling in your three years of Formula 1.

Some of the drivers were even more amicable towards you and your closest friends were even teasing you all the time, calling you Champion so they could see you blush and giggle.

“Hey there, Champ,” Lewis would greet you.

“Buenos días, campeona,” Fernando would say and laugh at your reaction.

Lando even joked to some reporter that you were in love with the championship.

There was a dinner organized by the drivers to say farewell to Sebastian. Despite knowing most drivers confirmed their presence there, you planned to go and leave early because you always felt left out whenever most drivers got together.

That’s why you texted Lewis to ask what he was wearing that night, and you ended up wearing high waisted suede pants, and a white T-shirt, finishing with a classic black scarpin in your feet and a purse.

Since you and Nando were in the same hotel, you decided to go together with his driver. Only when you got to the car, Charles was also inside the car, and you had to sit quietly by his side, his thigh brushing yours. Nando was in the passenger seat, and you started small talk with him to diffuse the tension he was unaware was happening in the backseat. You were engaged in conversation with Nando when you felt Charles fingers touching your knee. Jolting, you immediately slapped his hand away.

“You ok there?” Nando asked from the front of the car.

“Uh, yes! Just an- annoying mosquito!” You said, faking a smile.

Charles pouted, crossing his arms and pointedly looking to the window of his side.

As the three of you arrived there, half of the grid was already there, seated and chatting. Lewis welcomed you first, warning that he purposefully invited Sebastian to arrive thirty minutes later, so he was the last to arrive. As you sat beside Nando, you noticed how Charles sat beside you again, facing Pierre across the table, and you ended up facing Max. Your eyes met, but you looked away, deciding to focus on conversation with Nando and Lando, who was in front of him.

When Seb arrived, he was welcomed with a round of applause, which made his cheeks redden a little as he laughed. The dinner went well, and you shared red wine with a few of the others, some of them preferred other drinks. It was nice chatting with everyone, and it was the first time you really felt part of the group, everyone together laughing and eating.

“Y/N, who’s your idol from this table?” Carlos asked with a smirk.

“You wanna put me in trouble,” you eyed around. Everyone knew that the people you were closest with, Lewis, Seb and Nando were your racing idols.

“Come on, your favorite, Lewis, Seb or Fernando?” Lando joined in, and the others joined too, egging you on.

“Kimi is my favorite,” you muttered before taking a sip of your wine. Everyone started shouting and calling you a liar, “fine, fine, it doesn’t mean I’m not a big fan of the other two, but growing up, I’ve always wanted to race like Fernando.”

“And now you do,” Fernando said, raising his glass in a toast, which honestly made you blush. Everyone started making fun of you because you were shy and giggly.

You ended up staying until the end, when everyone had to leave to get a good night of sleep for the free practices the next day.

Race day there was a small ceremony to say goodbye to Sebastian, and it was the only part of the week that made you a little sad, even though part of you were really happy knowing he would get to spend time with his family and dedicate himself to his projects of sustainability. When the drivers made a little corridor to applaud him, Sebastian hugged you and you felt a little teary eyed.

The race was great, and you put some effort into winning that one, because you wanted to finish the season with a bang. And a bang it was, holding the P1 trophy again, kissing it and then raising it high as homage to mom.

After the season ended officially, you went straight to Woking to visit the factory and thank everyone personally for making you a car fast enough to make you the champion. Then you had a few media commitments, had to go over some marketing and legal meetings about brands deals and whatnot interested in your image.

Finally, by the beginning of December, you went back to Monaco and slept in for a few days, relaxing body and mind.

When Lando found out you were living in Monaco, he invited you to a padel match, and despite not knowing the game very well, you never said no to any form of competitive sport that could take your mind off things.

“I’ll let you know, I’m a fast learner, Landito.” You pointed when he gave you a padel racket.

“Come on, you have 20 minutes to learn the basics before our competition is here,” he said.

“Oh, we’ll be playing as duos?” You smiled, letting him lead you to the court.

Lando taught you the basics for a while, and you were getting the hang of it when you heard voices behind you. You stopped short as you noticed your competition were Charles and Max, and as they saw you, they too seemed surprised.

“Hello,” you greeted them with a nod.

Luckily Lando didn’t waste any time with pleasantries and went straight to the game. Which was great, since that was a language you could speak. You soon noticed Charles and Max had a bit more experience than you, so you had to up your game a bit, using strategy to outsmart them.

You and Lando won three games and Charles and Max won four.

As you finished, you went to the net and shook their hands. Max stared at you intensely, but you ignored him and went grab your bag.

“You’re leaving?” Lando asked, “we were going to grab a snack after.”

“Oh, um, yeah- I gotta go, I still have a lot to do around the apartment and I’m waiting for some furniture to arrive,” you gave an excuse.

“You’re living in Monaco?” Charles asked, visibly surprised at the info.

“Yeah. So, bye. Thanks for the game.” You started walking away, but Lando jogged to catch up to you.

“Hey, uh- text me when you’re free this weekend. I wanted to talk to you privately about… McLaren” he whispered your team’s name and you raised an eyebrow, you had no idea what he wanted to talk about, but you nodded.

Lando ended up coming over to your apartment Saturday afternoon, he helped you paint your living room walls a soft green, and after you finished, you were eating a few snacks when he finally said what he wanted to talk about.

“So, I know that legally we shouldn’t be talking about it, but- for how long is your new contract with McLaren?” He breached the subject. You paused.

“What? You know my contract ends by the end of next season.”

“Yeah but- the new one-”

He silenced himself abruptly, probably realizing you didn’t get a new one. You pressed your lips in a thin line. You had a contract similar to Lando’s, that would end by the end of next year. But now- now Lando had been offered a renovation, and you weren’t.

“They offered you an extension already?” You asked, shocked.

“No- I mean- It’s just-” Lando realized by your face that he had fucked up.

“Lando.”

“Yes, from 2024 on, with possible extensions,” He said, apologetically.

“Oh” you whispered.

“I’m so sorry, I’m sure they are just taking their time putting your contract together since you’re, you know, the world champion,” Lando startled rambling, until his phone started ringing, “I’m sorry, I gotta go, I’m streaming tonight and I need to set up. I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m sure they’ll offer your renewal soon.”

You bid him goodbye, still processing his words. You tried to be reasonable and not be upset, but the prospect of not receiving a proposal being the world champion didn’t sit right with you. You meditated, thinking to not let that get to you, but a few days before the FIA Gala, you received a proposal from Mercedes, and another from Aston Martin. Both were great, great contracts. They offered a lot of money, security and great publicity.

The night of the Gala, you went all out. Amanda helped you hire a glam team, so you had make up, hair and stylists helping you dress. You wore a silver dress, long with a high slit on the leg, black heels, and your hair was short now, shoulder length and dyed black. You wanted a femme fatale look, and that’s what you got.

Unfortunately, Kimi and Minttu couldn’t go with you, and you didn’t bother to find a date, opting to go by yourself. When you arrived at the ceremony, all eyes were on you. You posed a little by the red carpet and answered a few questions about the championship.

During the ceremony you sat with Lewis, chatting up until the main awards were called. You watched as Charles went up the stage for the third place trophy, he was handsome wearing some designer suit and tie, and glasses that made him even more attractive. He said a couple of words, before making his way down. Then was Max, wearing a gorgeous tux, perfectly tailored to his shoulders and waist. While he was talking, you fixed the bust of your dress and waited for your name to be called alongside the words world champion.

When you got to the stairs, Max was down there, and he offered you a gentlemanly arm to help you up, you hesitated for a brief second but then accepted, letting him guide you up the steps.

Your eyes were on the beautiful trophy. The smile on your face was big, almost giddy, as you went on the stage. You kissed your trophy, leaving a red lipstick stain on the side of it, and you stopped by the mic. After a brief second to recollect your thoughts, you sighed.

“Wow! It’s such an honor to receive this as a token of my hard work and all my years facing pushback for this dream,” you smiled down at the trophy, “I’ll try and keep it brief. I know I have already said some of this, but I’d like to thank my team, not only for making this amazing car that became part of me during this season, but also for giving me a chance three years ago. Thanks to Jace and Amanda, who were such great help this year. I’d like to thank Kimi for seeing me when I was on the brink of giving up and when no scouts looked in my direction, and Minttu for taking me in as one of her own,” you put a hand on your chest, above your heart as your voice choked a little, heavy with emotion, “Thank you, Sebastian and Fernando for accepting my friendship when everyone else turned their backs on me,” you found them both around the crowd, Nando sending you a wink, and Sebastian smiling wildly, “and last but not least, I’d like to thank my mum for working hard to put a roof over my head and food on the table while I was out there hustling for my dream.”

Everyone clapped and you waited for the applause to die down. You could end your speech there, but you wouldn’t be the Lioness if you did.

“Oh, and for those who said I wasn’t gonna go far… You can suck my-” you interrupted yourself, showing your tongue cheekily, making almost everyone in the room laugh.

That night you drank, danced and sang like never before. You woke up hungover and a little blacked out, not remembering the whole night, only some glimpses of it.

You stayed the Holidays with Kimi and his family, and despite being invited by Lando to a big New Year’s Eve party, you opted for a chill celebration. You still found time to send Sebastian and his family some Christmas presents and you managed to go karting with Fernando on his track in Asturias.

After meeting with Fernando, you went on a solo trip around Spain, visiting cities and learning a little bit about history while practicing your spanish. You also tried a few hobbies, out of curiosity. You tried playing tennis, skydiving and surfing.

Soon, you were back in Monaco to resume your training for next season and traveling to Woking to see your new car. You also sat with Amanda and your lawyer, and accepted a few brand deals, one for makeup and another for a big fashion brand. You were genuinely happy with both, you always wanted to get into fashion but never had the time or knack for it, but now with your deal, they would link you to a stylist and give you outfit options.

You entered the new season fresh, feeling good not only about your talent as a racing driver, but about your looks and new style, feeling that your championship could finally back you up.

Only if the media got the memo.

“Y/N do you believe when people attribute your championship win to Verstappen’s mistake?”

You felt fire in your throat, anger bubbling up.

“No, I believe I won the championship because I drove well the whole season. I attribute my championship to myself, my talent and my hard work,” your tone was harsh, and you didn’t even bother to sound pleasant, “I wonder if this was asked to every other Formula 1 champion of the world or just me?”

You huffed, putting your mic down, and you saw Fernando leaning towards you to whisper, “it’s good to have the Lioness back.”

It was different seeing Nando wearing green now and Sebastian’s absence was noticed from day one. He had sent you a text wishing good luck in the season.

There was also a weird shift that you noticed soon, right in the first few races. The rivalry between Max and Charles had been placated a little. They were still rivals on the track, but out of it, they were seen chatting and discussing, all in good spirits and friendly. Whatever rift had caused the tension all these years was apparently mended. So now, they were only your rivals, together against the greater evil. You.

Without a win in the first three races that season, you were sure something was wrong. Could it be your car, but it could also be you.

You came out of debriefing feeling a stress induced headache starting. You walked around the paddock aimlessly, just trying to clear your head and not face any photographer or reporter. That’s why you were around the moving boxes and trucks, trying to find a secluded spot to breathe and meditate.

Unfortunately, you ended up facing two people pressed against a wall. Frowning, you tried to understand what was going on, when you realized it was Max and Charles. Their sides were pressed on each other, but what caught your attention was that they were holding hands, whispering to each other.

You paused, trying to make sense of it. And then Max caressed Charles’ jaw. Then you decided, it was none of your business whatever they did.

Turning around, you were leaving when you stepped on something and it broke loudly. You just kept walking away, not looking back, you were almost leaving the lot when someone held your wrist, making you turn back around.

“Wait, Y/N, we- we can-” Charles’ voice failed him, visibly nervous.

“We can buy your silence,” Max added, suddenly. You frowned, shaking your head.

“I didn’t see anything,” you muttered trying to walk away, but now Max also held your other wrist.

“Say your price,” Max pressed further, making you angry.

“I don’t know what kind of psycho you take me for, but I didn’t see anything,” you say, suggestively, “I wouldn’t want someone to out me, and I wouldn’t do that to anyone else either. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Fuck,” Max whispered, letting go of your hand.

“You- you promise?” Charles asked, still not letting go of you.

“I swear on my mom’s grave.” You said softly just because you could understand their fear, you knew first hand how cruel the motorsport world could be. Whatever was going on between them was none of your business.

You left without another word, hoping they believed you.

The season kept going, and your car wasn’t as good as the year before which was really upsetting you and forcing you to work even harder to match your quality the previous year.

But also both Max and Charles stopped publicly taunting you, making people wonder if your rivalry had ended. It was annoying because that dynamic was all that you’ve known from them, and the fact that they stopped shading you because they were scared to anger you and you eventually exposed them to the world was even more annoying. You wondered if you should talk to them, to let them know it was never coming out of your mouth.

You decided silence was the best course of action. You had enough problems with your car as it was.

Before the fifth race of the season, all the drivers were called for a meeting, to talk about a few safety measures that were being put in place for paddock safety. You sat through it quietly, only listening to the FIA representative. You knew that meeting was because of what had happened to you in Zandvoort the year before, you had taken your complaints to the FIA and miraculously, they had abided by it.

You left the meeting as soon as it was over, walking away. But then, you touched your wrist as a nervous tic.

No. No.

You noticed you didn’t have your watch with you the moment you left the building, patting your pockets to make sure it wasn’t there as you ran right back to the meeting room where the drivers debrief had been.

As soon as you entered, you saw both Max and Charles checking the watch, the monegasque was the one holding it.

“Hey, uh-” you paused, trying to not sound rude, “that’s mine, can I have it back?”

Charles looked at you with that smirk as Max moved away a few steps. Charles opened his hand in your direction, handing you the watch. But as you were to grab it, he pulled back and threw it. You froze, seeing the watching flying directly into Max’s awaiting hands behind you.

“Please, don't-” you gasped as Max pretended to throw it back to Charles. But he didn’t, he just extended his open hand to you, probably noticing the worry in your face.

Skittishly, you got closer to him and grabbed the watch from his hand. He didn’t pull away like Charles had done.

But as you pulled it back, your own hand slipped the watch, and you eyed it with horror as it hit the ground immediately breaking the crystal. You felt like your heart was breaking along with your mom’s watch.

“No, no,” you whispered, kneeling down to take it back.

“Hey, what is happ-” you heard Lewis’ voice entering the room but he stopped short as he saw you almost crying on the floor. He immediately helped you get up.

Both Max and Charles were shocked, still rooted to the spot as it was the first time they ever saw you show any kind of extreme emotion, and the pain in your eyes made both of them get filled with guilt.

You stood up still holding the watch in your hand as a fragile thing, pretty much like your heart.

“Hey, kiddo. Come on,” Lewis put an arm around your shoulders, pushing you away softly after giving the other two drivers a nasty glare.

You didn’t try to get it fixed, and you still wore it even with the crystal shattered. You knew it was a relic, vintage and probably handmade since it was generations in your family. But also you were too emotionally attached to it to get rid of the watch.

After the race, once you got a P2, finally, you went to the hotel, skipping the celebration the team wanted to throw for you but still picking the bill for their night out.

It was late at night when you were rewatching the race, trying to see whatever mistake caused you to miss that P1 that was just within reach but you didn’t manage to take it. You were taking notes, typing in your laptop, when a knock on your door interrupted. You had already ordered room service, but sometimes Amanda did it for you if she thought you weren’t eating enough.

You opened the door to be faced with Max and Charles.

“Can we come in?” Charles asked, and confused, you opened the door wider to let them in.

“We came to apologize about the watch, we’re sorry.” Max started, looking at Charles for his cue.

“That was really immature of us, sorry,” Charles added.

“It’s alright,” you sighed, a little tired, “it’s not your fault, really. I dropped it, not you.”

“But it wouldn’t have happened if we just didn’t mess around with you.”

You sighed again, despite being sad about the watch, you didn’t really blame them for it. Charles took your hand suddenly, making you stare up at them, both of them looking at the broken watch you were still wearing. Max opened the bag and handed you a small box. It was a Rolex.

“We’re really sorry, Y/N,” he handed you the watch. You stared at the box, taking it as a sign of good faith from them.

“Thanks,” you whispered, “I was just eating, you wanna join me?”

They nodded, uncertain. They followed you to the en-suite, the most recent race paused on the TV. You closed your laptop.

“I appreciate the gesture, but-” you unclasped the watch in your wrist, handing it to Charles who was sitting closer to you, “it has emotional value, it was mum’s.”

You waited as they read the inscription, Charles gasping when he realized it had way more value to you than the stupidly expensive Rolex they managed to buy you. Running his thumb on the inscription, Max looked at you.

“I know a guy back home, he- he can fix the crystal,” Max told you, “would you trust me to take it to get fixed? It’s the least I could do.”

“You don’t have to,” you shook your head, “I don’t blame you for breaking it.”

“Please?” Max asked, and something inside you spread warmth in your chest.

“Fine,” you sighed, seeing Max pocket your watch in his bag, “please, help yourselves.”

They went to the table of room service and grabbed a bit of food. They sat around.

“You were rewatching the race?”

“Yeah, I like taking notes, seeing what I can improve…”

You closed your laptop and the TV, not wanting them to check your confidential information.

“How are you feeling this year?” Max asked, awkwardly trying to start a conversation.

“I’m alright, I guess. I mean, the car could be better,” you shrugged.

“And about your mom?” Charles looked at you intently.

“It’s grief, right?” You blinked slowly, “it comes and goes in waves. Sometimes they’re tiny waves breaking on your ankles, and sometimes it feels like you’re going to drown in them.”

There’s a brief silence, but when you meet his eyes, Charles’ eyes shine in understanding.

“I know.”

Max managed to change topics, talking about the track, the race and his impressions. Was a safe topic, lighter. You didn’t notice how, but you three ended up sitting in a small circle on the floor. Max was passionately talking about track adherence, and he was so focused on his explanation that it was actually funny. You eyed Charles, and you two bursted out laughing, which made Max stop, looking at you confused.

When you stopped laughing, sitting straight, Charles was suddenly very close. Way closer than before. His face was just a few centimeters away from yours, and it made you dizzy.

You snapped your head to Max, who was looking at you with just as much desire as Charles. He nodded to you, giving you permission.

Charles held your face and kissed you, softly and tentatively. You broke the kiss, looking from Charles’ beautiful eyes to Max’s. You watched as Max shifted closer to you, holding your jaw as he kissed you too.

You couldn’t wrap your head around what was happening, but you were very shocked and equally turned on.

Max’s hand slid from your jaw, down to your neck, and you were still wide eyed, your breathing progressively more shallow. You felt Charles behind you, his hand on your waist, pressing softly. You closed your eyes as Max slowly closed the distance between you again, and you felt his lips pressing against yours. With shaky fingers, your hands trailed beneath his shirt, up his back, nails grazing his skin. While you opened your mouth to deepen the kiss, you moaned, feeling Charles leaving open mouthed kisses to your neck and shoulder, goosebumps rising in your skin. It was overwhelming, because they were everywhere, hands, lips and bodies stealing your breath. Everything was so hot, you felt like removing your clothes and the pulsing in your shamelessly wet panties.

“Take it off,” Max breathed after breaking the kiss, he helped the monegasque, who quickly tore your clothes leaving you only in panties. Max pushed you until your back was on the floor, and he and Charles were kneeling on each side of your body. “Charlie, come kiss her.”

Charles laid down, kissing you gently first, then deepening the kiss until you were pawing his waist and torso under his shirt. Seeing your struggle, he removed the shirt himself, while Max watched, running both hands up and down your thighs. Max suddenly pulled Charles closer, kissing him, their kiss was just as hard and messy as the kisses they had given you. Seeing the way their lips explored each other made you even wetter, and you couldn’t help but run your finger above your slit, your pussy still clothed. They removed each other’s clothes very fast.

They stopped, and Max soon removed your panties, laying between your legs. You moaned as his tongue lapped at your pussy, tentatively and Charles leaned down to kiss you again. Your heart was running insane, so fast you thought it would stop. Charles went lower and mouthed at your nipples, and you reached for his cock.

“Spit,” you ordered Charles, offering the palm of your hand. A little hesitantly, he did, a glob of spit on the palm of your hand and you grabbed his cock again, and he moaned out loud feeling the glide of your hand.

You felt one of Max’s fingers inside you, twisting so good that you had to hold his head, grinding your hips into him. The pleasure of Max working your cunt was so blinding that you lost focus on the handjob, but it didn’t deter Charles, who just decided to fuck into your hand.

You looked down, just to see Max looking straight at you through his lashes. He sucked at your clit, watching you writhe and come undone, grinding your hips on his face, wetting half of his face as he devoured you.

“Charlie will fuck you now, yeah?” Max asked as you recovered, and he carried you to the couch, positioned you on his lap, facing Charles, who just knelt between your legs.

Charles filled you up in one swift movement, and you moaned at the tight fit, melting into Max just behind you, holding you firmly, one hand on your neck, the other across your abdomen. The dutch kissed your neck, biting and sucking your skin, but his eyes trained on the way Charles’ hips started moving into you, you pulled Max’s hand that was on your neck and put it over your mouth, to muffle your moans, he pushed two fingers in your mouth and you sucked. The pressure was deliriously good, and Charles kept blabbering about how good you felt, and how warm was your cunt, and you were making him feel so good, mixed with lots of french expletives. Charles pressed further, his chest against yours as he found Max over your shoulder and kissed him. You felt Max’s hand that was between your bodies, find its way to your clit, rubbing in circles and pushing you even faster to your second orgasm, drooling over the fingers he still had in your mouth, you hips shaking so much you were rubbing Max’s cock with your ass, at the same time that Charles came crashing down, filling you up as he moaned out loud.

“My turn now, yes?” Max said, repositioning you like a ragdoll, while Charles laid down, pulling you on all fours on top of him, as Max took his turn behind you.

Charles pulled your face closer, kissing you all sloppy and open mouthed as Max filled you up to the hilt, making your knees shake. As if he knew, and he probably did, Charles held your hips up when Max started pistoning into you, fucking you so good you could only hold onto Charles and bite into his shoulders to keep yourself from being too loud.

You did not sleep that night. Max and Charles’ stamina wa otherworldly, and you three kept fucking until morning came. Sometimes you just watched them, sometimes you took one while the other rested, sometimes you took them at the same time. With them, you tried more adventurous positions than you had tried your entire life. They had a different way of finding out the workings of your body, of discovering the rhythm you liked and the sound of your moaning echoing on the walls.

The second time they slipped into your room was almost three weeks later, under the guise that they wanted to give your watch back now fixed.

After a little chit chat Max pulled you into his lap and Charles pressed his chest to your back and in minutes you three were naked, touching and kissing and moaning into each other's mouth.

It became some sort of routine, every few weeks, they would sneak into your room, and you’d bang them any way you wanted.

Then they would stay more, bring dinner or put on a movie. They would snuggle with you in bed while the movie played, Max holding your thigh softly and you playing with Charles’ hair. It was good to unwind and forget about Formula 1.

Every day, after they left, you’d whisper to yourself.

“Don’t get too attached, Y/N. They’re your rivals.”

You didn’t want to poison all the sexy moments and all the tranquility they made you feel, but at the same time, you didn’t want to get too caught up in this. It should be fun, but it couldn’t be more than that.

Racing was never a topic of conversation between you, not only because those few hours together were sacred but also because all three of you were rivals and were in different teams, which could get very messy, very quickly.

Eventually, after Barcelona, McLaren brought a new upgrade. Which for you, it was a godsend. Finally, you could get back on your feet again. The car felt lighter and you had much more control. And in Montreal, you finally got the first win of the season. A huge weight was lifted from your shoulders and you even cried a couple of tears finishing the race first for the first time that year. And it was also the first 1-2 you and Lando had ever, which was even more reason for celebration.

You and Lando ended up closing a club for your celebration, inviting the whole team.

Max and Charles were there too, and they spent most of the night in a booth, chatting among other drivers. You knew they were watching you even pretending not to, and it was a matter of time until they had drunk enough to approach you. So you decided to not stay late and just leave.

You bid Lando goodbye quickly, telling him you were tired even if it was relatively early for a clubbing night. As you made your way to the most discreet exit, you felt a hand on your forearm, pulling you to a corner, and you were faced with both Charles and Max.

“Leaving so soon, chéri?” Charles asked, eyes glossy and probably a little tipsy.

“We came here to celebrate you,” Max said, one hand going around your waist. Wide eyed, you immediately pushed his hand away, taking a step back. They were confused.

��Not here. Too public, someone might see us, or even take pictures.”

“Don’t be like that, there is no one around now,” Charles pointed around, and granted, it was really empty on that side of the club, but anyone could walk in any moment.

“I can’t,” you shook your head, “not in public.”

“You’re ashamed of us?” Max squinted, looking into your eyes.

“I never said that. I can’t risk anything happening to my image just because I wanted to screw someone.”

“So that’s how you see us? A good fuck and nothing else?” Max pressed you further.

“Again,” you repeated slowly, your patience running thin, “that’s not what I said,” there was a tense pause and you pinched the bridge of your nose, “look, we all had more than enough to drink, and this is not the moment or the place for this conversation.”

“No, no,” Charles shook his head, “I believe you made yourself clear enough.”

With that, they walked away clearly pissed with you. Going back to the hotel, you knew there was nothing you could do at that moment to change their minds. They wouldn’t understand your point of view that easily, not only because they were drunk, but also because they weren’t a woman in Formula 1. Everyone fed off your failures like vultures, and if it leaked that you were going out not only with one, but with two other drivers, you knew you could kiss your career goodbye.

The media was never the kindest to you, and the majority of the fans weren’t either, so you knew how it would look if anyone found out about you three. They already call you slut without any knowledge of your romantic history, they would ruin your life if they were to know. And most certainly question not only your seat in Formula 1 but also your World Championship.

You just hoped you could explain that to Charles and Max when they were with clear heads.

Only you didn’t.

They never came back to your room, nor did they answer your texts.

Two entire weeks passed with only anguish gnawing at your insides, trying to reach them privately, but failing miserably. They were not only ignoring you, but also avoiding you. You couldn’t take it anymore, so in Austria, you decided to take matters into your own hands. You’d corner the first one you saw.

And that was Charles right before the drivers parade. You were the first ones to get there, which gave you some sense of privacy, well, as much as you could.

“You need to listen to me, this is a misunderstanding, Charles.”

But he straight up ignored you, not even bothering to look in your direction. With a heavy heart, you nodded, moving away from him. Making peace with the fact that maybe this was the end of your little affair. They had not understood you, and had ignored all your efforts to explain, closing the door of whatever was going on.

Resolute, you decided that maybe it was for the best. If they couldn’t understand where you were coming from, then better say farewell already. But you couldn’t help that anguishing feeling in your stomach.

It showed to be true during the race, when you were P4 fighting to get into the podium at least. Max was P3, and he fought tooth and nail to not allow you to pass, even if you had the pace to overtake him. You tried a risky move, one you had learned from Fernando Alonso. Pretend you’re going to overtake on one side, let him defend that side, then push your car to the other side and dive for the position.

You almost did the full move, but when you were going for the position, Max just pushed his car into your side, which caused you to lose control and you spun to the gravel. You just decelerated as much as you could. You left the car and went back to the pits with the help of marshals. You didn’t bother to even look into Max’s direction, feeling your eyes getting teary. You weighted with your helmet on, and only took it off inside the garage, because you didn’t want people to see you cry.

It was relatively normal to DFN because of a crash, and given the history of rivalry between you and Max, it was also very common to collide with him. What made you upset wasn’t him protecting his position, but him purposefully taking you out, like he was just getting back at you because he was angry. You had left enough space for him. Despite the overtaking maneuver being a little risky, you never once got close enough to him that you could cause an accident. He had not slipped and lost control. He had not tried to avoid you. He just ran straight into your sidepod.

“What happened today?” A reporter asked you when you went to the post race interviews.

“What is there to say? I think the images speak for themselves.” You shrugged, feeling tired but not wanting to give the media too much as to not cause a PR nightmare to Amanda.

“Seems like the FIA will investigate Max Verstappen because of today’s incident.” Someone else mentioned, and you couldn’t help but scoff.

“I’m sure they will,” you muttered, voice laced with sarcasm.

The debriefing was just as bad with your Team Principal calling you out in front of the whole team not only for damaging your car but also for putting yourself at risk like that.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, I did what any other driver would do in my position!” You sighed trying to calm down, “don’t make me quote Ayrton Senna to you. If you no longer go for a gap that exists, then you’re no longer a racing driver. You and everyone saw that Verstappen didn’t have the pace to match me, so he just plunged into me to take me out!”

God, you needed an ice bath. And maybe a new punchbag.

You were getting ready to leave when Max came up to you. You didn’t say anything to him, you honestly didn’t even want to talk to him anymore. You just wanted to go home and cry under the shower.

He was red in the face and looked distressed. You couldn’t help but feel defensive, holding your bag to your chest.

“I really don’t want to talk to you right now,” you said, trying to walk away but he blocked your path.

“Listen,” he started and the moment he raised his hand to remove his cap, it triggered you, and you flinched as if he was gonna hit you.

He stopped immediately, because he knew that was a trauma response. He knew that him being angry must have reminded you of your father growing up. He knew all that because he too, sometimes, had this kind of knee jerk reaction.

But you felt sick to your stomach. It wasn’t intentional, but it made you look like you believed he would’ve hit you, and rationally you knew he wouldn’t do that. But your stupid body did.

You avoided Max and walked away as fast as you could.

Back in the hotel you just packed your bags and left, going straight to the airport to fly back to Monaco. You were exhausted by the time you made it home, but you still took a shower and cried a couple of tears under the streaming water.

In bed, you tried to convince yourself this ending for your fling with them was for the best. It was too complicated anyway.

And you tried to convince yourself that you didn’t miss the feel of Max’s lips against your neck, or the feel of your hands pulling Charles’ hair softly. Or the way Charles used to mumble French mindlessly whenever he was concentrating on something. Or how often Max would do his maxplaining with his vast knowledge of the most random topics.

Your body was so tired but your mind just did not shut off.

You were a couple of hours into staring at the ceiling when the doorbell rang. Carefully, you went there, it was the middle of the night, so you checked the door camera to see both Max and Charles by the door.

Slowly, you opened to them. You swallowed, waiting for them to say something. You felt so vulnerable, this knot in your stomach had been tormenting you since the day they walked away.

“I’m- we’re really sorry,” Max started.

“For ignoring you and mistreating you and never once giving you the chance to explain your side,” Charles took a small step inside.

It was like a dam broke, and you ran into their embrace, sobbing. All three of you hugged, Charles with a comforting hand on your back and Max kissing the side of your head. They patiently waited for you to calm down, and then closed the door and walked you to the sofa.

“I missed you,” you murmured, holding Max’s jaw to peck his lips, doing the same to Charles, “I’m so sorry about everything.”

“Can we talk?” Charles asked, “you said it was a misunderstanding.”

You nodded, taking your phone from your room. You sat on the coffee table as you gave them your phone with your instagram profile opened.

“Check the comments on my last post,” you pointed and they sat side by side scrolling through it, the horror on their faces getting worse every second they kept going.

You knew the kind of comments you had on your profile. Hateful, hurtful comments. It had been that way since you made it into Formula 1.

“What a slut” “I bet there’s a reason why Charles hates her” “She never deserved that championship! #Retire” “Ugly bitch” “Whose dick she had to blow to get a seat?” “Overrated dumb whore” “I bet she tried to fuck her way through the grid, that’s why most of them hate her” “Max should’ve crashed into her harder”

It was nothing new to you, Kimi and your PR team had prepared you for years for this type of treatment. And you honestly had grown used to it, learning to ignore.

“This is disgusting, Y/N!” Charles exclaimed, trying to put the phone away, but Max snatched it back, still reading the comments.

“That’s just a regular Monday for me,” you shrugged, “I’m not trying to victimize myself or anything, but-”

“You are a victim, this is not okay!” Charles said.

“What I wanted to say is, I can’t risk us going public. This is what I face just for doing my job, and it would get so much worse if people ever found out. They already believe I fucked my way to the top, to them, we would just confirm their suspicions,” you felt Charles holding your hand for comfort, “it is very different for a woman. And I adore what we have, but I can't put you above my career and my dreams.”

Max extended his hand to you, and you grasped it, letting him pull you to sit between them. Charles kissed your cheek.

“We would never ask you to do such a thing,” Max said.

“I’m sorry we didn’t see what you are going through with the media and our fans.” Charles muttered, pulling your hair back with a hand, and holding your waist with the other.

“We missed you,” Max whispered against the other side of your neck.

In a couple of minutes they had you spread open on the sofa, Charles’ head between your legs and Max’s lips latched on to your nipples. They made sure to apologize orgasm after orgasm, cooing your moaning mess and kissing you stupid.

Routine went back to normal after that. You still didn’t name your affair and decided that for now, it was better this way.

With the upgraded car, you actually managed to pick up the pace and find yourself rising up the standings.

Silverstone was promising, being one of your favorite tracks, and one you knew you could win again this year. You did great both of the free practices, trying to keep your focus now more than ever, to get a chance at the championship again. There were specific races that you’d amp up your security team for safety, but Silverstone wasn’t one of them.

Qualifying day, you went to the track early morning, to meet with your team, talk about the results of free practices and your input. As you walked to your garage quietly chatting on the phone, you felt a hand on your arm, pulling you aside. You yelped, jerking around and you ended up facing the person. A man, and it took you a couple of seconds to recognize all the gray hair, but the evil eyes were still very much the same.

It had been more than a decade since you saw your father for the last time. Gasping, you took a step back to walk away, but he gripped your forearm, forcing you back.

Funny how fear worked, you hadn’t seen him for years, and you always imagined that now that you were all grown up, you’d be fearless, a big girl, brave and face your father head on. But it wasn’t how things happened. Immediately your fight or fight kicked in. Your eyes darted around, trying to catch someone you knew or someone from security.

“Let. Go.” You said, with gritted teeth.

“Is that how you greet your father?” He said, and you pulled your hand from his grasp.

“I don’t have one,” you spat, anger rising in your chest, hand in hand with fear. You wanted to bolt, to ban him from your life forever, to cry and shout all at once.

“I made you. I spent thousands investing in your career so you could be here, a little gratitude would be good,” he said with a fake smile, and it disgusted you.

“I’ll never attribute my success to you, you disgusting piece of-”

He held your face with a hand, pressing your jaw with such force that it made you stumble a step back. You gripped his wrist, trying to pull away but he pressed your face harder, pressing your head against the wall.

“Very careful how you speak to me!” He rasped, gritted teeth and all, “you little shit, you think you are better than me? I turned you into who you are! The least you own me-”

“I owe you shit!” You said, and spat on his face.

“I gave money and a house to that whore you called a mother-”

You snapped, getting a hold of the fear, and you punched him in the face, hard enough for him to get away and you get space to run. You took one single step when you stumbled into someone, and your eyes found Max.

It was a brief second between looking at you, looking behind you and recognising your father. Recovering from your punch, your father tried to get to you again, but Max stood between the two of you, pushing your father’s chest so he stumbled back. Charles arrived soon after with security, as Max explained that this man was to be escorted out and never allowed to come back.

“Chéri, are you ok?” Charles asked, seeing you taking a step back and leaning against the wall.

You nodded, trying to talk but your voice caught on your throat, trying to make sense of what was happening. Your legs gave in and you slid down until you were sitting on the floor.

“Amour, talk to me, hey-” Charles was worried, you were pale and shaking. Max also knelt down beside you, holding your face to try and see if your father had hurt you.

“Get him out,” you said, and Max nodded, going to talk with security.

“Amour-”

“Guys, there’s cameras around the corner!” Lewis showed up out of nowhere.

“I’m fine,” you managed to blurt, holding on the wall to stand up.

“Hey, hey-” Charles tried to hold your arm but you took a step back.

“I’m fine,” you repeated, walking away back into the garage.

Your mind was spinning, all over the place, and through text you told Charles and Max that you were fine and wanted to be alone. The qualifying was a shitshow. Your mind was completely all over the place, and even making it to Q2, you couldn’t go farther than P14, it felt like the car wasn’t responding to your commands.

You came out of qualy completely pissed. At your father, for showing up and ruining your good streak of races. At yourself, for letting him get to your head, for still giving him so much power over you. You walked away without a second thought, went to your room and kicked your boots off.

Press talk was another shit. You couldn’t pay attention to most questions, gave monosyllabic answers, and couldn’t explain why your qualifying performance was so bad compared to the rest of the year.

You just apologized to your team during debriefing, and silently acquiesced to whatever the strategy for the race was. Kimi had texted you asking about what happened, you didn’t want to talk to him just yet.

You were getting ready to leave for the day, when Fernando came into your room.

“I don’t want to talk, Nando,” you held your bag, not even bothering to look at him.

“Good, because I do the talking then. Go, sit down.” He pretty much ordered, his face stony and serious in a way you hadn't seen before. “What happened today?”

“I’ve got a lot going on,” it was all you said.

“Your father showed up, messed with your head and with your confidence,” Fernando said, with the certainty of someone who knew you really well. You wondered if the whole grid knew about your father’s presence today. You gulped. “Look, this is something you will master with time, but I’m going to tell you now. When you put your helmet on and get in the car, you’re a racer, nothing more. Your problems, your worries, they stay back and they never cross your mind for the entirety of the race. Out on the track, you’re one with the car, doing your best is the only thing that matters.” Fernando pressed his index finger softly to your forehead, as if he was quite literally putting it in your head, “Clear. Your. Mind.”

You sniffled, wiping the one tear that came down. Fernando’s face softened, but you knew he wanted only the best for you. And he was right. You kept giving your father this power. You handed him the power. You couldn’t keep letting him get away with it. This was the one thing you knew you were good at, your calling, your destiny and all your hard work. And you’d be damned if your father would keep a hold over your life.

“Clear my mind,” you inhaled, nodding.

You did your best to study your strategy for the day, to focus on what you could do to achieve the best result.

Early the next morning, you went to the FIA, to request access to the camera footage to find images of the altercation between you and your father the day before. The representative you talked to was initially reluctant but once you told him what had happened, he was quick to help you. You explained that it was for the better that none of that came to light, and hopefully you could get your father to be completely banned from Formula One. The representative prepared a report and assured you that your complaint would be taken seriously and they’d work on the matter as fast and as discreetly as possible.

You went to meet your team and go over and over plan A, B and C. When you got in the car, ready to race, you still hadn’t talked with Max or Charles, and you were hopeful to catch them after. Attaching the helmet, you breathed in, slowly, remembering Fernando’s words.

Clear your mind.

You raced like there was no tomorrow, only thinking of the next turn and the next car you had to overtake, you didn’t think of who it was or when, you just did it. In the future, that race was going down in history as a masterclass in overtaking and taking every little opportunity thrown your way. The time passed really fast, and when you came to be, you heard Jace screaming in your ears that you had made it. You had made it to P1 and taken the checkered flag.

Your voice was shaky as you thanked the team and Jace on the radio.

When you left, running towards your team, they congratulated you and despite the great desire to run towards Max and Charles, who were on the podium with you, you somehow managed to find Fernando. You ran towards him, jumping in his arms, not even minding the way your helmets hit with a loud thud. He hugged you, removing your feet from the ground.

“Thank you! Gracias, muchas gracias, Fernando!” You shouted hoping he could hear you with both visors up.

He patted your shoulder as you had to run back to get weighted and to post-race interview.

“Wow, I’m at a loss for words right now! You were a true Lioness during this race! Can you tell us what happened after the difficult Qualy yesterday?” Jenson Button was the one to ask.

“I was in a difficult place yesterday, and I’m very thankful for a pep talk Fernando Alonso gave me, that helped me get back into my jam!” You said, breathless, wiping sweat from your forehead, “I’m also grateful to my team for making the car that matched my energy and focus today!”

“And what did Fernando tell you?” Jenson asked, probably out of curiosity.

“Well, I can’t go out telling my secrets, can I? My rivals are all around!” You winked, and left a laughing Jenson behind.

In the cooldown room, where Max and Charles were already watching a montage with all your overtakes on a screen, you walked up to Charles, taking his hand. He looked a little concerned as you had agreed to keep your relationship private. Max joined, patting a hand on your back, and the three of you made a little triangle.

You looked at them with so much adoration, that it hit Max right in the chest and he wanted nothing more than to hold your face and kiss you silly. Charles held his breath for a brief second, being in the moment with the two of you.

“You were brilliant, today,” Charles muttered, low and hoping no mic would catch the sound.

“Unbelievable, Lioness.” Max also said with a discreet wink, then taking a step back and interrupting the moment.

That wasn’t your first podium, nor your first win, but something was different when you kissed the trophy and raised it to the sky. You felt like you’d taken back control of your life and your career. There was nothing that could actually stop you if you put your mind to it, and you knew now. You shitty father couldn’t squander your dreams when you were fourteen, and he couldn’t do it now either. You were so much bigger than him, greater than that pathetic man could ever be.

And you didn’t need him.

You had a mother that, despite not being there anymore, but she’d always be in your heart, a constant source of strength and faith. You had Kimi, who believed you when no one else did, who put his own hand over fire for you. You had Fernando, Seb and Lewis, your idols in this sport, and such good friends. You had Charles and Max, your lovers, and hopefully your future.

That night, as you were laying down in your suite, sandwiched between the two men that stole your heart, came the email with your renewal contract proposition. A five year offer, possible extensions, to make you the face of your McLaren.

You made love with Charles and Max with renewed energy, enjoying yourself and the feel of their love for you. It was just the assurance you needed to say the words.

“I love you. I love you two very much,” you whispered, running your hand through both their hairs, “I can’t promise much right at this moment, like a normal, public, relationship yet, but I do love you.”

“We know. We love you too.” Max whispered and Charles took your hand and kissed your knuckles.

“We love you too much to risk you facing awful dangerous things just so we could call you ours publicly,” Charles agreed.

That year, you didn’t get a second championship as you had dreamed, but you proudly stood with your P2 trophy during the FIA’s Prize Giving Ceremony, your chest swelling with pride as you watched Charles’ beaming face with the P1 trophy.

There was some renewed sense of purpose in yourself as you held the trophy, and in your heart, this one meant just as much as the champion trophy you had gotten the year before. This year you had overcome all the demons that had controlled you for a long time, this year you had not only learned to live with the undying love for your mom, but you had also learned about new forms of love. You had somehow rekindled that love for racing, for believing you were the best and could prove it amidst adversity.

And of course, many adversities were still to come, but now you were sure you had in yourself the power to face them.

When the next season started, you had your eyes on the prize.

Even spending a great amount of winter break with your boyfriends, they were still your rivals on track.

You were fixing your suit on the pitlane when they walked up to you.

“I hope you know this championship is mine,” Max said with a smirk. You caught his playful tone fairly quickly.

“Well, I am the current champion of the world, so we’ll see about that,” Charles crossed his arms.

“Boys, no crying when I leave the both of you eating dust, yeah?” You added, biting back a giggle.

“Baby, go easy on us,” Max joked, and you shook your head.

“Never going easy on my rivals,” You added with a whisper, “not even when they’re my handsome boyfriends.”

“See you after the finish line,” Charles winked, and they both walked away.

“Hope you enjoy the view of my rear!” You said, and they left, laughing.

Always rivals, but much more than that.

NOTE: If you want to know why I chose to end the story this way, or have any questions about the characters future, or any random headcanons, drop by my inbox and I'll try to answer most! Thank you so much for the support in this little adventure! Thank you to everyone who dropped a little ask/message asking for more, I'll try and answer you if I haven't yet! (also, sorry if i missed any tag)

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threeacttragedy · 29 days ago

Text

Entry 11: The One About the Heart of the Ocean

My father is a big history buff. He fancies himself a bit of an expert about the U.S. Civil War, U.S. Presidents, and World War II. In fact, he’s gifted me with the Useless Knowledge of which four U.S. Presidents were assassinated while in office (Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, and Kennedy – you’re welcome for that little addition to your own Library of Useless Knowledge).

But, more importantly, my dad has instilled in me the importance of a timeline. The idea that, if you’re collecting information, it’s vital to keep it in chronological order, that way you can look at it, (try to) understand it, and theorize about what happened before and after an event. If the facts are out of order, the conclusion you reach may be in error.

My father and I also like to solve True Crime together. When he visits, we spend hours on the porch studying some random, usually cold, true crime event. We timeline the shit out of it, connect the puzzle pieces together, and exclaim in the end, “We’ve solved it!” I suppose that is part of what keeps me interested in Lukola – not that there is anything criminal in Lukola, except perhaps the “Single White Female” that pops up behind Nicola from time to time – I just enjoy the game of trying to put the pieces together.

Lukola has become a rather intriguing puzzle, don’t you think? It’s definitely one to which I do not have all the pieces. I do, however, enjoy collecting the information and chronologizing it, and now I find it enjoyable to scribble my thoughts out on Tumblr.

So, how did I get here?

Well, it started with boredom and ended with a timeline.

My first entry to the timeline?

July 20, 2024.

What happened on that date?

Well, nothing spectacular really, except JVN posted –

HOLD UP!

HOLD THE FUCK UP!!

OH SHIT!!

YES!

YES, you guessed it! After blowing JVN off for at least three, maybe four, posts in a row, I’m finally getting around to dedicating an entire entry to Their Royal Highness.

JVN is such a fascinating creature. I mean, you get beautiful, witty, and intelligent wrapped into one human being. Oh, and they are kind of a catty bitch, too, and who doesn’t love one of those? That’s why they're the Heart of the Ocean on the USS Lukola; they just give off this very rare blue diamond vibe. Well, that, and because something they did marks the focal point – the heart – from which the rest of my timeline branches.

*I will cut in here to note that I am referring to JVN as they/their in this entry as their Instagram bio indicates they accept “they/he/she.”

Okay, back to July 20.

On that date, JVN posted to TikTok their version of the Charli xcx “Apple” dance. You know that annoying TikTok trend that took over our summer? Yeah, that’s the one – the same one Antonia tried doing – she just couldn’t pull off the JVN version of it. Dear girl couldn’t come close to matching JVN’s “enthusiasm,” and JVN’s version was only made more enjoyable in that they were seemingly mocking Antonia!

But, all’s fair in love and war, right?

JVN’s bestie, Nicola, had already spent the entire summer subtlety combating Antonia over social media. The vibe in the fandom was that Antonia was always trying to one-up Nicola, with Nicola always coming out the victor. I’m sorry, Antonia, you just can’t beat some perfectly timed BTS drops.

So, why did JVN’s TikTok post intrigue me? It wasn’t because it was that amusing. It was because they’d done something I hadn’t noticed before – they’d taunted Antonia on a public forum.

Curious, that.

Now, I’m not saying it was the first time JVN mocked Antonia, but July 20 was the first time I noticed it. That date is the heart of my timeline, but it does not have to be the heart of yours. We can all start at different times but still reach the same conclusions, so long as we keep the information in order.

You would think one wouldn’t mess with the “girl friend” of your best friend’s “best friend,” at least not publicly. But, here was JVN shamelessly mocking Antonia on TikTok. And, just so we’re clear, the public opinion of what JVN was doing with this TikTok is available to view in the comments of their TikTok post. It wasn’t just me that came to this conclusion – and JVN has left these comments up for four months at this point.

JVN’s “Apple” dance was only made more interesting the following day – July 21 – when they included it in their Sunday Dump post on Instagram.

And, Nicola liked it.

Hmm, things were becoming curiouser and curiouser.

Let’s not even pretend that Nicola isn’t street savvy and didn’t understand the context of that video. And, let’s definitely not underestimate the length of her claws.

To be honest, I hadn’t paid too much attention to Lukola since mid-June. It was an “it is what it is” thing for me. Even though I believed the relationship between Luke and Nicola was complicated (see my first blog for that story), Luke had also apparently disappeared into the summertime sun with his friend group, which included Antonia.

Something about JVN openly making fun of Antonia, and Nicola, at the very least acknowledging it with an Instagram like, made me realize something in Luke’s situation must be shifting.

What have I said about little changes? That deviations in modus operandi are what make people start giving the side-eye to a situation.

And, side-eye I did!

I started paying attention to JVN and, on July 25, they posted a series of photos on TikTok and Instagram showcasing “What I would wear if you invited me to your…” We will fast-forward through all the slides until we get to the last one, which read, “…just got dumped and going to take 8 shots dinner at Lupe’s in SoHo.” Was it possible that JVN was hinting at a dumpster fire at the Soho Farmhouse?

If you don’t know what the Soho Farmhouse is, it’s the place where Luke and his friend group, including Antonia, frequented, probably on Luke’s dime (*insert wicked laugh – oh, and a disclaimer that this is all speculation).

Funny that Nicola liked this post on Instagram, too, and it wasn’t even buried in a Sunday Dump.

At this point, JVN had really sparked my damn interest. Like, dear one, what are you hinting at?

On July 29, Deux Moi creeped out from under its rock and reminded the fandom to hate Luke by rehashing Papsmear. Thank you, we needed that. I mean, half of us almost forgot how much we hated him! That’s me being a sarcastic tart, by the way. If we were to fast-forward to today, I’d argue that Luke was the most darling thing to come out of Bridgerton.

Any ways, again, thank you, Deux Moi, for those suspiciously timed Papsmear pictures because they aligned perfectly with the pap pictures People dropped the following day – July 30.

Yep, I am talking about those strangely awkward pap pictures of Luke hanging out in the murky waters of Sorrento with Antonia. Oh, and let’s not forget the video footage of that encounter, which I am sure still upsets and confuses people to this day. In fact, I know it does because, as I was researching this, I had a couple of people get annoyed after I asked them to view it. Funny thing is, that shit never bothered me (I didn’t say that it didn’t later confuse me!). The first time I saw them, I was like, “Luke is not into that girl at all,” and my next thought was, “I wonder how old these pictures are because I would have sworn JVN was hinting at something.”

Now, this story wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t address the rumor portion of it.

First rumor? That Antonia set up the entire Italy pap photo-op because she seemingly knew where to find the cameraman. So, let’s discuss that video everyone seems to hate to acknowledge exists. In the video, you can see Antonia maybe looking in the direction of the cameraman. She then leans into Luke, either to whisper something to him or to reach for something behind him. In my opinion – and this is strictly my opinion – it looks like she’s pretending to reach for something over his shoulder. Still shots of this interaction are the photos People published, presumably because Luke and Antonia looked like they were cheek to cheek.

Okay, notice I said, “first rumor,” because, yeah, there’s a second rumor, too! But, it fits snuggly into that first rumor. Almost immediately – because that’s how fast the Lukola Sleuths get to work around here – rumors began to circulate that Antonia was following on Instagram the photographer that took the Italy pap pictures. In fact, several people I’ve spoken to swear that they witnessed during a TikTok Live a host prove that Antonia was following this photographer. That’s a bit suspicious, isn’t it? Yeah, it fucking is.

Let’s keep moving.

That same day, we had that video drop of Luke watching fireworks, at night, with sunglasses. Speaking of sunglasses, I guess Luke found those motherfuckers because he sure as shit didn’t have them while floating around in that dirty ass water. Any ways, at the end of the video, Rory appears behind Luke, looking in the direction of the camera and smiling like a condescending, sneaky little shit. Now, who was the cameraman? Well, a possible suspect would be Antonia since she was not seen in the video. Go figure.

Alright, so that day finally ended and on July 31, JVN posted to TikTok a cutesy video of themself at the market titled, “When you catch someone trying to sneak a pic but you were born for these moments.” They prance around the market and randomly look at the cameraman (Mark) with a smile and a pose. The caption reads, “I welcome sneaky pics but I can’t guarantee I won’t sneak some back or put on a show for you.”

WAIT A MINUTE!

Did JVN just inexplicably confirm Luke was getting papped by his own friends?

Yeah, I kind of think JVN did.

And, Nicola liked this one as well when JVN posted it to Instagram on August 8.

Didn’t I tell you JVN was a fascinating creature? And, to be honest, JVN only gets better as this Lukola ship continues on its voyage.

Oh, strangely enough, a few days after the Italy pap crap, Luke returned to London alone. The friend group became unsettlingly silent, and Nicola started to get really, really loud – Chaos Week was incoming! And, so were some more JVN crumbs (and nicely timed clap backs).

#lukola #luke newton #nicola coughlan #my thoughts #my opinion #speculation only #the heart of the ocean

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thesunshinebunny · 1 month ago

Note

Well hello 👀 May i req as well? Hcs of dorm leaders & gn!s/o, s/o asks the boys if s/o can kiss them/not, something like, "Can i have a kiss?" Or you can change it to the other sentences, thank you & nice to meet you ✨

These little requests are what fill my soul and make me scream like a hormonal teenager who is just starting to read romance novels. I hope you like it and have a lovely night.

Riddle

Okay but… can you imagine Riddle, the stickler for rules, being all flustered when you ask him for a kiss? Because I can.

Imagine, a super cute date in the gardens of Heartslabyul, hidden among the corridors of the labyrinth, with the multicoloured hedgehogs following your feet.

You sitting on a bench in the middle of the bushes, eating little sandwiches and drinking tea in little cups that who knows where they came from… everything was already prepared by the time you arrived.

Romantic magic or did Trey get ahead of you? We'll never know

Back to the date… again, imagine sitting next to Riddle, and you, out of nowhere, ask him…

“Can I have a kiss?”

Riddle's face turns BRIGHT red, like, super BLUSHING red.

He’s so caught off guard, but… he's not gonna leave you hanging, right?

He clears his throat and tries to keep his cool, even though his heart is doing a 500m sprint in his chest.

“W-well… if it’s just a kiss on the cheek, I suppose I can allow it. It’s not… entirely unreasonable”

Poor thing, even if the date was his idea, trying to be super romantic makes him a little embarrassed… he’s not used to it, understand him.

He tries to maintain his dignity, even in a private place.

He leans in and gives you a quick, almost too proper kiss on the cheek.

“It’s not that I mind, but I just—well, you’re certainly a bit forward, aren’t you?”

Riddle is screaming

Leona

Okay, so Leona is the kind of guy who’s way too chill to make a huge deal out of things.

You’ve been dating for a while, and you’re just chilling near the practice field, watching him cool down after a heavy training session.

Seeing him give it his all, physically, makes things start to heat up. Just imagining Leona sweating after training, with tired arms, maybe with a bare torso… is it hot in here or is it just me?

Let’s not lie to ourselves, Leona without a shirt is a vibe… a hot one.

Anyway. You stared at him, like someone looks at their crush who has just finished training and wants to jump on him.

With a lot of affection and love involved.

Still, these days were becoming very common, so, leaving lustful thoughts aside, you simply said to him…

“I want to kiss you”

Leona just kind of… looks at you.

He lets out a dramatic sigh. Like, why does everything you do have to be so complicated? Why can't you just…go for it?

For him, it might have been more interesting to see your independence and high self-esteem take what is yours, than just letting him know.

You can practically see the gears turning in his head as he debates whether he's in the mood to indulge you or not.

“Fine. Whatever. But don’t get too used to this, got it?”

He pulls you close and gives you a lazy, almost dismissive kiss on the forehead. It's like… a kiss but also not really? Because Leona is not about to get all lovey-dovey on you in public.

Azul

Azul is basically running his own side hustle even when you’re hanging out with him.

You’ve been dating for a bit, and he’s still a bit of a businessman even in private moments. And there’s never a better place to have that attitude than in his VIP area.

I mean, he loves you, but he has to keep up appearances.

So when you asked him…

“Can I kiss you?” he just looked at you and said...

“What can I get out of this?”

What a way to break the mood, really.

We love Azul, but his bad boy facade with his partner is enough to knock his fedora in his face.

And that’s exactly what you did, but not angrily, but playfully. With you, Azul doesn’t have to be making contract after contract to be romantic.

Azul blinks at you for a solid five seconds while adjusting his hat. He is NOT about to give up a kiss without some kind of agreement.

“Well, I suppose I can offer you a small one, but there must be something in return”

Before you could complain, starting for the millionth time a little discussion about why not everything has to be a deal, Azul planted a small kiss on your cheek.

On that romantic and tender side, you could also perceive his typical mischievous smile, the one that always said “this will cost you, just you wait”

Kalim

So Kalim is the most sunshine-y, affectionate guy ever, and when you ask him for a kiss?

He is THRILLED.

Like, this is the guy who’s practically jumping out of his seat to shower you with love.

Your relationship with Kalim is over the moon. He really is a person who appreciates his relationship and does everything to make you feel loved and respected.

And it is these small gestures, a greeting, a smile, a kiss, that make your relationship with him so… AHHHHHH beautifully beautiful and romantic.

Lots of diabetes

One day, outside in the sunny Scarabia courtyard, after an exhausting afternoon of just being adorable, you were sitting under the delicious shade of the marble structure of the fountain, enjoying the water falling from the jets, being splashed by some drops of cold water, your gaze met his.

Admiring those ruby eyes full of light and stars, you couldn’t help but feel that wonderful energy that Kalim emanates day after day.

"I want to kiss you so bad right now” It just came out of nowhere, but that doesn't make it any less true.

Kalim's eyes light up like it's his birthday and he just won the lottery. You didn't even know that it was possible to be this excited over a kiss.

“I'd love to kiss you too, how could I not?”

He pulls you into a hug, and it's basically a bear hug that lifts you off your feet for a second before he plants a big, happy kiss on your lips.

“I'm so lucky to have you, seriously! We should kiss ALL THE TIME!”

Vil

Vil’s refined. Like, everything about him screams elegance and poise. So when you ask for a kiss, it’s not like he’s going to say no but the moment has to be perfect.

You’re in a quiet part of the Pomefiore dorm after a photoshoot, and he’s looking at you like you just asked for the moon.

That little part of you, so tender, so subtle, so…perfect, melted him from the inside out.

“Can I have a kiss?”

Vil raises an eyebrow, but not in a “what’s wrong with you” way—more like a hmm, you’re asking for something special.

He’s got this air of “I’m too fabulous for this” but deep down, you know he’s a softie for you.

“How bold of you, asking so directly”

He leans in with that regal elegance and gives you a gentle kiss on the lips, just soft enough to leave a lingering warmth between you two.

“Don’t think that just anyone gets a kiss like that, darling. You’re… special.”

He leaves you trembling with emotion and the heat that began to run through your body.

So weak to his touch, so weak to his voice.

So weak to Vil Schoenheit

Idia

Ok but, extremely shy, like, socially awkward AF

Idia is THE definition of socially awkward, but he adores you.

He just has no idea how to show it. So when you ask for a kiss, it’s like the entire universe just… freezes for him.

Inside Idia’s cold room, surrounded by his beloved tech pieces, his hacking programs and video games… he couldn’t help but feel warmth around him.

And that could be seen in the pink color on the “tips” of his flaming hair.

“Would you like to give me a kiss?”

A proposal so sincere, so sweet, so full of love and innocence.

Idia almost goes BOOM

Idia’s face goes from zero to tomato-red in like, 0.2 seconds. He can barely look you in the eye as he stammers through his words.

“W-W-Wait, you want a kiss? W-W-What do I do?!”

He awkwardly leans in and presses a very quick, very shy kiss on your cheek. It's the shortest kiss in history, but you can tell he's absolutely melting inside.

“D-Did that work? I mean… I… I can try again, but…"

Malleus

Malleus is a bit of a mystery.

He's been dating you for a while, but his intense, princely vibes make every moment feel… more.

You are still getting used to human emotions when it comes to romantic relationships. So please, let's be patient, everything in him multiplies and is much more intense.

But anyway, who doesn't want an intense romance with a dragon?

Just saying.

When you ask for a kiss, he's like—well, he didn't see this coming. But he's still genuinely pleased, even if he's trying to hide it.

“Can I have a kiss?”

Malleus goes quiet.

He doesn't know how to respond at first, because—does asking for a kiss need to come with a formal speech or something?? He's royalty, and he's not used to such casual requests.

But you're his beloved, and that changes everything.

“How curious. You’re so…direct”

He pulls you gently towards him, cupping your face as though you were the most precious thing in the world, and he leans in for a soft, lingering kiss.

“Such a request… I will grant it, my beloved”

#twisted wonderland #twst #kalim al asim #malleus draconia #azul ashengrotto #leona kingscholar #riddle rosehearts #riddle x reader #twst x reader #leona x reader #azul x reader #kalim x reader #vil x reader #idia x reader #malleus x reader

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sinisterexaggerator · 7 months ago

Text

John Hancock - NSFW Alphabet

Only out to have a little fun! Enjoy (or not)! This is just my take on his character.

3.8k words (oops).

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A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex):

No matter how you decide to do the deed, Hancock has your best interest at heart, as long as you stay in his good graces. He wouldn’t necessarily baby you after sex, but he’ll make sure you’re all right, as you may wind up participating in several experimental or unusual scenarios. But in the end, John wants to make sure his little ray of sunshine is well-rested for round two.

He'd offer you chems for a bit of a pick-me-up, a cigarette precariously hanging from the corner of his mouth—he needs a smoke after. It just “feels right.”

He would pat his shoulder as a place for you to rest your head, then pull you in nice and tight before sharing a drag with you, going insofar as to place the filter against your lips, held loosely between two fingers. No uncomfortable post-coital silence—unless you’re into that.

Hancock might even get all philosophical on you now that his head’s clear. I can see him being into pillow talk regardless—we know he loves to run his mouth—nothing a romp in the sack with you won’t cure.

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s):

I have a feeling Hancock isn’t picky, as long as your heart is in the right place. There is more to him than being a “drug addict.” I’d say he’s well-read, even though he acts on instinct—he may be pretty well fond of your brain.

Hancock puts a lot of stock into how people think or speak versus their actions. He’s not a pushover, doesn’t take any bullshit, and if your belief system matches up with his—if he, “likes the way you operate”— you don’t have much to worry about.

Still, I see him favoring something warm and supple to grab onto, something soft to kiss. And he’ll take his time when he’s in the mood, dishing out compliments as he explores every inch of your body.

Maybe with being a Ghoul, it’s a real treat when you get to knock boots with a human. I can see him missing out on what that feels like from time to time.

As far as his own body, I see this man as a bit self-conscious, though he doesn’t let onto that fact quite often. Comments about his “ugly mug” are made in jest, but there is some truth to that within his own thought process and how he perceives himself, most likely, despite the whole “King of the Zombies” vibe he says the ladies love.

Personally, I think his confidence is partially a façade.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person:

Hancock always makes sure you get yours. Multiple orgasms are in the cards, as he knows exactly how to make your toes curl, and he’s not above using that information to his advantage.

You’re the wettest thing in the Wasteland when Hancock’s around, and you can bet your ass he’s going to comment on it every chance he gets. Otherwise, he loves to play in it; to spread the sheen between his fingers; to lick it clean off while you watch, or to smear it over his withered skin, lubricating his cock with it.

All in all, it’s a stroke to his ego to know he’s the one responsible for making you cum that hard that often. You can be damn sure he’s out to fuck you every chance he gets.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs):

I mentioned this in another post, but Hancock likes it when you’re addicted to chems because he’s the one providing. As long as he’s supplying the drugs for you to get your fix, you’re not going to leave him high and dry.

Maybe he fears being, “skipped out on,” thinkin’ it’s just another reason for you to stick around. It ties into him being insecure—call it insurance. He’s not proud of it, but you don’t seem to mind, and there’s no one around to call him on it.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?):

Based on comments we hear throughout the game, Hancock was known to be a looker before being a Ghoul. He’s still a looker even after his transformation, and he is well-aware his physical appearance garners the attention of the ladies, or so he says. From this we can infer Hancock has no trouble in finding someone to fuck. I’m sure he has been around the block more than a few times, but it would be the appearance of someone special in his life that might make him rethink his whorish lifestyle.

Despite being a bit of a promiscuous rascal who most likely participates in a lot of meaningless sex, when he finds the right person, I am sure he is more than happy to be monogamous. But overall, I would say he definitely knows what the hell he’s doing—why else would Bobbi make that comment about everyone being in love with him?

Hancock’s a catch, contrary to whether or not he believes it himself, and for more than one reason, me thinks. And it is common for even those people who are “good-looking” to be self-conscious and worried about how others perceive them, so that doesn’t change the idea of him still being insecure despite his charm and charisma, though him saying he’s charming could be him playing at being facetious.

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual):

The Couch Surfer*

Hancock loves to bend you over the arm of the couch in the Old State House with you face down in the cushions as he plows into you from behind. It allows for deeper penetration and more thrusting power, with your feet either on the floor, or with your knees pulled in toward your own body as your legs hover off the ground.

This also makes it so neither of you have to get entirely undressed if you don’t want to, or if there is simply no time for anything but a quickie. With both of you pulling down your trousers, or with you hiking up your dress, it makes for easy access, and the angle is just right for hitting that sweet spot.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc):

Hancock is a switch in more ways than one. This can go either way, as he’s not afraid to get weird or try anything once. At the same time, if you’re his special person, he may be inclined to take things a bit more serious. Think body worship in this case, or copious amounts of praise, romantic notions in your ear—that sort of thing.

This doesn’t account for if you’ve pissed him off, as all bets are off, and I’m sure he can think of more than one way to set you straight, even if that involves being more condescending than usual, or withholding sex all together because he’s just “not feeling it after the way you’ve been actin’.”

In fact, he may be able to home in on if he’s frightening you—that in and of itself can be a turn on. Oh, you’ve been misbehaving lately? Get ready to meet No More Mister Nice Ghoul. Although, you’d have to fuck up royally for him to take any of that so serious.

H = Hair (How well-groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.):

No hair, don’t care (obviously)! But Hancock may enjoy running his fingers through yours, and he does so gently, not afraid to brush that stray strand out of your eyes.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…):

This can also go either way, depending on Hancock’s mood. One minute he’s treating you like the filthy whore you are, and the next minute he’s spewing off the most romantic things you’ve ever heard. He’s not afraid to speak his mind, no matter the topic of conversation. He’ll tell you to suck his cock like a good little slut, but then don’t put it past him to confess how much you mean to him in the same breath.

In other words, you can simultaneously be the best thing that’s ever happened to him, while also receiving an earful of the dirtiest, raunchiest trash talk to have ever been uttered by man. He knows you’re going to come undone regardless—he just has that effect on you.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon):

Hancock loves to force you to watch him masturbate when it’s impossible for you to touch him. That American flag at his waist serves well in a pinch, able to tie your hands up so he can sit back and pleasure himself without you interfering.

Long, languid strokes drive you mad, Hancock not skimping on the heady eye contact, enjoying it when you come unraveled at the seams. You’re begging to join in, to please him yourself, but this is where the fun begins—cry for him all you want to, those handcuffs aren’t coming off, not until he says so.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks):

Oh, man. OK, here we go!

Praise kink – Hancock gives Golden Retriever boyfriend energy. Maybe it’s the fact he follows you around in-game, but he would take so well to you praising him. “Mn, yeah? You like that? Let me show you what else I can do…”

Role-play – I can see this man being into role-play scenarios. He already basically cosplays as a historical figure— it gives him the freedom to mess around with you knowing he doesn’t mean any of it in the end. You can be sure he’d have a safe word if that’s something you’re wanting. He’d take on new roles himself, or play along with yours. “Big bad Mayor” comes to mind for those of you who want a little more bossing around.

Sensation play - Hancock is big on touch. He loves to trace your skin with his fingers, or for you to touch him. I can also see him being into sensory deprivation, blindfolding himself so his sole focus remains on the feel of your hands smoothing over his callous flesh. I’m sure besides a lot of one-night stands, he barely gets anything in the way of attention. It’s always quick and easy— to really be close to someone? That takes guts.

Brat taming – This is a given. Maybe it’s not a game, you’re just really a brat. He doesn’t mess around when it’s time to get serious, so if you’re in his way, or if you’re rubbing him wrong, expect to hear about it. Think daddy/little girl vibes in most cases, but this can spill over into the role-play arena as well. But it’s not all negative—if you’ve been a good girl or boy, he’s willing to praise you for a job well done.

Degradation – Shit-talking him to the point of degradation is a thing he’s into. Not that he believes everything you’re saying, but he’s able to take a few verbal punches without psychic damage. The more sarcastic and ruthless you are, the more he respects you, and the more it may turn him on. He enjoys someone who isn’t afraid to stand up to him, but he also enjoys being put in his place, if you have the balls to try.

Bondage – Tie him up and have your way with him, or he’s liable to do the same to you. He loves a strong, take-charge woman, and a go get ‘em kinda man. He has the most fun when you’re the one who’s “powerless.” He’ll drive you wild before he finally gives in—the best part is watching you squirm and beg for him.

Exhibitionism – He will fuck you anywhere and everywhere; he doesn’t care who watches, but watching’s all their going to do. Hancock’s always down for a quickie, or something a little more intimate, but it doesn’t matter if it’s in the privacy of his suite at the Old State House, or the backroom of the Third Rail. Sex is sex, and there is no one he rather have it more with than you—anytime, anyplace.

Knife play/ Gun play – This Ghoul will use any and all means with which to get his rocks off, and he has a special place in his heart for knives. He’ll draw blood, or not, running the blade across your skin, not afraid to use the hilt to fuck you. The same goes for guns of all sorts, shells or bullets removed. Expect them to be put into places – like your mouth, or cunt. He’s not shy about it.

*I should add he is a total switch. He can play at top or bottom. IMO he plays bottom more frequently for male partners, and tops for female partners, but again, he loves a woman who knows how to take charge – he wouldn’t mind if you stepped on him.

Overall, he has a lot of sadistic qualities, but he’s also a bit of a masochist— he knows when and where to draw the line. He would never hurt you or do anything without your consent, UNLESS you’ve done something to get on his bad side, then there is no telling what might happen.

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do):

As I mentioned earlier, this man is an exhibitionist, so he would settle for fucking you anywhere he could. However, the riskier, the better, as he’s not afraid of getting caught—it’s part of the thrill. But if he’s feeling romantic, maybe he takes you to the roof of the Old State House, out under the stars.

Afterward, he lays with you there, pointing out the various constellations he’s read about in books. Maybe he even dragged an old mattress up there—no one will miss it—as it’s a place you frequently rendezvous.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going):

Violence and compassion, LOL. Allow me to explain:

Put simply, you putting down assholes for all the right reasons gets him hard. Hancock’s all about dispensing justice, about helping out the little guy, so if he gets to watch you kill evil fucking people while doing just that? Talk about a bonus— a really attractive one.

“Mn, the way you cut that guy’s head clean off—I wanted to fuck you right then and there. You should have seen his eyes bug out—bastard knew what was coming.”

Also, you doing a lot of chems and lowering your inhibitions for him? You willing to get freaky with him? That just makes you soulmates.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs:

Cannibalism, which is self-explanatory considering his comments in the game in regard to Sole if you have/use that perk. Hey, at least he’s not too judgmental.

I also do not assume he’s into torture, or blood and gore. A quick, merciless death is more his style, but considering his thoughts on Pickman and his “artistic flair,” plus not wanting to go anywhere near the gallery to see for himself, makes me think he’s adverse to that kind of thing. He doesn’t necessarily like hurting people or causing pain, only when the situation truly calls for it.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc):

I see him as preferring to give, though he won’t turn down a blowjob. It is a high all its own to get you off so easy with his mouth.

All those delicious little sounds; the way you writhe beneath him; the way you hold the back of his head; the way you say his name… It’s addicting, almost more so than chems. And I should say he’s not above eating ass.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? Etc.):

Again, both—depending on what his mood dictates. He’s not afraid to fuck you hard and fast, but he can also slow down and make love to you when he’s feeling soft. He’s a moody Ghoul, but it is a part of his charm. Time spent with him is never boring.

Sometimes, pure, unbridled lust wins out, or maybe he’s feeling sadistic for whatever reason—in this case, you may find yourself unable to walk the next morning.

But he can also be sensual, taking his time to please you proper while sending you to heaven on a cloud of fluffy, romantic words. He’s multifaceted, and so is your love for each other.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc):

I don’t think I am alone when I say that Hancock commenting offhand about, “you just say the word if you wanna take a little, uh, chem break” is most likely a euphemism for sex and very suggestive.

He sure as hell has nothing bad to say about quickies. Getting down and dirty at a moment’s notice is in his wheelhouse, so don’t be afraid to tell him when you’re in the mood, no matter where you might be or what you might be doing.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.):

Bears repeating, I guess. He’s up for almost anything and everything, minus the eating human flesh part. He’s not afraid to take risks in any aspect of his life, always out to do the right thing, even if there are consequences.

In relation to sex, he’s not shy, and doesn’t expect for you to be either. Feel free to open up to him about your deepest, darkest desires—he would be thrilled to help you out in that department.

Expect him to offer chems beforehand, or to check in with you if it’s something a little more high-risk. Safety first and all that nonsense—he truly cares about your well-being, but it’s also nice to know he’s met his match. That’s not to say he wouldn’t have fun corrupting you.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…):

I’m going to say that the regenerative effect that Ghouls possess also allows them to recuperate quickly after sex. Hancock has a stamina stockpile; he could go for hours, or for multiple rounds.

Of course, he also doesn’t mind just holding you, slowing down to bask for a little while in your amiable company.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?):

Back to the knife-play, gun-play kink, I suspect he not only uses various, dangerous tools to pleasure you, but also rope, or handcuffs. Everyday items that can he repurposed into something new and fucked up—alligator clamps for your nipples, or an Institute shock baton as a cattle prod—if you’re into that sort of thing. In other words, he’s not afraid to experiment.

As it’s the “end of the world,” I am not sure he has access to expensive, exotic toys, but if he did, he would be sure to use them. Maybe there’s an old sex shop with a few top of the line products still on the shelves. He’d nab anything for shits and giggles, trying various things out on you and on himself. Not like he has anything better to do.

But even so, he probably prefers it just being you and him, nothing fancy. He doesn’t need it— you’re all he needs to have a good time.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease):

Hancock often plays unfair. He loves to tease you to the point of edging. He’ll take you as far as the cusp of an orgasm, then let the feeling dissipate, driving you toward insanity a little more each time.

And he’s so good at what he does; you’ll cum when he allows it. Lucky for you, this time he’s feeling generous—but if you pout? He’s done for.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make):

Hancock may make you scream his name, but he’s more of a subdued moan, heavy breaths in your ear kind of Ghoul. He’ll whisper sweet sentiments or speak all the filthy, filthy things he’s going to do you, but may be a bit of a pillow biter when roles are reversed.

He’d still take it like a champ, though, chomping down to keep from “embarrassing” himself. I also bet he’s a bit of a whimperer, or a whiner, fingers digging into the sheets as he buckles down under you like a common whore.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice):

I’ve got two:

1) Hancock is an over-protective boyfriend who is always out to “watch your back,” whether that be keeping his eye out for creeps, or intervening in a conversation on your behalf. I can also see him as the slightly jealous type, though he would bring it up only due to his own insecurities. Otherwise, he quietly stews until it eats away at him enough he feels the need to say what’s on his mind.

“Hey, if you’re getting bored of me, just say the word—I’ll go.” I don’t think he wants to stick around where he’s not wanted.

2) Hancock is into PDA maybe more than he should be. He’d let you sit in his lap in public while his hands travel your body. He’d caress your waist and thighs, and whisper jokes in your ear that are only meant for you to hear— Hancock loves making you giggle. He’s also up for dragging you into dark corners for steamy make-out sessions, or just wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. Let ‘em stare, he gives no fucks who sees you together.

Of course, he’s also OK with just gazing at you lovingly when no one’s looking— not even you.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words):

Hancock’s cock is just as scarred and damaged as the rest of his body, but he can still get it up, and the striations and respective bits of raised tissue are basically just another way of saying “ribbed for your pleasure.”

It’s variegated in color, or various shades—pale, deathly white, intermingled with dark, almost cadaverous-like patches. If you’re into necrosis, this is the man for you, though nothing is falling off or anything like that—he’s 100% intact, willing and able.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?):

I imagine he has a pretty high sex-drive, but sex isn’t everything to him by any means. He’s always down for a quick romp in the hay, but he’s also not opposed to cuddles.

Yes, he’s a cuddler. With the sappy, over the top romantic lines he says in game, how can this man NOT want to bury himself in your arms every chance he gets? And don’t put it past him to be clingy, either. That’s not always what he’s about, but it can happen with the right combination of brain chemicals and fluffy feelings.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards):

I see Hancock as waiting for you to fall asleep first, or at least being cognizant enough to know what is going on in the event he has to keep you safe from whatever’s lurking in the dark, whether you’re hiding in the ruins, or walled up somewhere in Goodneighbor—can never be too careful.

In addition, I peg him as someone who may be a bit of an insomniac. He’s a bit hyper in game, and with the fact he pumps himself full of chems just to try to get high, I imagine even as a Ghoul it could fuck up your sleep cycle.

Still, when he falls asleep he sleeps hard—but don’t mind waking him. He’s ready to go when you are, just give him a minute.

If you enjoyed this, be on the lookout for my John Hancock x Fem! Reader fic in the next day or so! 6.8k+ words of porn with plot. :D

P.S.: if you have a specific request, or just want to talk about Hancock in my inbox, feel free!!

****

Edit: Here’s the fic!

#John Hancock #Fallout 4 #Fallout #Ghoul #John Hancock x Reader #Fallout smut #Headcanons #x reader #x you #Hannie #FO4 #Mayor John Hancock #Fallout Ghoul #John Hancock Fallout #alphabet game #Hancock #Hancock x Reader #my writing

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unsolvedjarin · 1 year ago

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Hi! If this inspires you, could you write a platonic fic where reader (who is around Charles’ age and is also teammates with him at Ferrari) is on the podium alongside him and Seb (this being set when Seb is at AM), but like that video or Lewis (that I can’t remember when it’s from) she already seemed exhausted while receiving her trophy, and when they exit the podium, she collapses onto Seb? Just hurt/comfort vibes from both drivers, really. Maybe Seb is close to her like a mentor, he’s worried about her? I think that’s it. Even if you don’t find it inspiring, thank you for sharing your fics. They’re really good. 😊💚

note: thank you for the kind words anon! i saw the word “exhausted” in the request and i kinda ran with it so this might have strayed from the original idea a little bit, but i hope it’s to your liking!

gif by overtake

THERE FOR YOU

pairing: (sebastian vettel x ferrari driver! reader, can be read as platonic or romantic) (charles leclerc x platonic! reader)

summary: you overwork yourself, and pay the consequences for it by passing out on the podium. lucky for you, a certain german driver has the means to catch you and take care of you.

word count: 2.1k

content warning: hurt/comfort, mostly fluff, not grammar checked writing because its 2am

You were going to throw up or faint any time now, you were sure of it.

“Are you sure you’re good?” A voice asked from beside you. You recognized it to be Charles, who was preparing for the race the same as you were.

“With this excessive asking I won’t be,” you retorted.

“I’m just looking out for you, amour. You haven’t been looking great.”

He was right, you looked awful. Everyone knew Spa was a tough track, but you looked like you had just gotten back from war— and the Sunday race hadn't even started yet.

You’d been feeling horrible all Saturday, but decided to ignore it. After all, Ferrari was counting on you that day to get a high position in quali since Charles was out in Q2.

You were starting in 4th today, Ferrari praising you for your good qualifying result. But the sleepless nights on the simulator along with the strain of being in a car going roughly 200 mph yesterday were detrimental to your health.

But of course, you were too stubborn to call in sick for Sunday— Ferrari was counting on you. And you couldn’t let them down.

“AND IT’S LIGHTS OUT IN SPA!”

The race was long and tedious, but eventually you managed to overtake Lewis and end up p3. Considering the heavy rain and how Charles spun out, you were surprised you even made it to the top 5.

You can’t remember how the race ended as you exited your car, weaker than you’ve ever felt before. The roar of the Tifosi was loud, cheering on your podium win. Whenever you won or got a podium they made you feel proud, a large grin on your face and goosebumps all over.

But not today.

Today, it was too loud. Too overwhelming. You could feel your head ache and pound at the noise. You felt a hand on your shoulder, Max coming to congratulate you. You think he had won the race but you couldn’t be sure, everything was too hazy.

“Congrats Y/N! Your first podium this season!”

You give Max a weak smile and a firm handshake, the pressure almost making your vision fade. God you needed to get out of there.

You looked around, there had to be an exit. Some place where you could rest your head for a second and regain your senses.

Thankfully, a guiding hand led you to the cooldown room, and you recognized it as Sebastian’s. He had gotten 2nd, that you knew, you were battling for his position earlier.

Once you got inside the cooldown room, there was no other word that could describe it but moist. The rain outside had moistened up the inside, barely enough to be noticeable, but to you, sweaty from the race and sick, it was enough to have you stumbling onto your chair.

Sebastian could sense something was wrong, he wasn’t stupid. To someone else you would’ve just seemed like someone who was simply exhausted from a race, but he wasn’t someone else. He knew you.

Before he could ask you about it, however, a man led all three of you out the cooldown room to go to the podium itself. You were moving with half-lidded eyes, and a really really sweaty body.

“And in third, the Ferrari favorite, Y/N L/N!”

You raise your arms as high as you can and put up two thumbs up, exerting all your effort to put up a show for the fans. They deserve it, you think.

Unbeknownst to you however, Charles was watching from the side with a worried look. He was the only one who knew about your sickness the past few days, and his concerned eyeing was not ignored by an observant Vettel.

The champagne spraying was everything but fun, the overstimulation getting to you. It was too much, everything was too much.

The sickness, the sweat, the champagne dripping down your face— you just needed to rest for a second, just…lay down maybe…

“Scheiße!” Sebastian shouted out, his voice not heard over the hollering of the fans. With all the chaos of the spraying of champagne and the bellows of the orange army, no one had noticed how you had fallen into Sebastian’s arms, passed out. He had dropped his champagne in the process, and the breaking of the glass was what had gotten Max to notice what happened. He discreetly ushered Charles, who was still watching from the sidelines, to help Sebastian pull your dull body away from the limelight.

People were starting to notice now, and there were worried glances among the fans and the teams, but were eventually calmed down by false reassurances of ‘everything is fine.’

It was not.

You were burning up, a fever so high it would put the sun to shame. Not only that, but Sebastian had noted how you seemed more physically worn than before. Not an unhealthy amount, god knows being an F1 driver wouldn’t allow that, but enough for it to be noticeable.

You were awake at this point already, but still weak. Lying down on a bed in the First Aid tent, your eyes threatened to close on you again, before Ferrari’s resident emergency doctor walked in.

“Well the good news is we don’t have to bring you to a hospital, you just have to get some food in your body and rest.”

That reassured Sebastian a little, but not enough. He needed to see you healthy and well, or he would be a nervous wreck all week. Thanking the doctor, he was left alone in the room with you again.

As much as he wanted to be there for you, Charles was held up by media duties, which meant that it was only you and Sebastian for a good while.

The German had always been kind to you. Not only was he your friend, but he’d also taught you everything he knew, and half your skills were something you had learnt from him. He was your support system, the one who always helped you when you were down, and the one who always had your back as you had his.

That’s why Sebastian didn’t understand why you hadn’t told him about your current ailment.

“When was the last time you slept?” Sebastian asked, the first words he’s spoken to you all day.

Shrugging faintly, you answer, “I don’t know.”

“Have you eaten anything today?”

“No.”

“Have you drank anything today?”

“Some Red Bull,” you mumbled, while attempting to slowly sit up on your bed.

Sebastian sighed. You weren’t taking care of yourself and it was killing him. “Why didn’t you sit this one out if you knew you were sick since yesterday?”

A beat of silence passes, and Sebastian could sense you contemplating if you should tell him the truth or not. He hoped you would do the former.

“…Because Ferrari is counting on me,” you finally answered meekly.

Of course. That was why. Your feeling of obligation to constantly deliver for your team was a feeling each driver shared with their own, but you always went above and beyond. ‘Couldn’t you see how you were much more important than some stupid points?’ Sebastian thinks.

Frowning, he sits down on a chair beside your bed, taking your warm hand and holding it with his own. “Schatzi, you’re hurting yourself. I know you want to deliver for yourself and your team, but this is not the way. If you keep going like this you’ll be sleeping at the wheel and end up worse than you are now. Please, I beg you, take a break.”

You wince internally at his words. He was right. You’d end up in a worse condition if you keep this up and disappoint your team even more.

“I just want to prove myself to Ferrari. Tell them I’m worth it to keep, you know? My contract is expiring soon, and I honestly don't know if any team would pick me up. I feel so— so lost and so hopeless— if I lose my seat I don’t know what to do. I mean I’ve built my entire life up to this, and now I just feel like a burnt out shitty driver.”

You had tears welling in your eyes, and Sebastian was quick to grab some tissue from the bedside table and wipe them away. He hated how you thought so low of yourself, he wished you could see yourself from his view, one of the best drivers and people he’s ever met.

“Your seat doesn’t measure your worth, Amore. Trust me, I know. After Ferrari I didn’t know what to do or where to go, my ‘golden boy’ status had faded and not a lot of teams wanted me anymore. But look at me, I’m here. I’m okay. And you will be too, just not like this.”

His words broke your composure, finally letting out all the stress and pain you’ve endured for days— weeks, even— in the form of full on sobbing. You were grateful for the privacy the room provided, as Sebastian hugged you tightly, not caring if he got your fever too. He whispered sweet words to you, stroking your hair and calming you down.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you darling. Just let it all out,” you hear him murmur into your hair. You’re sure he said more things, but you couldn’t really hear them over the sound of your own sobs.

Eventually the dam dried up, and you attempted to compose yourself and wipe away all the evidence of your tears. Sebastian still held your hand, rubbing it reassuringly, reminding you of his presence. He was always constant in your life. You were thankful for that.

You both sat in the comfortable silence, allowing it to calm you after everything that just happened.

“I’m retiring next year,” Sebastian says out of the blue.

Okay, now you’re no longer calm again.

“I just thought you should be the first to know,” he adds.

“Wh- what? Why? You’re leaving? But no— you’re a pinnacle of the sport! You’re Sebastian Vettel! You can’t leave! You can’t just retire and leave me and- and-” you were starting to see black spots again, your emotions making you forget you were still physically weak.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea for him to say that out of nowhere, Seb thinks. But it was now or never, and he wanted you to know before everybody else did. He wasn’t going to tell anyone in advance, but you were special to him. He couldn’t explain it, but you made him realize things in life. The way you enjoyed the little things, the way you laughed at stupid dad jokes, it made Sebastian miss the freedom of just…existing without having to worry about race after race after race.

Silencing you by enveloping your frantic hand with both of his larger ones and shushing you, he replied, “Calm down Liebling, I’m not leaving you. You still have me outside the track, you can visit me anytime and I would gladly let you in. I wouldn’t dare leave your life just like that, I’d never do that to you.”

You smiled softly at his words. He’d never do that to you. That’s why you loved him, whatever type of love it was. He was always there; a constant figure, and that wasn’t about to change. Sure you’d see each other less, but the love would still be there, and that’s all that would matter.

“I would get up and hug you, but I think we’ve both noticed that my body has decided to stop working on me,” you joke. Sebastian rolls his eyes in response, “And who’s fault is that?”

Oops. He got you there. “Mine,” you reply bashfully.

Thankfully he takes pity on you, and adjusts himself instead. “Scooch.” You move aside, giving him space to sit up beside you in your First Aid bed.

Putting his arm around you, he rubs your shoulder gently as you rest your head on his chest. This was nice.

“Don’t you have media duties? Aston Martin will kill you if you miss those,” you ask softly.

Sebastian simply shrugs, “You are more important to me than some reporters milking me for content like I’m a cow.”

His wording made you giggle, and the sound of you happy again makes Sebastian smile. He was going to get a scolding later for missing his duties, and he was definitely going to catch your cold from keeping you this close too, but it was all worth it when he heard that sound of laughter leave your throat.

The next season may be rough, it may not be as kind as this one was. It will be different, it will be lonelier, and it will feel lacking without Sebastian. But right now, as you sit on a bed in comfortable silence in a First Aid tent in Spa, being cared for by a man you care for, you get the sneakiest feeling that yeah— everything will be okay.

#sebastian vettel #sebastian vettel x reader #sebastian vettel x you #sebastian vettel imagine #formula one #formula 1 #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #writing #f1 fandom #f1blr #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x reader

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holybibly · 10 months ago

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You're so right on your possessive piece on san, seonghwa, and mingi. Especially mingi that boy is so possessive! And he loves attention. Hard thoughts here, just imagine him catching you staring at all his rings on his big hands OR THOSE THIGHS. And him teasing you about it cause you're so cute when you blush. Also pussy drunk mingi >>> he eats out on the counter, in his studio, in the bed, everywhere. Your writing is so amazing and it's so fun to see all your thoughts through hard thoughts week 💚💚

Just a reminder, the hard / unholy hours will continue for the rest of the week.

Thank you, darling. I'm trying so hard to write more and better so that you can continue to enjoy my work. Frankly, I love praise, but I'm always terribly embarrassed by it. But I really appreciate everything you've said 💖💖💖

And now it's time for a bit of talk about my toxic boys. I hit the nails on the heads, didn't I? I have a feeling that practically all of my bunnies are of the same opinion. They give off that vibe, don't they? And I should probably just write something for them. I'm kind of crazy about this concept and I'm not ashamed of it at all.

Oh Mingi, he's definitely a pussy eater and yes, he's fucking drunk on it. (Slightly off-topic, but I'm sure Seonghwa, Wooyoung and Hongjoong feel the same way. As if they want spent a lifetime between your legs. San is definitely an oral fixation and enthusiast. As for Yunho, Yeosang and Jongho, I think they don't mind eating you. But it's not high on their list of priorities.)

I think that at the beginning of your relationship he would have been a little bit shy about it. But, hell, he'll find it harder to control himself the more time you spend together. Poor guy just wants to stick his tongue up your sweet little cunt, sue him for that.

So when he finally gets to do it, all hell is going to break loose. God, he can never get enough of you, can he? He's got this wild hunger inside him. It's clawing at him from the inside. He needs you so badly.

You're his perfect breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

"It's all just for me." Mingi moans. He leans forward and licks a thick strip of your cunt. You cry out at the hot sensation, at the wet and skillful tongue sliding through your folds, and your head falls back onto the pillow as you feel his fingers stretch your labia to give him better access.

He pulls away for a split second, just long enough for him to hum lowly and mutter under his nose, "So damn wet and only mine." Your hands are gripping the sheets, and he's even more enthusiastic as he dives back in, opening you wide for his insatiable mouth.

Your nipples are so hard they hurt, and your head is spinning from all the sensations. He's driving you crazy, but for Mingi, this is just a warm-up; he hasn't even started to eat you for real yet.

Mingi swirls his tongue greedily around your hole a few times before going deep and fucking you too fast with his talented tongue, enough to make your walls clench tightly around him. After a few more thrusts, he pulls back and uses a long, slow lick to catch the large amount of fluid that is leaking out of you, his tongue pressing down flat and heavy on you. He licks you like an animal, panting and growling at the taste of you. When he reaches your clit, he gently glides his tongue over the sensitive bud several times, finally pulling it into his mouth to suck on it, causing you to moan loudly and desperately.

"Oh, fuck. Damn, M-Mingi. Oh God!"

You swear you can feel him smiling at you with a smug and lecherous smile as he returns to your hole to start all over again, but with even more desire and hunger. His guttural moan sends a wave of destructive vibrations through you.

He's pretty damn good at it.

You lose track of how many times he repeats this process until the excitement overwhelms you so much that you think you may die.

Since he started fucking you with his tongue, you have no idea how much time has passed. Hours, maybe even days. Mingi certainly has the look of a man who could do this forever.

"I can't do it anymore." You say, and the desperation in your voice is so clear to hear.

"Do you want to cum, doll?" He mumbles, pressing his cheek against your inner thigh, his gaze so foggy and distracted that he will be completely whipped for you. "You can do it. If you want to. Cum for me, doll. Let me drink you more."

#ateez smut #kpop smut #atz smut #ateez hard hours #ateez unholy hours #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa smut #park seonghwa smut #ateez scenarios #ateez au #ateez x reader #smut #mingi smut #mingi smau #song mingi smut #mingi x reader #san smut #choi san smut #san x reader

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sohnric · 11 months ago

Text

to. my first – k. sunwoo

pairing: kim sunwoo x fem! reader

genre: 90s au. twenty-five twenty-one au, friends to lovers au, exes to lovers au. fluff, slice of life, coming of age, suggestive. highschool au, football player! sunwoo, baker! sunwoo. cheerleader! reader. first love au. what we call wet cat sunwoo. meeting your ex after years and falling back in love with him kind of thing.

warnings: alcohol, throwing up, swearing, reader has hair long enough for a ponytail, a heated make out session or two that alludes to them having sex but no actual smut happens, finger sucking, the reader moping around a lot, no plot just vibes.

word count: 31k

a/n: inspired by me telling @/csenke that sunwoo is my first love. why am i so soft for this man i truly dont know... thank you best friend for betaing this monster i appreciate it a LOT! also thank you to sana @/heemingyu and izzy @/from-izzy for the help on some parts of the fic and brainstorming the ending w me, as well as beta reading small parts of this.

spin-off to my fic millennium bug because sunwoo deserves love too! the reader from eric's fic is referenced to as MB!Y/N in this. you don't have to read the first fic to understand this one, but there are a lot of references in this and i highly encourage you to do so!

they say you never forget about your first love. you guess that's true. (or– a story about reckless love, first kisses, growing up, ambition, and inevitably, failure.)

August 2007

The laughter all around is electric. The music playing in the background makes you sway and hum to the melody, the familiar tunes making your insides light up with a different sense of nostalgia when you remember the times in which these songs were popular. Your tired limbs make you cut your way through the room and sit down on a vacant chair, not really caring about where your designated seat was anymore, just needing to rest for a second before you either throw up from exhaustion or faint from how tired your legs are from all the dancing. Paying a quick goodbye to Juyeon on the dance floor, you heave out a satisfied sigh when your bottom meets the cushioned seat of the chair, eyes zeroing on the filled dance floor.

Feeling a cramp in your foot, you scowl and lean down, ready to do the thing you’ve been desiring for at least the last three hours– if not the whole day. Hands playing with the strap on your heel, you make the shoe come undone before you slip the uncomfortable footwear off your feet, relaxing when your naked limbs meet with the cold tile on the floor.

You don’t really know who in their right mind would have a wedding in the middle of the summer heat, but you guess there are people that are out of their mind like that– and those people are your friends from high school.

Everything about coming back to your hometown has made you feel unpleasantly nostalgic so far– the streets haven’t changed a bit, your childhood home still looks just the same, furniture unmoved, and the air is still as crisp, yet humid as it always was during late August. It’s only tonight that finally makes the weird bittersweetness turn into joy. You’re back home with everyone you’ve ever known, with everyone who’s made you into who you are today. You’re seeing all their faces for the first time in ages– and frankly, it does feel good.

The satisfaction in your veins stays for a bit until a figure dressed in a suit comes into your point of view. It’s not like you’re seeing him for the first time tonight– he’s a big character, even when it comes to this wedding, so it’s hard to not notice him– but as his legs take him towards you in a wobbly nature, it dawns on you that now is maybe finally the time you get to talk to him. Don’t get me wrong– there are no hard feelings between the two of you (or at least you don’t have any, you’re not so sure about his side of the story). It’s just that seeing him dressed in a tux, tie now a little loose around his neck, the twinkle in his eye still present as back when you were both a lot younger, there’s still a strong aftertaste of your feelings towards him somewhere on the tip of your tongue.

His walk is a little lopsided as he grins at you and takes a seat on the vacant chair next to yours, a huff of air escaping his lungs as his body relaxes, limbs falling freely down the sides of his chair. His cheeks are a little red and his hair a little messy– there’s only so much to explain his composure apart from all the dancing he’s done.

“So I see that you still can’t handle your liquor well even after all those years?” you joke, making the boy turn his head to face you, an amused twinkle appearing in his smile.

His eyes are still the same chocolate orbs you know, still the same soft look adorning them whenever he feels particularly ecstatic. He shrugs, jolting his bottom lip out before he sighs to himself. “Well, it’s not every day you are the best man at your best friend’s and your sister’s wedding,” he muses, shrugging.

Laughing at his remark, once again taking in the state of the room– Juyeon, Hyunjae and Haknyeon each dancing somewhere in the middle of the dance floor, MB!Y/N’s friends from university twirling her around in the right corner, Eric staring at the bride with a warm gaze in his eyes, sipping on a drink while resting against one of the tables, clearly taking a mental image to look at every time he feels the need to– it all feels kind of surreal. Who would’ve thought all those years ago that it would end like this?

Well, Eric Sohn, for starters. He confessed to everyone in his wedding speech that he knew he wanted to marry MB!Y/N the moment she kissed him on New Year’s Eve of 1999– him being this cheesy was only acceptable because it was his own wedding. In any other circumstance, Sunwoo wouldn’t be able to let his best friend live this down.

It’s not like you ever expected those two to break up– it just makes you a little in awe at how fast time is passing. “It’s kinda crazy, isn’t it?” you hum, squinting at the flood of people on the dance floor.

“It is,” Sunwoo hums, tonguing the inside of his cheek, “still can’t believe they’re dating. Hell, they’re getting married right now…”

“You can’t believe your sister is dating your best friend?” you laugh, wiping the sweat that’s accumulated off your forehead, the mist appearing there both because of your reckless dancing and because of the unbearable heat of the August night.

“That, and also the other way around,” he hisses, “but I guess they’re both so insufferable that they go well together, so I don’t know why I’m still so surprised.”

Chuckling at his comment– you guess the bond he has with his sister is never to be changed, no matter how many years have passed– you watch as he shrugs off his suit jacket and throws it over the back of his chair, starting to roll up his sleeves to expose his forearms. Eyes following his motions, you clear your throat and force yourself to look back into his eyes when he asks you a question. “What about you, though? Are you enjoying yourself?”

“I am,” you nod, no hesitation, “it’s really nice to see all of you after so long. Plus, I’m having a lot of fun, so that’s a nice bonus."

“I can see that,” he grins, “by the way you sat on my seat just now, and all–”

“Oh god– I’m sorry,” you gasp, suddenly feeling a little silly. And here you thought he went up to you because he wanted to catch up… “I’ll move, if–”

The sound of Sunwoo’s hearty laugh lands into your ear– it’s just the same as it was back when you were both high schoolers, making your heart soar– before he shakes his head and urges you to stay with a motion of his hand, putting his large palm on your thigh to keep you from moving. “No, no, don’t be stupid,” he says, “I don’t mind. I was looking for you anyway, so you just made it easier for me by sitting here, actually.”

He was looking for you, resonates in your head, the familiar buzzing in your fingertips alerting you of the effect he has on you even tonight. God, maybe you were the one that had too much to drink…

“You were?” you ask, tone of voice light– not at all suspicious.

Sunwoo nods, shrugging. “Well, I guess we have a lot of catching up to do,” he smiles, “don’t we?”

Eyes meeting his, the contact feels electrifying to the point it makes your head spin when you look at him, taking in his glossy eyes and the flush of his cheeks. They’re less round than when you two were young, but his eyes still stay the same– big, round and tender.

He reminds you a lot of the time when you saw him drunk for the first time.

to. my first time getting drunk

April 1999

Havoc rings in his ears like jingle bells, the world around him spinning like he’s on a rollercoaster. His head feels like someone is installing a nail to the middle of his skull and when he looks around, Lee Donghyuck is staring at him with a glass bottle of soju in his hand, urging him to drink more.

Sunwoo doesn’t have it in him to do much else other than shake his head. It feels like he forgot all his vocabulary, not a single word coming out of his mouth or to the awake parts of his brain, watery eyes begging his classmate to not make him drink any more.

What seemed like a good idea just a few moments ago– see, it’s prohibited to drink on school trips, but Kim Sunwoo is infamous for loving to break the rules– now seems like the worst idea of his whole entire life. He feels so sick he thinks he’s going to die of alcohol poisoning, but the laughter around keeps painfully reminding him that he hasn’t even had that much to drink in the first place. The amount of times he’s been called a lightweight this night is making his pride severely hurt, and even graciously intoxicated, he can’t bear the sting this is putting on his already hurt ego.

“Come on, birthday boy! I’m sure you can handle one more,” Donghyuck urges, uncurling Sunwoo’s fist and placing the bottle into his grasp, making the poor boy wince and battle back tears.

He knows he’s being embarrassing. The choice between not dying and not humiliating himself is rather a difficult one, but the moment he finally finishes the crossword puzzle in his brain and puts the glass opening against his lips, the bottle is thankfully taken out of his grasp and discarded somewhere where his eyes can’t reach.

“You’re done for the night, Kim Sunwoo,” you haul at him, shaking your head at the poor boy, “you’re done.”

Sunwoo wants to open his mouth and protest, maybe ask you what you mean, but the moment his lips unseal, he gets a sniff of the alcohol in the air and suddenly, he feels like throwing up. Your eyes lock with his, a pleading– maybe a warning– mirrors in Sunwoo’s gaze, and even though he’s so drunk he feels like he crossed dimensions, he applauds your ability to know just what he means by a single look into his eyes.

“Oh, Christ–” you curse, hurried steps moving to the corner of the room, swiftly grabbing the trash can and running back towards your friend sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor.

You make it just in time to catch the contains of Sunwoo’s stomach into the trash can, making the boy insanely grateful– he’s wearing the new shoes his mum got him for his birthday, and god knows he’d hate it if he ruined them the very first day he can show them off to his football friends.

The whole world disappears into the background as he throws up while making a mental promise to himself to never drink again. The only thing keeping him from losing it all is the feeling of your hand on his back, comforting rubs grounding him back to earth. Giggles fill his ears and he’s sure everyone’s laughing at him– even in his drunken state, he can recognise the shame filling his veins– but before he can open his mouth to argue with his classmates, the sound of your angry voice makes him seal his lips close and listen to the scolding you offer to his teammates for making him drink so much.

“You know he has a weak stomach, Donghyuck!” you huff and puff, your hand still drawing comforting circles to Sunwoo’s back as his head stays stuck in the bucket, not having enough energy to even straighten his spine.

“It’s his birthday! Come on, don’t be so tight-arsed.”

“Well, do you want him to die on his day of birth? That’s not very cool of you,” you growl, the shuffle of your clothing and a pained “ow” escaping his friend’s lips hinting to Sunwoo that you just kicked the right wing to his shin.

Deserved, Sunwoo thinks.

“Can somebody get Eric? I’m pretty sure he’s in Daehwi’s room with MB!Y/N, Minjeong and Jihoon,” you hum, waiting for anyone to follow your orders.

Sunwoo blinks in and out of it, his consciousness giving up on him with the incredible pain in his temples. He feels incredibly grateful to have someone like you by his side not only now, but all the time. The two of you have gotten incredibly closer ever since he joined the football team– and with you being one of the cheerleaders, you’re always somehow around. Not that he’s complaining, of course. It seems like you are one of the more responsible ones in this room right now, and god knows Sunwoo needs a bit of guidance on his day to day ventures.

“Do you think you’ll be sick again?” you ask, voice soft in his ear. “Or can I take the trash can off you now?”

Sunwoo thinks for a bit, then he nods and lets go of the plastic bucket. He doesn’t know what happens to it after and nor does he care– it seems like the alcohol in his veins took away all his sense of object permanence. He can barely see anything in the yellow lights of the room (which makes him believe he is going blind from all the alcohol he’s had– don’t tell him it’s just his eyes getting hazy and confused with how much his head is spinning), but he’s sure he can feel you wiping his tear-stained cheeks (he wasn’t crying– his eyes were just watering) and pulling him closer to you when he threatens to fall over even in his seated position. Your hand comes up to play with his hair when you let him rest his head against your shoulder, your actions making him sleepy, eyes closing on themselves like a threat for him to fall asleep any second.

Something about the care, the loyal protectiveness you take over the boy makes his heart soften. He breaths in your scent, trying his hardest to focus on your presence and not the weird feeling in his stomach– although it’s settled a bit since he threw up, it’s still a little uneasy– and before he knows it, there’s a tap on his shoulder waking him up from the haze.

Sunwoo mourns, not really wanting to move from his position, too comfortable with your fingers threading through his hair– but much to his dismay, your soft voice appears in his ear, telling him he has to get up. “Can you walk on your own? We’re gonna get you back to your room,” you hum, your lips accidentally brushing against the shell of his ear, making everything in him light on fire. He’s not really sure if this is the effect alcohol has on you, but if it is, he’s certain he never wants to drink again.

“Sunwoo?” you call, the way you say his name suddenly all too angelic in his ears– but still not enough for him to answer. “Alright,” you sigh after the dreadful silence, taking charge of the situation, moving away from the boy and offering him your hands to hold on to as you try to get him on his feet, “I guess we’re gonna find out.”

His fingers intertwine with yours as he stares up at you, his vision blurry, but still sharp enough to make out your tired face. The sight is enough to make Sunwoo worry– is he being too much? Are you mad at him? Do you not want to be his friend anymore? – but before he has a chance to address any of those concerns, he’s being tugged up to his feet. Not ready for the weight of his own body, his knees buckle and refuse to work. There is a pair of hands clutching his arm automatically– yours– as another pair holds him up from behind by his waist.

He’s not really sure who was his other savior, but by the silent curse heard from behind, he thinks he recognises Eric’s voice.

“I know I shouldn’t have left him alone,” he hears his best friend say, voice full of frustration.

“You really shouldn’t have,” he hears you sigh, making the poor boy scowl.

It still feels like he can’t really speak, exhaustion taking a toll on him, but he follows the orders as you tell him to get on his best friend’s back– Eric’s crouching figure ready for the impact, waiting for the taller one to clutch onto him so he can carry him into the safety of their shared room. The operation has to be quick if they don’t want to be caught by their teachers while walking through the hall, and somehow, in the distant crevices of his brain, Sunwoo recognises that and he makes no battle to resist, doing exactly as he’s told.

“Man, you’re heavy,” he hears Eric huff under him as the poor boy carries him through the hall. “You’re gonna have a killer hangover tomorrow, dude…”

Sunwoo’s head rests against his friend’s shoulder, hands carelessly hanging around Eric’s neck. He tries to blink away the sleep, desiring to stay awake, when your concerned face appears in his vision and suddenly, he feels insanely guilty.

“I’m sorry,” the two words escape his mouth with no trouble– the first words to appear in his vocabulary after the few minutes of him being surprisingly mute– only to hear his friend chuckle.

“Well, you’re going to be dying from a headache tomorrow, not us,” Eric hums, “so I think you have to apologize to future you first.”

Sunwoo pouts, bangs falling into his eyes making him blink in a desperate try to get the stray hairs away, attempting to make eye contact with your side profile. “Are you mad at me?” he asks, voice a little groggy from all the screaming and drinking.

“What?” you ask, genuinely surprised to hear his question. Your face morphs into a confused expression, the one where a wrinkle appears in between your brows– and it takes everything in Sunwoo not to poke the little line with his pointer finger in utter endearance.

“Are you… mad…?” he asks again, watching as your face morphs into amusement.

“No,” you shake your head, a hint of a laugh in your tone. “Why?”

“You look grumpy.”

“I’m just worried,” you note.

“About?” Sunwoo asks, his intelligence morphing into a one of a 10-year old with the influence the alcohol has on him.

“You,” you say, sighing and shaking your head as you move two steps in front of Eric and open the door to their room, closing it swiftly behind you and following the duo towards Sunwoo’s bed.

The younger one drops the boy into the cushions of his bed with an exaggerated sigh (that might as well be real, for all we know– god knows you wouldn’t be able to carry Sunwoo on your own), and the comfort of the pillow around his head is enough to make Sunwoo’s eyes start closing again, sleep threatening to take over his consciousness.

There’s some noise interrupting his sleep, though, making the boy tear his tired eyes open to notice you walking through the room. Sunwoo finds Eric putting a glass of water onto his bedside table and watches as you put a trash can beside his bed, hushed whispers sent Eric’s way resonating in the quiet room. “Make sure that he sleeps on his side so if he throws up again, he doesn’t choke–”

“Y/N?” he calls your name, watching as you look at him with careful eyes.

“Hm?”

“Are you leaving?” he asks, maybe a little foolishly.

“Yes.”

The boy nods at your reaction, showing his acknowledgement. In the drunken state of his mind, he knows he doesn’t particularly want you to leave, but he’s also fairly certain, finding the rational thought in the sober part of his brain, that you have to leave, and so he lets it go. The drunken state of his mind wins, though, when the next sentence foolishly escapes his lips.

“Please don’t stop liking me after this,” he mumbles, words slurring.

“What?” you ask– confused because you either don’t fully comprehend what he’s trying to say, or because you truly just couldn’t hear what words escaped his mouth– but when you don’t get a clarification, you just nod at the boy, seemingly desperate to keep him happy tonight. “Okay, I won’t.”

“You won’t stop liking me?” he asks, a big pout playing with his features.

“No.”

“Okay.”

That seems to put his mind at ease– enough to make his brain finally turn off and lead him to sleep. He doesn’t really remember what he dreamt of that night, but the last memory he has of the night of his 18th birthday is that you promised to not stop liking him after seeing him a drunken mess, and how he so deeply wished you’ll continue to like him forever.

It hits him only a few months later that the thing he so desperately hoped for that night was that you’ll keep liking him even at his worst– that he didn’t drive you away and one day, maybe, you’ll like him more than just a friend.

to. my first detention

September 1999

Sunwoo was never the one to break the rules.

Well, if you don’t count that one time he skipped class just because he got too bored of it in the middle of the lecture. And it wasn’t even that hard either– he just asked if he could go to the bathroom, and when he got the approval, he stood up and left, never returning.

Or if you don’t count that one time he climbed up the ladder on the side of the school building with his friend Juyeon and had his lunch there. Or that one time he cheated on an exam and made a scene about it when accused of the act, leading the professor into letting him off just that one time.

Sunwoo is usually too lazy to break the rules. Some days, paradoxically, his laziness is what leads him to break the rules. He can’t really help it, even if he tried.

The one time he does break the rules, expecting to be punished by his teacher for coming late to class, it’s not even his fault in the first place. Morning football practice ran late and he didn’t feel like rushing to change out of his practice clothing– see, the laziness is playing a part in this as well– so when he arrived into his Physics lecture, the clock was already 15 minutes after the bell rang for the first period.

Much to his surprise, his teacher didn’t even punish him. “Well, you’re an athlete, so it’s understandable,” he heard, making his lips stretch out into a subtle smile. If he knew that joining the football club would lead him to have such privileges, he would’ve done it a long time ago.

How did he still end up in detention, you may ask? Well, that’s a funny question.

Your flushed face appears in the doorway of the classroom exactly 2 minutes after Sunwoo does, breathing heavily and wiping the sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand. Your hair tied up in a ponytail is loose now, stray hairs falling out to frame your face, your school uniform wrinkly, shirt not tucked in properly, as you spit out endless apologies to your teacher about being late for lecture.

“I’m really, really sorry about being late,” you bow, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you look around the classroom with apologetic eyes, “I had cheerleading practice and it ran a bit late, so I didn’t have enough time to–”

“Sit, Ms Y/L/N,” the teacher hums, “if you have time to do any other activities other than being in class, I’m sure you’ll have time to stay after class for detention, am I right?”

“Sir, I really–”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

Now, are you seeing the difference in the way you and Sunwoo were treated? That’s right. It may not look like it, because the young football player rarely puts effort into anything (other than the game), but when something angers him, it’s quite difficult for him to keep it in.

And that’s exactly why his ass is currently sitting in one of the chairs of his classroom, legs spread wide as he looks around the silent room in boredom. Accusing his teacher for being sexist and holding to double standards wasn’t the best idea, but it was enough to get him into detention alongside you.

His eyes get caught up with something– someone– sitting two desks in front of him, one to the right, scribbling their homework into their notebook. At least you are using up the detention time for important and useful things, he thinks. That won’t stop him from interrupting you in your task, though. Even better– it encourages him.

Tearing out a piece of paper from his notebook, Sunwoo fishes for a pen in one of his pockets, writing a short note that says: Wanna get ramen after this? before he crumbles the paper into a small ball. After watching the teacher for a few seconds, making sure that he’s not going to get caught, he throws the ball in your direction, aiming straight for your head.

He misses. Well, that’s why he plays football and not volleyball– he doesn’t have good aim when it comes to his hands– but nonetheless, the note ends up hitting your shoulder before it bounces off and falls to the ground.

Confused, you look around before you find Sunwoo staring at you, pointing towards the paper on the ground with a grin on his face. You sigh, sending a telepathic signal of ‘you’re acting like a child again,’ straight into his brain before you reach for the paper ball and take it into your hands, fingers uncurling the thin material and reading out the words he’s sent to you.

Only a few seconds pass before you throw the ball back to him– he catches it in his hands, earning an approving look from you at his strangely fast reflexes, making a sense of victory flow gracefully through his veins. A frown settles on his face when he reads out your reply, though.

can’t. I promised Aeri I’ll hang out with her later. we’re going for frozen yogurt.

Sunwoo furrows his brows. Oh how he hates to be denied.

I can join!! i could use some froyo

You send a tired look to him over your shoulder when you receive the message, rolling your eyes at his comment. It’s obvious that Sunwoo can’t join– he knows it by the look in your eyes. Hell, he knew he wasn’t invited even before he asked– he just likes to see your frustration. Something about the way your face scrunches up, clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth, amuses him in a way he can’t really describe.

you could’ve gotten yours instead of staying in detention. what was that about, by the way?? I’ve never seen anyone willingly do detention… you must be out of your mind

The message makes him chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. His motives are clear– well, at least in his brain. If he stays in detention, he can see you for some more. Which means he can hang out with you more (or look at the back of your head from afar, whichever you grace him with on that particular day). And he wants to spend as much time with you as he can, well, because… because he just likes to do so. Why?

Don’t ask. He hasn’t thought it out that far yet.

I just like things to be fair. I came late too :((

He writes back instead. Fairness is the last thing he cares about if the world is in his favor. If the world is unfair to you, though– that’s another thing.

weirdo.

You write back. The pen is already in his hand, ink getting hotter as he masters up a reply, when the loud voice of his teacher cuts through the classroom and announces that detention is over and they’re all dismissed. Something in Sunwoo’s stomach drops.

Sighing, he puts the note back into his pocket (and will forget to throw it out. Then, he’ll find it there after a few days, unravel the ball and read over the letters with a smile. He won’t throw it out then either– he’ll crumble it back and keep it there until the paper wears out and forms into litter in the pocket of his pants). Gathering his things into his bag, he swings the backpack over one of his shoulders before catching up with you, already halfway out of the classroom. You seem to be in a rush to meet Aeri– he understands– but there’s still one more thing he needs to do.

Clearing his throat, Sunwoo approaches you from the back. “Hey!”

“Hi,” you hum, adjusting the bag on your shoulder. “Aeri’s waiting for me outside, so I gotta–”

“Wait, I– I have something for you,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. Why does he suddenly feel so nervous? The words his sister said to him yesterday keep resonating in his head, and although he knows it’s not true and he doesn’t see you in that way, his stomach churns and he clutches his hand into a fist by his side, a desperate act to ground himself.

“What?” you look at him, eyebrows furrowed, all confused. Sunwoo’s not the one to give gifts– sure, he pays for your meals sometimes, but that’s only because you share them and he comes to the logical conclusion that he eats more of the portion than you do anyways, so it’s only fair.

“Um… well, my sister… she was making those bracelets yesterday and she made me do it with her, because she’s really annoying when she wants to be,” he mumbles, fishing for the bracelet in the front pocket of his backpack, lying straight through his teeth.

You stare at him with wide eyes, completely unreadable to Sunwoo. Well, he already said it, so he may as well just dig his hole even deeper. The yarn is soft under his touch when he twirls the bracelet in his fingertips, eyes focusing on the shades of red and pink, suddenly too afraid to face you and look you in the eyes. “And, uh… we made too many, so I brought you one, because… you’re my friend, and all,” he mumbles, chewing the inside of his cheek.

His sneakers are oh so interesting to look at in the few seconds he spends waiting for your reply. He feels like he’s in court, waiting for his ordeal– anxiety making him bounce on the tips of his feet, his other hand clutching the strap of his backpack for dear life.

“Did you make that?” you ask, tone of voice genuinely appreciative.

“Yeah,” he shrugs.

He did not.

“That’s– that’s really cute,” you gasp, making the boy finally look up. When he finds that the words are addressed to the bracelet his sister made, not his act of kindness, something inside of him gets irritated, but the little devil in his chest leaves just as fast when you meet his eye and take the yarn from his hands, examining the red and pink knots from a closer distance.

“Yeah,” he hums, not really knowing what to say.

“Can you tie it for me?” you ask, offering the bracelet back to the boy and smiling at him, waiting for him to circle it around your wrist and secure it to place with a knot. It’s a bit long, the ends sticking out to different directions, but Sunwoo admits that it does look quite nice against your skin, and that if he forgets about the fact that it was his sister who actually made the bracelet (even though he begged her to teach him for approximately two hours, going as far as bribing her with his snacks), he does feel quite proud of the gesture.

There’s something possessive about the bracelet, he thinks. It's like a sign to everyone that you have someone who cares about you enough to tie it around your wrist. It’s like saying hey, this is my best friend! No one else enjoys their company enough to make a bracelet to prove it, but me. It’s like a silent translation of the heart’s calling: this person is mine. They’re not allowed to take this off until I die.

Sunwoo feels a bit giddy as he watches you admire the yarn around your wrist. You sport the same expression as Eric did when he forced a bracelet out of his sister yesterday– eyes glimmering, the widest grin on your features. While he may be sure what the face meant when it came to his best friend (although he tries to close his eyes from the obvious crush he has on his sister), he’s not quite certain when it comes to you.

In his mind, you smile like this at everyone. You’re just that kind of person.

But oh does he wish you mirror Eric’s feelings on the matter. Oh does he hope you tell everyone he is the one who gave the bracelet to you– he hopes you boost in front of your friends, tell them just how much you like it.

…maybe his sister was right.

Maybe the bracelet had a deeper intention.

August 2007

“So,” Sunwoo hums, taking a salty chip from the bowl settled in the middle of the table, looking over at you with a curious gaze, “how have you been?” he asks, chewing as he waits for you to answer.

It’s an easy question, one would think– and it’s true, it’s not the most difficult thing to answer. But considering the circumstances, the fact that you and Kim Sunwoo haven’t seen each other since you both graduated from high school, despite telling each other you’ll stay in contact and see each other whenever you have the chance to– it gets a little bit more difficult. It’s been 6 years, many things have changed, you had your fair share of good things happening to you as well as the bad.

What do you tell Sunwoo, though– a friend you lost somewhere along the way, much like everyone? Well, you can’t really blame him for growing distant with you– although to this day, you don’t really know the reasoning. He was the first one to leave, and although you always wished him the best, nobody can really blame you for doing your part at flying out of your nest. Everyone has to experience the outside world before they can find their place in it, no?

It’s not your fault that you weren’t as successful as you wanted to be…

“Well, you know,” you shrug, “so and so. Many things happened, but I guess I’m doing fine,” you conclude, nodding to yourself.

The face Sunwoo offers you is one of concern. You recognise that this is not really what he wanted to hear– not really what he expected you to say. The both of you were always ambitious, shooting for the stars, so it would be nice to know that at least one of you finally chased down the dreams you’ve had since you were young.

“What about you?” you ask quickly, shielding yourself from more interrogation. “How did football go?”

That has Sunwoo chuckling, averting his gaze. He takes a sip of the soda placed on his table before he turns to you again and answers the question, shrugging to himself. “Didn’t really go as I planned,” he says, nodding to himself. “Guess I lost many years on it, but oh well. Can’t really take it back now.”

“Don’t say that,” you hum, chewing on the inside of your cheek. The answer he offered you was not surprising to you– not that you didn’t believe in his abilities, not at all. It’s just that by now, if Sunwoo’s dreams came true, you’d be aware. You’d hear about him everywhere. You’d see him on the news, in the paper… It seems like your friend has disappeared out of the spotlight he always wanted even sooner than he could walk straight into the stardom. You wouldn’t say you were keeping tabs on him, no– you just cared enough to try to look for him in every place you could. “It wasn’t lost years. You did what you loved, and you tried your best.”

“I know,” he says, scrunching up his nose in an adorable manner before he sighs, “I’m just moping around. Besides, I quite like the life I’ve had since coming back home,” he admits.

“You do?” you ask, eyes glimmering in the lights. Something in you shifts– moves to a more comfortable place at the information. It’s strange that hearing that he’s doing fine still makes you feel at peace. It’s been years– you really shouldn’t care by now.

“I do,” he nods, “I work at Juyeon’s father’s bakery now. I didn’t really expect to like it, but there’s something charming about it, I’ll have you know,” Sunwoo says, taking another handful of chips into his hand before feeding them to himself, seemingly trying to chase down the tipsiness in his bloodstream.

That drags out a giggle out of you, shaking your head at the news. “I wouldn’t take you for a bakery kind of guy,” you say, “I can’t really imagine you in the kitchen.”

“Well, times change, Y/N-ie,” the nickname slips out between his lips like a punch to your gut, his teasing tone dragging nails to you in a weird sense of nostalgia, “I’m the best baker in town right now. People go crazy over my cinnamon rolls,” he nods, pointing a finger to you as if to prove his point.

“I find that hard to believe,” you squint at him, shaking your head in disbelief.

“You’ll have to come and find out,” he says, the sentence so casual that the contrast of his following statement has your heart drop a little, “well, if you’re… staying around for a bit, of course…”

Humming, watching as his eyes soften at the shift in your composure, you nod in agreement. “I’ll make sure to add that to my plan.”

Sunwoo nods in acknowledgement. Swallowing down the chips that were in his mouth, he dusts off his hands off the excess salt and licks his lips before speaking up again, seemingly collecting his thoughts. “So you’re staying around for a while?” he asks, a little bit cautious.

He doesn’t really know how sensitive this topic is for you– you don’t even know if he’s aware of your previous whereabouts, if he knows where you left off to and why– but Sunwoo stays caring, no matter the amount of time you spent not talking, no matter the big canyon that slowly formed in between the two of you in the years of no contact. It’s something you’ve always appreciated about him. He liked joking around, but he always knew where the boundaries laid, always knew when the joke went too far. He tried hard to avoid poking around too much, but he always made sure to apologize if he realized he hurt someone’s feelings. He’s a spark of violent fire, but he’s also tamed like a fireplace when he wants to be– warm, comfortable. It’s easy to feel like it’s back in the old times when you’re around him. It’s easy to pretend neither of you ever really left.

“I am,” you nod. “Things… didn’t really work out for me either, y’know,” you chuckle, the dry kind that shows just how bitter you are about the matter. “I went to New York with the internship my aunt arranged for me in KBS, but I guess I just… wasn’t really good enough to keep full-time.”

“Don’t say that,” Sunwoo mirrors your previous statement, an honest attempt at comforting you.

“No, it’s okay,” you laugh, “I stayed abroad for a while, tried hard, but sometimes, it’s just not meant to be, y’know? So after I realized my jobs weren’t making me enough money for a decent living in the States, I came back home,” you say, mouth forming a pout as you speak– the kind that shows you’re lost in thought, making up a plan as you go, “I’ll help my parents out for a while and then look for something to do here, I think.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad,” Sunwoo says, offering you a soft smile. “I… I guess I’d say it’s good to have you back,” he admits, averting his gaze as he says the words, “ever since I came home, it felt like something was missing, so… anyways, you’ll figure it out, so don’t worry too much.”

“Thanks, Sunwoo,” you hum, pressing your lips into a tight smile, heart squeezing a little at his sincerity. It’s strange– it’s been years, having lived through countless different situations that were supposed to change the both of you, shift you into two completely different people– but somehow, Sunwoo still feels the same. Almost as if you two never left. Almost as if you two never drifted apart and instead spent your early twenties side-by-side, just like you always planned on doing.

The boy looks at you from the corner of his eye, a content smile spreading on his lips. You feel the atmosphere shifting, the situation tensing up a bit, and with the discomfort the image of him leaving you alone brings you, the words slip out of your lips with a bit too much ease.

“Would you want to… dance with me? I wanna see if you still remember what I taught you,” you grin, watching as the playful expression mirrors on your friend’s face, a nod eliciting from him that makes you quickly put your shoes back on and get ready for the dancefloor.

“Of course,” he hums, standing up swiftly and wiping his hands on the fabric of his pants before outstretching a hand for you, tone of voice sweet like honey, “my lady?”

to. my first dance

November 1999

“Who are you asking to the dance?” you question one afternoon, the two of you behind the closed doors of his room. There aren’t many times where Sunwoo gets to invite you over– mostly because he’s too shy to have someone around when his sister is home, and his sister isn’t known to have that many friends to hang out with– so the times where he finds you settled on top of the sheets of his bed, he treasures deeply.

“I dunno,” he mumbles, looking up at you from the comfort of his rug, shrugging, “I don’t really think I’m going, actually.”

“Oh?” you gasp, pouting at the boy. “Why not?”

“I don’t really have anyone to go with,” he says. What he really means is– you’re going with someone else. Sunwoo doesn’t really see himself dancing with anyone else but you– that’s just that kind of bond you two have in his mind. Your friendship is dear to Sunwoo, and the boy can’t think of anyone else he’d like to spend the evening with.

When his sister argued with him with logical words, telling him that he treasures his friendship with Eric just the same, but wouldn’t invite him to the prom, he just scoffed at her. MB!Y/N doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t treasure Eric in the same way, no matter the fact that they pretty much grew up together. Some things just don’t feel the same way with Eric as they do with you. He feels closer to you, in a way.

“Well, that’s bullshit,” you scoff, shaking your head at your friend, “you’re handsome. And you play football, which is every girl’s dream. I bet anyone would go with you if you just asked,” you propose, pointing a finger at the boy, not really noticing the way he blinks at hearing the words ‘you’re handsome’ coming out of your mouth in regards to him.

Do you find him handsome? Is that your subjective opinion or are you just objectively saying what you’ve heard in the cheerleader changing rooms?

He’d like to know. Just out of curiosity.

Sunwoo scratches the back of his neck in nerves, now fully seated and facing you. It’s hard to meet your eye when he talks, his words coming out muffled. “I can’t dance anyway, so it would be no fun for everyone involved.”

And watching you dance with his classmate Shotaro would be no fun either. See, it would be easy for Sunwoo to be okay with the fact that you were going to the prom with someone older (which is practically impossible, since you’re both seniors, just for the record…). He would understand your point, then. It’s easy to be okay with defeat when your opponent has the upper hand, but when you put two men against each other that are hierarchically equal to each other, much like Sunwoo and Shotaro, the poor boy finds it hard to not feel as insecure in his position.

But with Shotaro being the same age as him and the same amount of popular as him, Sunwoo can’t help but compare himself to his classmate. What does Shotaro have that Sunwoo doesn’t? Is it his smile? Should Sunwoo smile more…?

It doesn’t really help his case that you’re going to the prom with the head of the dance team. Sunwoo can’t dance… Is it the fact that he can’t dance?

Or are you just going to the prom with Shotaro because he was the one to ask you to go? Sunwoo can’t help but wonder– would you have gone with him, had he the balls and asked you first?

“What do you mean, you can’t dance?” you say, eyeing the male.

“Just… never learned to, I guess,” Sunwoo shrugs, “but it doesn’t really matter, since I’m not going, so…”

“But you have to go,” you pout, putting the boy in a difficult position. He doesn’t know if you’re aware of the fact, but your pleading look does wonders to his decision making. He’d commit arson if you asked him to with those glimmers in your eyes. He’d kill for you. Or die for you. Both, depending on the situation. He’d do anything.

“Why?”

“It won’t be fun if you’re not there,” you say, sighing. Your face looks so genuine Sunwoo almost believes it. It makes his heart squeeze and contemplate his decision. “I know Donghyuck is gonna spike the punch, and there are gonna be fireworks,” you hum, chewing on the inside of your cheek, “and this is our senior prom, Sunwoo… you have to come.”

The words resonate in his brain, making him even more hesitant about his decision. This is your senior prom– the last dance of your high school years. The last opportunity for Sunwoo to enjoy this time with you and his friends, the last chance he gets at seeing you in a pretty gown, all dolled up and smiling from the sneaky sips of alcohol you’ll get with everyone outside of the school gym. The last opportunity for Sunwoo to dance with you, his best friend, and possibly the last time he’ll ever enjoy his evening with the rest of his football team before all of them have to study in order for them to take their CSAT.

Maybe you’re right. Maybe he should go.

“I’ll think about it, I guess…” he mumbles, watching as your face morphs.

“You guess?” you scoff, glaring at him. “You’ll go or I’ll personally come to your house and drag you there by your hair, you get me, Kim Sunwoo?” you threaten him, having the boy laugh at your outburst. You’re really adorable when you tease him, Sunwoo thinks.

“Got it, chief,” he says, offering you a playful look as he salutes and lays back down onto the carpet, eyes pressed to the ceiling. “Don’t expect me to dance, though, because I refuse to embarrass myself. I have quite the reputation to uphold, you see.”

Sunwoo hears you chuckle, the noise of his sheets tousling landing into his ears. Before he has a chance to look at you and see what you’re doing, his view of the white wall above is shielded with the sight of your face, hair framing your cheeks as you stare down at him and put out your hands, waiting for him to take them and get up to a seated position.

“What?” he asks, genuinely confused.

“I’m gonna teach you, come on,” you call him with a motion of your hand, arms still outstretched and waiting.

“Huh?” he squints, watching as you roll your eyes in frustration.

“I’ll teach you how to dance, Sunwoo,” you snicker, watching as the boy slowly takes your hands and lets you drag him up from where he’s laying on his electric blue rug, “so you don’t embarrass yourself.”

That has Sunwoo stuttering, his figure freezing even when you manage to somehow make him stand up in the middle of his room. A million different exclamation marks appear all over his brain, warning him from the upcoming events, but he has no way of denying your proposition now, no matter how hard he tries. “No- it’s- you don’t have to, I’ll just-”

“Okay, so,” you say, dismissing all his previous attempts at stopping you from your quest, “first, you put your hand here,” you order.

The skin of your fingertips touches Sunwoo’s hand, making the boy’s heart stummer in his chest. You drag his palm towards your waist, placing it on the curve of your body. He swears he feels electricity flowing through the contact, warmth radiating off your skin even though it’s shielded by the fabric of your favorite shirt. He gulps as you put your hand on his shoulder, his eyes carefully following your movements, examining every slightest shift of your composure.

“And then you hold my hand with your other hand,” you instruct, but move to do it yourself when the boy doesn’t seem to have it in him to reach for your palm himself.

Your fingers interlock with his, making the boy chew on his bottom lip in a sudden flash of nerves. You’re standing so close he can smell your perfume, the scent making his head spin and feel lightheaded. If you made him turn in this moment, he’s sure he’d fall over, weak legs barely holding him up in your close proximity.

“Sunwoo?” you ask, making the boy gulp before he hums in acknowledgement.

“You have to look into my eyes when you slow dance,” you laugh, the sound soft and airy, but enough to have his stomach feel all weird, like he’s about to throw up. Still, he forces himself to look into your eyes, instantly feeling like you’re hypnotizing him. (He’s convinced he’d jump out of his window right in this moment if you asked him to.)

“Okay,” he nods, standing still, maintaining eye contact. His body is stiff, muscles tense as you just stand there for a moment. Sunwoo battles his inner fight and doesn’t look at any other features of your face– he has a weird obsession with staring at your lips whenever you talk to him lately. He feels like a weirdo every time he catches himself doing it, so he tries to get rid of the bad habit as much as he can.

“Now, you just… kind of sway to the beat,” you say. The boy nods, but his body stays unmoving.

“There’s… there’s no music playing,” he gets out, watching as you chuckle, your lips stretching out into an adorable grin.

“Right,” you nod, sighing, “well, I’ll just… let me just…” you mumble before you start humming a tune– one that makes Sunwoo laugh from how ridiculous it sounds, the notes so unfamiliar to him he’s sure you’re making it up as you go. Before he knows it, you start moving, making him mirror your actions.

It’s not as difficult as he thought it was, he thinks. You stare at him, all encouraging, as you sway from one foot to the other, nodding at him when you see that he’s following your lead well. Dancing with you suddenly feels like the easiest thing in the world, it feels like he was born to have you in his arms, in the middle of his room as you hum an unfamiliar song to him. He thinks going to the dance won’t be so bad– not if he gets to dance with you there for at least one more time.

“Doing well,” you smile, making the boy feel all warm on the inside. A feeling of victory flashes over him for a mere second. He beams in your considerate words, feels fuzzy under your warm gaze. He feels like he just won the lottery. It’s kind of silly, if he really thinks about it.

A boyish grin appears on his face, having Sunwoo shaking his head at how both ridiculous and over the moon he feels right now. The stream of hums coming out of your throat cuts off for a second as you talk to him with an instructing tone, a warm gaze pressed into his features. “So you can either do this, or you can…” the hand that was holding his suddenly untangles itself from between his fingertips (and Sunwoo’s momentarily glad, because his palm was getting quite sweaty– although he admits that it does feel empty now that you’re not holding it), before you place his other hand on your waist as well.

Something about the pose makes Sunwoo feel strangely intimate, a little bit bashful under your gaze. It only intensifies when your hands go up and entangle behind his neck, bringing you two even closer than before. The proximity has him blushing, red cheeks bringing heat to his face. He prays you don’t mention it– he really doesn’t know if he would be able to talk himself out of this one.

“Or you can do it like this,” you say before you lead the boy again, bodies swaying to an imaginary rhythm. You’re not even humming this time, having Sunwoo follow your movements in complete silence, his aimless movements mirroring your own. He’s surprised he hasn’t stepped on your foot yet when you decide to quickly teach him how to waltz (while also mumbling something about this dance being performed with the previous hand placement). He follows your orders– step forward, close, then another step backwards– and before he knows it, you’re leading him into a gentle turn, rising and falling in a ¾ count.

He’s getting lost in your voice– the softest “1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3,” helping him to stay in rhythm– before he’s pulled out of his trance as he feels your fingers playing with the hair on his nape, entangling yourself into his black locks. The motion has him look back up to your eyes (that have been previously glued to your feet, making sure he’s not stepping on your socked limbs), surprised when he sees you staring at him with a sweet smile playing with your lips.

Halting your movements for a bit, you let out a giggle and take him by surprise when your hand reaches up towards his bangs, ruffling his hair as he still holds you around your waist, the two of you almost hugging in his room. “See? Not that hard. You’re a born natural.”

His heart feels like it skipped a beat, a weird sense of panic enclosing around his chest. He doesn’t know what it is, not really knowing how to name the feeling, but it has him nervously smiling and urging him to escape you– escape your touch, escape your scent, your voice and the way you smile at him like you may feel the slightest ounce of the things he does for you, but refuses to accept on most days.

Rushed movements make him break apart from your grasp, quick breathing making him feel like he might spiral.

“Hey! We weren’t done yet!” you call after him when he runs towards the door of his room.

Not looking around, the boy gulps and nervously calls back to you, facing the door. “I’ll be back! I just have to pee!”

The door to his bathroom closes behind him with a loud shut. The boy doesn’t aim for the toilet– instead, he walks over to the sink, turning on the tap and splashing his face with ice cold water. When he’s done, feeling a bit less heated up, he looks up and stares at his face in the mirror. He gives himself some time to collect his thoughts, to hopefully let go of his foolishness.

How many more times will he have to remind himself that he only sees you as a friend?

to. my first date

January 2000

The snow crunches under his sneakers and makes Sunwoo slip on the cold surface– no wonder his mother screamed at him for not wearing his winter shoes before he went out with his friends. He bets it would be way less difficult to walk in the whiteness of the ground if he had more grip in the soles of his shoes, but oh well– he’s not really good at making clever decisions half the time. Nobody can really be surprised.

Somewhere along the way between the moment he’s interrogated his sister about the reason for her bad mood and the moment where he purposefully let her with his best friend at the top of the hill with no way out (he had a hunch the two of them had some things to talk about, from both of their uneasy demeanours for the last day), he realizes he lost both his sister and his best friend, and while he’s quite certain Eric can find his way home just fine, Sunwoo shivers at the thought of not bringing his sister home to his mother. He’s not quite sure he’d survive that.

The quest of finding you both begins the moment the friend group reaches the top of the hill. Given his sister’s impulsiveness, she could’ve ran away from home, and that’s not what he wants to deal with on such a pretty winter day.

Sunwoo finds his plan being successful the moment he reaches the hot chocolate stand. The victory he feels after finding his younger sister alive and healthy is quickly overshadowed with the sight of his best friend’s face close to hers, very clearly going in for a kiss. He thinks he has to do something before he is permanently scarred with the image of them two making out right in front of his eyes as he gathers some of the icy texture into his hands and makes a ball, aiming straight at the head of his best friend.

The snow hits the both of them, right in the middle where their faces are supposed to meet. It’s not quite where Sunwoo was aiming, but he figures it’s good enough– it stopped his sister and his friend in the act, and that’s all he really cares about at this moment.

“Eric Sohn, what the fuck do you think you’re doing with my sister?” Sunwoo hollers, watching as his childhood friend takes off and leaves his sister alone on the bench to watch the conflict. The rest of the group follows with laughter as Sunwoo gathers more snow, tailing Eric and making sure the boy is punished for whatever he’s been doing.

It’s not like he disapproves. Not at all, actually. He just thinks it’s fun to mess with him a little.

“I didn’t mean to! Hey!” Eric cries out over his shoulder, trying his best to escape the frostbite. Karma is not on his side as he trips over something and falls to the ground, efficiently helping Sunwoo and the rest of their circle to corner the poor youngest, snow hailed on his limp figure.

One would think the group of them were making a snowman with how they’re rolling the poor boy around in the snow. Juyeon and Donghyuck make sure there’s not a hint of skin unhidden by the ice, making Eric mourn and kick around– he’s left helpless, though, outpowered and outnumbered by his peers. If anyone unknowing was watching the scene, Sunwoo is sure he’d be framed for bullying.

He thinks it’s quite deserved. Why? He’s not really sure why. He just has a hunch.

“Okay! Enough!” Eric mumbles, shaking his head when Donghyuck tries to fit snow into his mouth. “I’m sorry! It won’t happen again!” he says, eyes opening wide as MB!Y/N appears somewhere behind her older brother, a teasing pout settled on her face.

“It won’t?”

“MB!Y/N– I– Just help me..?” the boy pleads, making the rest of the group laugh and finally relax, easing the attack. Juyeon hums something about young love, making the rest of the guys roll their eyes on his unusual cheesiness, before Donghyuck taps his teammate’s shoulder, making sure he’s paying attention to him.

Sunwoo raises his eyebrows at him, waiting for what he has to say. “Look, isn’t that Y/N?”

There are a few ways to catch Sunwoo’s attention. First– you have to mention football. He could spend hours on the topic of who’s the best player– Ko Jongsoo or Ahn Junghwan? If anyone asked him to write an essay on it, he’s quite certain he’d do a great job explaining their techniques and goal statistics for numerous pages. Second– you have to mention food. He’s a big fan of junk food, but ever since his friend Juyeon introduced him to their family bakery, he’s been a big cinnamon roll enthusiast. And third– you have to mention Y/N.

Just the mention of your name is enough for the boy to stand alert, suddenly all too knowing of his surroundings. He turns his head to look for you, catching sight of your figure dressed in your long coat, standing all alone at the bottom of the hill. There’s an almost bored-looking expression on your face, although Sunwoo thinks there’s a bit of disappointment behind your eyes, making a cloud shade your them and make them lose their usual glimmer. That alone has the boy frowning, and before Donghyuck can say anything more or try to gossip about your sudden arrival, Sunwoo takes off– trying his hardest not to slip on the snow in his sneakers as he runs down the hill and tries his hardest to get to you quickly.

“Y/N!” he calls for you, getting your attention. You turn to him with expecting eyes, watching as the boy runs towards you and does, indeed, slip on the snow.

He manages to save it. Doesn’t mean you didn’t see him falter, though. “Careful there,” you grin, making the boy mentally kick himself in the shin at being uncool in front of you.

Sunwoo glosses over the comment, ignoring the previous two seconds of his life. If he acts like he’s not embarrassed, it might as well come true. “What are you doing here? I thought you said you’re hanging out with someone else when I invited you on the phone today,” he says, curious to know why you changed your plans so suddenly.

There’s a hint of bitterness in your composure when you shrug, averting your gaze. “That fell through, and I didn’t wanna… I figured you’d be here, so I came…” you trail off, your half-assed explanation enough to bring the boy into an inner conflict– one part of him feels bad for you, his heart clenching when he takes notice of your stern gaze and the disappointed expression on your face, the other one foolishly happy that he got to see you today, that you went here looking for him.

“Oh,” he nods, not really sure if he should pray more information out of you. He tried to ask you about it when he called you this morning, twirling the landline on his finger nervously when he asked you if you wanted to go sledding with him and his friends. He even mentioned his sister tagging along to make sure you didn’t feel as awkward going– you wouldn’t be the only girl there! You’d get along with her well, he said, not really sure if he was lying or not. Either way, his sister does need her own friends… “Well–” he starts, not really sure where his own sentence is going, before you cut him off with a rushed out sentence, spoken so quickly Sunwoo barely registers it in that confused brain of his.

“Would you wanna go on a date with me?” you ask, eyes big as you stare into his.

The question takes a few seconds to register in Sunwoo’s brain. He can physically feel the auditory waves entering his ears and converting themselves into electrical signals by the auditory system. The signals enter his left hemisphere– maybe he could point towards the area with his finger if you asked him to, the impact of the question so present in his mind– and then it decodes in the Wernicke’s area, slowly, but surely making more and more sense to him. The boy gulps at the invitation. He understands the question theoretically now, he’s registered it in his brain, but the practical implication of your preposition is still unclear– why in the hell would you ask him to go on a date with you?

“I…” he stutters, feeling heat rushing to his cheeks. He feels like a fool– he should’ve said yes a few seconds ago, when you first asked the question– but something inside of him is telling him that maybe his reaction is valid. No one expects their friend to randomly ask them out on the bottom of a snowy hill. Certainly not when he was 99% sure you liked someone else.

“Look, it’s- it’s good if you don’t want to, really, I just… I was supposed to go on a date with Shotaro today, but he never arrived, and I…” you nervously scratch your neck, once again averting your gaze from him, “I guess I was hoping you were in the mood to go out with me, since I got all ready and stuff…” you mumble, your tone of voice breaking something inside of him.

Oh. So you weren’t really asking him out. You just didn’t want to feel like a fool that got stood up. How stupid of Sunwoo to think you wanted to go on a date with him. The two of you were just friends, after all. Best friends.

And best friends are for cheering each other up. So despite feeling absolutely defeated, Sunwoo battles the weird feeling in his chest and puts on his best smile. “Of course! Don’t even mention it. Where… where did you wanna go?” he asks, watching as your face relaxes, shoulders falling back to their natural position.

“Are you in the mood for some ramen?” you ask, eyebrows rising in question.

“I’m always in the mood for some ramen,” he nods. He’s always in the mood for whatever you are.

“Great,” you nod, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

“Great.”

“So… let’s go,” you say, nodding to yourself as you walk away from the hill, having your best friend tailing you, following you towards the ramen place in the center of the town.

There’s a bit of an awkward silence hanging over you as the two of you escape the sledding area. Sunwoo doesn’t even pay his goodbyes to his friends and his sister, but he trusts that Eric can get her home safely when the time comes to head back. The boy mentally curses out Shotaro for standing you up– how does he dare to ask you out and never arrive? He doesn’t care about the possible circumstances of his classmate’s absence. All he cares about is the saddened look on your face and the unusual quietness enveloping your aura.

“Should I go kick his ass?” he asks, trying his hardest to make you feel better.

“It’s okay, Sunwoo,” you shake your head in disapproval, eyes pressed to the ground.

“Are you sure?” he asks again, not satisfied with your answer. “I’m quite good at fighting, contrary to popular belief, but if things go wrong, I know my friends would have my back,” he says, playfully punching the air.

The little play consisting of him kicking and punching an imaginary figure goes on for a while until he’s satisfied– meaning: until you’re left laughing at his overly exaggerated movements and grunts, shaking your head in disbelief at his boyish antics. Taking his hand in yours to make him stop with the play-fighting, you drag your now interlocked fingers towards your coat pocket, hiding his cold hand in the thick fabric.

Sunwoo’s heart beats fast at that, making him believe it’s going to run out of his chest any minute now– or make him go into cardiac arrest, either or– as he grows speechless, looking at you with big, surprised eyes. You don’t seem to put much meaning to your gesture, going as far as gently caressing your thumb over the back of his palm, his frozen skin growing hot at the contact.

He’s never held hands with you before– if he doesn’t count the amount of times you dragged him around when the both of you were late for the shared cheerleading and football practice on Tuesday afternoons– and so the intimacy of the act makes him feel strangely weak in his knees. It’s hard for him to take his eyes off you, almost looking like a deer in the headlights to anyone watching you two right now. Sniffling from the cold, you shrug.

“It’s okay,” you smile, sending him a quick glance, “I didn’t really like him like that anyway. It just… feels a bit disappointing to get stood up, that’s all,” you nod.

Sunwoo nods at that too, something in him shifting. You don’t like Shotaro like that? When was this piece of information when he really needed it? (For like the last month, every time he couldn’t fall asleep because the thought of you marrying his classmate at one point in the future haunted him too much and made him want to poke the dance club leader’s eyes out?)

“I get it,” he says, walking along with you. Every time he feels the eyes of someone on you two, he feels his chest filling up with an unfamiliar sense of pride. Something about being seen with you as you’re all dolled up and holding his hand in your coat pocket makes him all giddy on the inside– no matter if this is a real date or not.

Because screw it, Kim Sunwoo is tired of reminding himself that he’s supposed to only see you as a friend. Because he doesn’t.

“I’ve never been on a date before, though, so you have to teach me all about that too,” he hums, tonguing the inside of his cheek.

That has a giggle escaping your throat, another shake of your head in disbelief at his words. He doesn’t know what’s so funny, but he decides that as long as you’re laughing, he’s fine with feeling the tiniest bit of humiliation. He’d do anything to make you happy, he thinks. It’s a feeling stronger than him and he doesn’t know how to make it go away– he decided to stop battling it a long time ago.

“Just be yourself, Sunwoo,” you say, “that’s already perfect enough.”

Perfect. Sunwoo’s cheeks grow hot at that. He’s happy that it’s cold out– maybe he could blame his blushing on the weather. The boy isn’t so sure you know about the effect your words have on him. He’s always thought of you as perfect– flawless, funny, friendly, smart, kind and… and beautiful– but the adjective doesn’t quite seem fitting when he looks at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t believe you could hold him to such standards. He’s nothing special. God, he knows he’s not good enough for you– still, he keeps wishing he could be.

“You look really pretty, by the way,” he hears himself say, the words escaping his mouth before he has the chance to stop them. The tone of his voice is quite unnatural in his ears, softer than it usually is, and somehow, the comment makes you roll your eyes, which he finds to be an unnatural reaction.

“You don’t have to say that just because you’re on a date with me,” you hum, eyes not meeting his. (Which might be a good thing. Sunwoo would like to keep his feelings hidden for a bit longer, and he’s not so sure you wouldn’t recognise the tender inkling he has towards you in his longing gaze.)

“I’m not saying it because of that,” he mutters, voice quiet, yet honest.

Watching the side of your face, eyes still glued at every feature of your profile, he knows he’s not lying. He finds you oh so pretty even in the faint hue of the winter sun, with your scarf pulled up to the middle of your chin and hair pinned up with a pretty, silky bow. He finds you nothing short of angelic. Perfect. It’s kind of silly, if he really thinks about it.

Still, he can’t help himself. To this day, he counts the afternoon he spent with you, eating ramen at your favorite place, to be the first date he’s ever gone on.

Somewhere in the corner of his soul, he begs you count it as real too.

August 2007

It’s only a couple of days later when you find yourself in front of Juyeon’s father’s bakery, nervously chewing on your bottom lip and gazing at the glass door. The sun is shining strongly down on your skin, making you feel like you’re going to get a sun stroke if you keep standing in the direct light for any longer, and with the pressure of both the weather and your own thoughts, you decide to stop wasting time and push the door open, entering the establishment.

Not really sure if you’re welcome– who knows, Sunwoo might have just been acting nice and civil for the sake of not ruining his sister’s wedding– you prepared a mental shopping list of things you wanted to get at the bakery. You hadn’t seen your parents in a long time, so you thought a few donuts might make them happy. If Sunwoo just treats you like any regular customer when you walk in, you’ll take it as your sign to act like one and let this whole thing go.

Truth be told, you don’t even know why you’re so nervous. It’s not like you’re promising yourself something more from this… right?

It’s not like you suddenly felt younger again when seeing him at the wedding. It’s not like the memories choked you up when you went to sleep that night, it’s not like the feelings you had for the young boy suddenly waved at you in greeting, reminding you of just how close the two of you were all those years ago.

Not at all. Why would anyone even think that?

The ring above the door makes a sound as you walk in, your insides clenching in a weird mix of nerves and anxiety at encountering Kim Sunwoo again. The store is empty when you reach the counter, but you’re soon greeted by the sound of the staff door opening, a tall figure stumbling in with a tray of pastries, yelling out a quick: “I’ll be right there!”

And as you watch Sunwoo with his bangs sticking to his forehead, an apron tied tightly around his thin waist, you feel like he hasn’t aged a single day and you two are still the same teenagers that ran around your school in order to not miss practice. The boy looks up at you from below his eyelashes, a boyish grin taking over his features as he puts the hot tray down on the counter and throws the kitchen towel he’s been using to shield his skin from the heat to the side, greeting you.

“Y/N! It’s nice seeing you again,” he beams, wiping his hands on his apron, gaze gluing to yours and never leaving, capturing you in a sincere eye contact that you don’t have the heart to break.

“Hi, Sunwoo,” you chuckle, pressing your lips into an honest, yet a little bit awkward smile. “How’s it going?” you ask, desperate to keep the conversation going– afraid that if it dies down, you won’t be able to revive it ever again and you’ll just regret it forever. There’s a weird sense of urgency in you, like you have a time limit to figure everything out– like you have to act now, or everything you ever wanted might slip from between your fingertips– yet, the more you watch Sunwoo in the serene atmosphere of the sweet-smelling bakery, you notice yourself relaxing.

“Good! Better now that you’re here, actually, it’s been a slow day,” he muses, nodding to himself. “What about you? Can I get you anything?” he asks, eyebrows raising, round cheeks on full display as he stares at you with an expecting smile.

“I’m doing well,” you nod, humming, “really well… catching up with my parents, settling in and stuff… You know the deal,” you laugh. “I actually came to get some donuts for my parents, sort-of like a thank you gift for letting me stay until I figure out my own place and stuff,” you say, watching as Sunwoo urgently nods with acknowledgement.

“Say less, darling,” the nickname slips out from him a little too easily, a little too casually for the way it captures your heart. It has you nervously shifting from one foot to another, insides warming up with the impact of his fleeting gaze as he moves to get a box from under the counter, moving closer to the glass vitrine filled with the sweet pastry. “Your mum loves these ones,” he points towards the donuts coated with the pink glazing.

It’s kind of weird– how Sunwoo knows exactly what your mother likes, despite him not being around your house every other day like when the two of you were teenagers. It makes you realize that even though you moved away for years, the time here didn’t stop. Everyone moved on with their lives, everyone continued on as if nothing happened. And you can’t hold it against them– you guess you just hate the weird pit in your stomach that opens up with the realization that while Sunwoo knows which pastries your mum likes (most likely because she stops by to buy bread often, taking some treats with her for her and dad while she’s at it), you don’t.

You try hard not to show it on your face, though. Sunwoo continues to pack more donuts into the box, not really attempting to ask you for what you’d like– he just chooses himself, making sure you bring home the best ones of the bunch, the most delicious ones they carry. Letting him do his work, merely watching as he carefully moves the donuts from the vitrine to the box, you hear him continue on with the conversation.

“You came in on the right day,” Sunwoo hums, “Juyeon works tomorrow, so you wouldn’t be able to catch me if you went.”

Ignoring the fact that he sees right through you– sees that your intention was to see him, to have a way to visit him and attempt to rekindle whatever bond you had when you were young– you just chuckle. You can’t blame him for knowing you so well, despite not being around each other for so many years. When you were young and in love, you used to call him your soulmate, after all. You guess there’s always a hint of truth, even in the most lovesick fantasies. “Well, then I’m glad I went in today,” you admit.

Sunwoo smiles at that– the kind of smile you always loved at him, the one where he shows his teeth and his eyes crinkle up into moon crescents. Once he’s done packing your donuts, he puts the box on the counter, showing you his back just as fast when he turns around, seemingly grabbing something else as well. When he’s facing you again, there’s a sweet pastry in his hand, still warm.

“What’s that?” you ask when you notice him offering it to you, eyes peering into his.

“A cinnamon roll,” he says, waiting for you to take it into your hands, “I told you everyone goes crazy over my cinnamon rolls, so I wanna see if their magic works on you too.”

“Is this how you flirt with girls over here?” you chuckle, but take the bun into your hand nonetheless, taking a hesitant bite of the treat. The sweetness melts on your tongue, the warmth of the freshly-baked pastry enchanting you with its taste, something about its essence weirdly reminding you of home.

“Haven’t tried it before,” he shrugs, “so tell me if it’s working,” he jokes, watching as you chew on the roll.

“Well, is it any good?”

Humming in satisfaction, delight on the tip of your tongue as you swallow down the heavenly dough, you nod. “It’s to die for, Sunwoo.”

“Told you,” he shoots you a cheesy finger-gun, reminding you so much of your best friend from high school, before he turns and takes a paper bag from somewhere, talking to you as his back faces you again, “I’ll get you some more to take home with you. I bet they didn’t have those in the Big Apple.”

“If I knew I was missing out on these, I would have come back quicker,” you joke, watching as Sunwoo turns to you with an amused look on his face, seemingly enjoying the praise.

The eye contact unarms you again, your composure falling just the slightest. Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you clear your throat and reach for your wallet, ready to pay and leave so you can think about the interaction on your way home (and overthink every slightest detail, just like teenage you would after every fleeting touch young Sunwoo would send your way). “How much do I owe you?” you ask.

“Oh, it’s on the house,” he says, licking his lips, “consider it a… welcome gift, if you will,” he hums, offering you the box full of donuts and the paper bag consisting his infamous cinnamon rolls, your skin touching just the slightest when you take them from him, but still making electricity jolt through the nerve endings of your fingertips.

“No, Sunwoo, I really can’t-” you shake your head, but get caught off by him.

“Take them, please. You can pay me back some… other time?” he cautiously says, seemingly not really knowing if he’s still within your desired boundaries.

“O-okay, then,” you nod, agreeing to the subtle invitation– the subtle promise to meet again, the hopeful question leading into something more. “Thank you, Sunwoo,” you hum, smiling as you turn towards the door and get prepared to walk out, giving both of you some time to think about what happened in the last few minutes.

As you open your mouth to say goodbye to him, hand landing on the doorknob, you hear him call after you once more.

“Oh and Y/N?” he says, a confident look suddenly overtaking his features. “I end here at 5, if you’d like to hang out after.”

Unknowingly, a grin appears on your features, the one that’s so strong you can’t really mask it no matter how hard you try– as you nod at him, the victorious feeling flowing through your veins maybe even a bit dangerous. Still, you don’t have it in you to turn the invitation down– you wouldn’t be able to even in your wildest dreams.

This is what you came here for, after all, isn’t it?

“Okay,” you agree. “So… I’ll see you later?”

“See you later,” he nods, teeth capturing his bottom lip. It’s kind of adorable. He couldn’t battle the smile threatening to pull at the corners of his mouth, no matter how hard he tried.

Maybe coming here– coming back home– was the best thing you could’ve done.

“Wanna come in?” Sunwoo asks. It’s a few hours later– you followed through with his invitation and waited for him in front of the bakery at 5:05 sharp, catching him after his shift. You two took a walk through the whole town, waltzing slowly through his neighborhood until you reached his childhood house. You remember far too many afternoons spent in the comfort of the walls, and although you think it would be nice to revisit those memories, you notice his mother’s car (is it still hers? You have no way of knowing.) in the driveway, and suddenly, you’re too shy to join him as he drops his stuff off in his house.

It’s like you’re a teenager again– except, you never had any problems meeting his mother before. She was a nice woman, although a little busy (you only heard Sunwoo complain about the fact a few times– mainly when he was feeling sentimental or particularly under the weather about something), and she always treated you very nicely. Almost like you were supposed to join the family one day. His sister once asked you if you’re gonna marry him, and you laughed at her back then– you were so young, you didn’t even think of having a wedding with Kim Sunwoo. The funniest thing was the timing: you weren’t even dating him at the time. Or planning to, really. Sure, you always imagined somehow spending the rest of your life with him, in one way or another, but the thought of marriage didn’t often cross your mind. Life is ironic, you think– MB!Y/N was the first one to have a wedding and here you are, retangling your life paths with her brother again.

So no, you were never really scared or shy in front of his mother. Back then, things were different though. Simpler? You’d say they were definitely easier. You were more extroverted and open, more ambitious and less embarrassed of how your life turned out to be.

Also, you didn’t want to give her any ideas. It’s far too soon for that, you think.

“No,” you shake your head, hesitating a little bit, “I’ll wait for you here,” you say, watching as he smiles at you and nods, walking inside of the house to drop off his things and change.

You two didn’t really have any plans for the rest of the evening. You told Sunwoo he could show you around town, tell you what changed and what stayed exactly the same, since he came home earlier than you– you bet it could be two or three years ago. He eagerly nodded, although noted that not much is different in your hometown and your walk could turn out pretty uneventful. No plans were set in stone, though.

Nervously shuffling from one foot to another, you decide to walk around the yard. Sunwoo’s house was always big– although it seemed more giant to you when you were a teenager. It’s a strange observation, since you didn’t really grow any more inches since you hit puberty. Your eyes study the flowers in front of the gate, the mowed grass, the big tree in the backyard. If you focus hard enough, you could almost see the two of you laying under it, letting the leaves shield you from the sun, both much younger and carefree than now. Sunwoo would show you pages of his favorite comic books and you’d play on your Tamagochi, making sure it doesn’t die in two days like his did when he first got it. When you turn to your right, you see the garden house you two– sometimes with his sister, sometimes with Eric, sometimes with both of them at once– spent many afternoons in.

There used to be an old, red sofa inside. There wasn’t much space, since it was filled with gardening supplies, Sunwoo’s and MB!Y/N’s old bikes, flower pots, packs of soil and all other things you could need for gardening, but it was fun to hide away from the sun in there and drink iced tea, talking about whatever came to your minds or solving nanogram puzzles in comfortable silence (or occasional sigh from Eric when he got stuck somewhere in the middle of his crosswords).

Your curiosity gets the best of you when you open the door, deciding to see if it’s still the same inside. Your eyes widen when you notice the garden house a little less packed than before– mainly because Sunwoo’s mother no longer does gardening in her free time and buys her vegetables on the market like your mum does, you presume– but instead, it’s full of all the things the childhood you knew so well.

Sunwoo’s old bike– red and a little rusty, but you bet it could still work. The rug they used to have in their dining room is now in the middle of the little garden house, stained with dirt. Next to the usual red sofa is a leather armchair that they used to have in their living room for a while, the dark brown fabric now worn out, chapped and peeling off. In the corner of the room, you find a box filled with various sports equipment– tennis rackets, a yellow tennis ball, a jumping rope, and lastly, a half-deflated football. The sight of it has you sighing a little, reminding you of Sunwoo’s composure when he told you about how he never got to pursue his childhood dream fully.

Your eyes glaze towards his old skateboard, having you chuckle, the memories of him riding it down the hill in front of his house appearing in your mind. Sometimes, he would be there with his sister and his childhood friend Eric as well (that more often than not let MB!Y/N borrow the board, watching her with lovesick eyes instead of riding it himself), the young boy trying to teach himself tricks he saw on the TV.

“Do you think I still got it?” you suddenly hear Sunwoo ask from behind your shoulder, making you jump in surprise. The male laughs at your shocked face, shaking his head in disbelief at your easily shaken composure.

“You scared me,” you breathe out, clutching your chest for good measure, to show him how much you really mean it– your heart was racing, and contrary to popular belief, the sight of him in casual attire (a gray hoodie, so similar to the one he used to wear in high school, baggy Adidas sweatpants covering his legs) wasn’t the reason for the little heart attack.

“So did you!” he exclaims. “I got outside and didn’t see you there, I thought you ran away for a second,” he hums.

“As if,” you mumble, “I walked all the way here, why would I leave so suddenly?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs, “you could’ve changed your mind, or something,” he says, his composure suddenly as boyish as when he was just a teenager, something in your heart softening. You guess he sometimes still carries some of the same insecurities he tried so hard to mask when he was young. Some things don’t really change, but you really wish at least this would’ve.

Smiling at him, you shake your head. “I don’t think you still got it, though,” you go back to reply to his initial question, pointing towards the skateboard.

“Well, who knows,” he peeps, “maybe I could do an Ollie, or something.”

“I really don’t think you could, Sunwoo,” you laugh softly, watching him regain his statement competitiveness.

“Wanna bet?”

“No,” you shake your head, “I don’t want you to break your bones, so let’s just say I believe you,” you giggle, watching as the boy mirrors your expression, his gaze softening.

A short moment of silence overtakes you two as you sigh and look around the garden house, instinctively taking a seat on the red sofa covered in dust. You bet it’s been years since anyone’s sat on it, and you’re glad to be the one revisiting its comfort. It’s like solidifying your return– like the old piece of forgotten furniture in Sunwoo’s garden house is the spawn point of your childhood. “Doesn’t this make you nostalgic?” you ask, eyeing your companion.

“Well, I live here,” he shrugs, “so not as much as it makes you, I suppose. Having you here again makes it more nostalgic, though, I’ll give you that.”

His words have you overcome with something bittersweet. Seeing the town you love so much makes you almost regret you ever left. The rational side of your brain reminds you that you gained a lot of experience abroad, though, and so you settle with being just a little bit remorseful of your past self for being so overly-ambitious.

“It’s weird,” you allow yourself to be vulnerable in front of him, the essence of him being your best friend– your first love, the first person you ever felt safe with– overtaking you in the moment of weakness, “it’s like everybody moved on, but I stayed here.”

“Well, not everybody moved on,” Sunwoo hums, referring to himself. “Juyeon stayed, too. Eric and MB!Y/N are moving only a few hours away… Haknyeon lives down the street now,” he points out, a poor attempt at making you feel better.

“Yeah… it’s just… I hoped I would do big things. I hoped we would both do big things,” you say, tone of voice quiet, your eyes avoiding him. It’s hard to keep eye contact with him when you share your struggles– at least that’s the way it always was when you were young. The look he offered you always made you feel so tender, so cared for that you wanted to burst out crying. In your age and state, you can’t afford to tear up in front of your ex-boyfriend anymore.

“Sometimes, things don’t work out the way we want them to,” Sunwoo says, tone of voice considerate. “And that’s fine. I wanted to be a star, and I’m not, but that’s okay, because hey… I’m happy anyway. I’m content. And I know that one day, you’ll be too. It just takes a bit of time.”

Snickering, you play with your fingers in your lap, legs plopping up and crossed, striking an almost defensive pose. “Were you… were you embarrassed when you came back?” you ask.

Sunwoo laughs, the sound so heartfelt it makes your insides squeeze. “Terribly. I mean, look at me in my mid-twenties, still living with my mother. Even back then, I felt like a failure. I felt like a disappointment, but… then I realized not everyone had the opportunities I had. Not everyone almost made it professional, you know, and that’s still something to be proud of.”

“I’m still living with my mother, but hey– she’s getting older and the house is big. MB!Y/N moved out, and I wouldn’t want my mum to get lonely… so I think I’m doing pretty well, given the circumstances,” he says. Pausing for a heartbeat, as if collecting his thoughts, he continues. “I think you should find the positives in your situation too. Not everyone got to live in New York... Work for the national TV… That’s still a huge achievement, and I think you should be proud of yourself for that.”

Rolling your eyes– although grateful to hear the words– you snicker. “It’s hard to do that right now…”

“I know,” he nods, smiling when you finally look at him. “It takes time. And until then, well, for what it’s worth, I’m really proud of you. And maybe… maybe you coming back home is how life’s supposed to go anyways.”

Biting down on your lower lip to stop yourself from tearing up– see, you knew you shouldn’t have looked the boy in the eyes during his little pep talk– there’s suddenly a weight leaving your shoulders, heart softening and growing more tender. Your wounds seem to sting a little less. It’s strange– even after so many years, he still knows just the words you need to hear.

“Yeah,” you nod, voice barely louder than a whisper, a soft smile playing with your lips, “maybe.”

to. my first kiss

March 2000

His eyes stay glued to the TV in your living room, the boy almost looking hypnotized as he focuses on the program running, furrowed brows and all, showing his utmost concentration. A sigh lands into his ears, but goes unnoticed when you enter the room, a scowl sitting on your face. “Sunwoo! I told you to watch the oven! What if the cookies burn?”

“Yeah…” he mumbles, not a single word coming out of your mouth truly registering in his brain.

“Sunwoo!” you grunt, but when you get no reply, you just choose to roll your eyes and walk into your kitchen yourself, opening the oven and making sure the cookies you two have been baking haven’t burned down into coal yet. Not long after, you plop on the sofa next to your best friend, tone of voice still showing a bit of frustration at his carelessness.

“You shit on Eric for watching those, but you’re just as bad,” you hum as you notice the kdrama going on in the TV. It’s one of the ones that hardly make any sense and each scene is overly-exaggerated and repeated at least twice to create impact, but Sunwoo finds himself living for the drama. Each argument has him examining the scene, mentally rooting for his favorite characters– and although he is busy with football practice nowadays, he doesn’t skip a single episode of Happy Together.

It’s not as entertaining as the manga comics he borrows from Hyunjae’s father’s comic shop, but he figures that it’s good enough to pass some time… and indulge over.

“I think they’re gonna kiss,” he notes, pointing towards the screen.

“Oh, good point, Sherlock Holmes,” you sigh, shaking your head in disbelief. If there was something you’d expect out of your friend, it seemingly wasn’t his enjoyance of cheesy dramas that air in the afternoon hours of the week.

And Sunwoo admits, he was never the one to enjoy romance. Hell, it was something he always made fun of when it came to his friend Eric– he was not the one to watch romantic comedies, he wasn’t the one to tell girls cheesy lines or bring them flowers on Valentine’s day. He does seem to be enjoying the laughable scenes rolling on the TV a little too much lately, though.

Maybe he should start hanging out with Eric less.

The scene slowly transforms into close-ups of the two main characters, showing them instinctively closing their eyes and leaning towards each other, eyes trained on each other’s lips. It doesn’t take much to predict the next actions, but Sunwoo still finds himself restless in his seat when they finally kiss, legs kicking up and a gasp escaping his mouth. One would think he won the lottery or was just greeted with the greatest surprise ever, with how he’s reacting. None of the two are true, though.

“Oh, wow,” you hum next to him, seemingly not really interested in the drama as much as your best friend is.

“You’re ruining it,” Sunwoo sighs, looking at you as you roll your eyes and settle deeper into the couch cushions.

“Oh, sorry,” you note, but your composure stays a bit annoyed.

Sunwoo watches the TV for some more– the scene of the two characters kissing stays on the screen, slowed-down and repeated, in the true 90s TV show fashion– before his eyes trail off the device and move towards you, glazing your side profile. He takes notice of your casual attire– you changed out of your school uniform in the time he was supposed to watch the cookies baking in the oven, and something in his stomach churns, making him blurt out the random question that so suddenly appears on the tip of his tongue.

“Have you ever kissed anyone before?” he asks, genuinely curious. He doesn’t even know why the response matters to him so much– he also doesn’t really know what reply he’d like to hear better, if he’s being honest– but now it’s out in the open and he can’t take it back.

“Hm?” you hum, snapping your head towards him. “Oh. Yeah, I guess…”

“You guess..?” Sunwoo repeats, furrowing his brows. How can one not be sure?

“Well– yeah. It only happened once, though,” you shrug. It takes everything in Sunwoo to not ask who you kissed and when, or under what circumstances, and decide to despise that person until the day he dies. It’s not his business and he shouldn’t even care in the first place… He can’t say he’s disappointed in your answer– it’s your life and your decisions– but something inside of him screams that now, he can’t be your first no matter how hard he’d try. (It’s not like you’d want to kiss Sunwoo anyway, so he really doesn’t know why he’s making such a big deal about it.)

“What about you?” you ask, the question catching the poor boy off guard. He didn’t necessarily expect you to ask him back– so much to his title of Sherlock Holmes– and the reality that he can’t lie to you takes him out in full force as he bashfully stares out of the window.

“No,” he peeps, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

There’s something embarrassing about admitting to the girl you like that even at the ripe age of 19, you’ve never kissed anyone before. Shame creeps up his neck and adorns his cheeks after the simple word slips out of his mouth, eyes refusing to meet yours.

“Really?” you ask, and you sound genuinely surprised– there’s a hint of Sunwoo’s ego recovering, but he thinks the hit was too hard for him to ever recover.

“Yup,” he says, a popping sound heard as his lips voice out the last consonant, the view of him playing with his own fingers suddenly more interesting than anything else happening in your living room right at this moment.

“I thought– nevermind,” you hum, scratching the back of your neck, “why are you asking?”

“Just… just curious, I guess…?” he stummers, shrugging.

A moment of silence overtakes you two– enough to make the boy instantly hate everything he’s ever said on the matter. If there could open up a hole in the ground right now to swallow him, he’d jump in with much enthusiasm. Why did he have to ask?

“Do you wanna try?” you suddenly propose, making the boy’s heart feel like it burst and threw him into a cardiac arrest. His hands start sweating, his cheeks tint red and it feels like all oxygen was suddenly sucked out of the living room, his lungs collapsing on themselves.

You seem to try to save the situation, noticing the utter shock on his face. “I mean– you don’t have to, but I… I wouldn’t mind, and it’s– I don’t know… if you wanted to practice with me, or something, I’d be down to…” you stutter, chewing on your bottom lip as you finish the little tangent, terror evident in your eyes.

Sunwoo feels like a little boy that just found his favorite gift under the Christmas tree. Like he found the most pricey toy there, the one he always wanted, and now that it’s there, he’s scared to actually play with it, because he doesn’t want to break it. Much like your friendship, he thinks. There’s too much to lose if he crosses this line, and he’s very much aware.

But the offer seems tempting. Almost too tempting. God, he doesn’t think he could say no.

He may not be your first kiss, but you’re asking to be his. This sounds like a dream, if he really thinks about it.

“You know what? Just forget–”

“I’d– I’d like that…” he mumbles, trying really hard not to avert his gaze from you.

Your gaze softens, nodding your head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

“Okay,” you nod again, moving a little closer to him. Your knees knock into the side of his thigh, your whole figure now facing him on the sofa as his legs still point forward to the TV. He keeps staring at you, a little nervous, but expectant. “Are you sure? You don’t have to do it just because–”

“I’m sure,” he cuts you off, watching as your face relaxes, a smile appearing on your lips at the next addition. “I want to.”

“Okay.”

You move impossibly closer, your crossed legs in contact with his clothed skin. He curses the thin fabric of the pants of his school uniform for making him feel every slightest flex of your muscles when you move, making his skin flare up and burn. He keeps staring at you, watching you as you lean closer to him, your faces now inches away from each other. Sunwoo finds himself focusing on every feature of your face, counting the eyelashes framing your eyes, glazing over the sparkles in your orbs. You stay close for a minute, unmoving.

Eyes locking, Sunwoo finds himself gasping a little, breathing shuddering when he notices your gaze falling to his lips. Your breathing mixes, air meeting his face when you breathe out a minty breeze. His heart is already racing and you’re not even doing anything.

When he finds you finally moving towards him and notices your eyes shutting close, he mirrors your actions, but stays unmoving. After what feels like eternity, he feels something soft pressing to his lips, warmth spreading from that part of his face to the rest of his body. The contact of your lips with his is gentle, like you’re testing the waters, and although the feeling is unfamiliar, Sunwoo decides he doesn’t hate it.

The weird firework show in his stomach actually suggests that he’s quite enjoying it. Your lips break away from his for a bit, rewarding him with only a peck, and before the boy has the chance to think this is it and it’s over, you dive in for more and kiss him again, this time longer, more firmer.

Your hands come up to cradle his cheeks, holding him close. He feels himself burning up, his composure completely crumbling when he feels you smile against his lips.

“You know you can kiss back, right?”

“Mhm,” he hums, opening his eyes to see you staring at him with a tender look.

“Try it,” you say, hands gently coming up to brush his bangs away from his face. If anyone was looking at the two of you now, Sunwoo thinks they’d conclude that you two were in love.

And maybe Sunwoo was, by the way he was looking up at you like you hung the stars on the sky. By the way he was staring at you with such a vulnerable look he feared you might see right through him, see right to his core and call him out on every unconfessed word hiding in his heart. He looks a little scared, a little tense, still, but his eyes don’t lie. They never do. There’s no one else that could make him feel the way you do.

“Okay,” he nods, moving in his position so he’s facing you, ready for more.

He mirrors your previous motions, leaning towards your face. He wets his lips and closes his eyes when he’s sure he’s close enough to not miss your mouth, and after another deep breath in to calm his nerves, he presses against you. He feels you freezing under him, a momentary panic spreading all over his chest as he thinks he’s done something wrong, before he feels you kissing him back.

A whole other sensation takes over him when he feels your lips moving against his, his fingertips buzzing when he drags his hand up and moves your hair behind your shoulder, large hand resting on your jaw. He’s not sure if he’s doing this correctly– hell, he’s never done this before– but after you move a bit and entangle your hands behind his neck, pressing against him a bit more firmly, yet still tender and gentle like the first time, he recognises that somehow, it feels right, and he thinks that’s all evaluation he needs for now.

The need for oxygen makes him break away from you, breathing heavily as he opens his eyes and finds you resting your forehead against his, smiling. “Like that?” he asks, shamelessly staring at your wet lips, already yearning for more.

“Something like that,” you nod, giggling. “You still need more practice, though,” you suggest, making the boy frown.

“Was it that ba–”

Rolling your eyes at him, frustrated at the way he always needs everything spelled out for him, refusing to take a hint, you press your lips against his again, teeth clashing a little when Sunwoo picks up the pace and kisses you back. The TV is a mere white noise in the background now, everything around you two disappearing, all of Sunwoo’s senses focused on you and only you. He could get lost in the way you taste– like strawberry bubblegum you bought at the store on the corner of the street– and the way you feel against him– soft, tender, warm.

He feels like he could burst. He knows his hands are a bit sweaty, but he’s only half aware of the fact when his palms move to hold your cheeks, much like you did to him before, and your hands entangle in his hair, playing with the strands.

He could stay like this forever, blissfully unaware of the consequences of this act. He could kiss you over and over and over again, even if it meant he was still bad at it and needed more practice– he could get lost in your scent, in the tender way you hold him to you, in the way you keep smiling against his lips whenever he does something to surprise you: like get a little bolder and angle your head by your chin with his thumb, getting more comfortable.

He’s glad he’s sitting down, because he’s quite sure his knees are too weak to carry him right now. When you break away from him again, lips swollen and eyes blown-out, he thinks you might just be an angel. He’d love to engrave this image into his memories forever.

Although, he’s doubtful that he could ever forget about this. Or anything about you, really.

And even as you suddenly gasp, finally aware of the world around you, running to the kitchen and screaming: “Sunwoo! We forgot about the cookies!”,

he wonders just what more you could teach him about life. He’d follow you to the end of the world if you asked him to, holding your hand in his and not thinking twice. He’d bring you down a star, if you only so expressed you would like one. He’d do anything.

You taught him what friendship is. You taught him what it means to care for someone. What it means to have someone special. You taught him how to drink (although by scolding him when he was hungover. He felt cared for even with your stern gaze). You taught him how to slow dance– even though you spent the prom with someone else. Just now, you taught him how to kiss.

And although you’re unaware, he’s quite certain that when he’s 19 years old, spending each of his days with you, although unaware, you taught him how to love someone too.

August 2007

You feel kind of silly, standing in front of the bakery as the sun sets over the horizon, the clock striking near 5 in the afternoon as you gnaw on your fingernails and hesitate a little before coming in. Pushing the door open and slipping inside, the male currently sweeping the floor looks over at you, a look of pleasant surprise sitting at his face and a sunny smile sent your way upon your arrival.

You don’t really know why you keep running back to him. The whole town reeks of familiarity to you, every corner and inch of each street filled with the essence of your childhood and your whole growing up. It’s not like you don’t have anything else to ground yourself back to, but somehow, your inner voice always keeps calling for Sunwoo. It’s weird– it’s been ages and you shouldn’t feel like this around someone who you haven’t even properly dated for that long, if you don’t count the few months before he left– but it’s something you can’t control, an essence you can’t hold back.

“Y/N,” he calls for you, “what are you doing here?” he asks as he continues his routinal cleaning, putting the broom away behind the counter.

It’s a stupid question. You bet he realizes it too, but you’re somehow glad he is taking initiative. This way, you don’t have to be the first one to spark the conversation. This way, you know you’re welcome.

“Oh, well,” you shrug, “I’m… looking for you…?” you say, tone of voice suggesting that you’re hesitant, almost a little shy to admit it to yourself.

Maybe you’re foolish for feeling this way. Because you know what all those things mean– you know what the lightness in your stomach is, what the giddy feeling resonating through you whenever the male smiles at you is. You know that thinking about someone constantly, more so before you sleep, isn’t an usual occurrence with someone you pay no attention to, with someone you don’t care about. You’ve been in love before– with the same man that’s standing right in front of you as well, funnily enough. You know what this all means.

But with how he’s inviting you in, letting you into his little bubble, you think it’s not as bad of a thing. He’s not pushing you away. He’s not building bridges. He’s the same way he was all those years ago, and you’d hate to find out that all of this wasn’t something more and was just him being nice.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” he chuckles, wiping his hands on the apron still tied around his waist. “I’m off in a few, though, so if you want anything from the bakery–”

“I’m not here for the food,” you laugh, dismissing him with a wave of your hand. The boldness is unusual for the present you– there’s a hint of your past shining through whenever you are with the boy, though. Maybe you like this sense of familiarity. Maybe you like to feel real again– maybe you like to feel like yourself. It’s hard to admit it, but you did lose your sense of identity after moving abroad. It’s hard to stay true to yourself with so many new people around and with so many expectations and responsibilities. The pressure changes you, and you now rely on Kim Sunwoo to bring you back to default– to where you’re supposed to be.

“Okay, then,” he nods, thankfully not making a big deal out of your desperate visit, “what would you like to do?” he asks, eyes sparkling under the lights when he looks at you. It’s like an open invitation– he gives you the chance to tell him how you’d like to spend your time with him. He did this a lot when you two were younger as well. It felt good to have someone that would make the effort to enjoy your hobbies with you– no matter how disinterested he could be in the matter.

“Hang out… I guess…?” you hum, shrugging. You didn’t really have anything planned. All you knew was that you wanted to be with him. It’s like the heart’s calling– you don’t know when your inner monologue got so cliche.

“Anything specific?” he asks.

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you shake your head in disapproval. You fear that you disappointed him, let him down in some way– you came all the way here, after all. You could’ve made something up on the way, couldn’t you? But still– just like the Sunwoo you once knew, so lively and full of ideas– he just purses his lips for a second before speaking the suggestion into existence.

“Well… do you want to bake with me? Like the old times?” he says, sending you a look full of warm honey.

You wouldn’t say no to that invitation. You’d be crazy to do so.

The Kim Sunwoo you used to bake cookies with in the comfort of your kitchen back home wasn’t so skilled in making the dough like he is now. He wasn’t so good at knowing the recipe from memory, nor was he gifted with the kitchen appliances he has now, all professional and shiny, reserved just for the use of the bakery. You don’t really know if he even had the love for baking in him back then– you just know you two enjoyed your time together, and when you are young, that’s all you really cared about anyway. It didn’t matter that he let the cookies burn sometimes. It didn’t really matter that they didn’t turn out well on some days– all morphing into one big block, making you cut the dough into pieces so you could eat it when you accidentally added too much butter.

He still looks the same, though. A few years older, but with the same boyish aura to him when he wipes dirty hands on his apron. All grown up now, but still with the same glint in his eye whenever he looks up at you in between your conversations. When you’re with him, you no longer feel the distance between who you are and who you used to be, the distance between you and him. It’s like the old days, but a little better.

Maybe you have more time now.

The two of you work on the cookie dough, enveloped in a comfortable conversation. “You have to add more sugar,” Sunwoo hums from next to you, watching as you work on the mixture.

“Isn’t it funny how I was the one always giving you directions when we baked together and now you’re the one ordering me around?” you laugh, taking the sugar from the counter and sprinkling more in, listening to the opinion of a professional.

“Well, my cookies don’t turn into one big blob of dough anymore,” he jokes, laughing. “Besides, it’s my job now, so you’d kind of expect me to be good at it.”

“You can’t be so sure of that…” you hum, shaking your head.

“Why? Do you have any experience with being bad at your job?”

“Oh you bet I do,” you laugh, nodding. “I was an intern before, Sunwoo. A colleague of mine once tried to console me by saying being an intern means being bad at the job, so it wasn’t that big of a deal, but I still cried myself to sleep multiple nights,” you conclude, thinking back to your New York endeavors.

“That bad?” Sunwoo asks empathetically.

“Yeah. Mixed up everyone’s coffee order on my first day. When I was confronted about it, I tried to play it off by saying I don’t have a good memory…” you muse.

“Well, it’s hard to remember a lot of stuff at once, to be fair–”

“I was getting coffee for three people, Sunwoo. Objectively speaking, it shouldn’t be as hard…” you say, now thinking back to the events of your internship with more humor than embarrassment.

Sunwoo laughs at your story, shaking his head in disbelief. “Not worse than my teammate back in Boston. The first match of the season, he scored a goal against our own team. His reasoning? He used to play against the goalie back in high school, so he got confused.”

The boy takes over at making the dough once it’s the turn to add in the chocolate chips, glancing at you momentarily when you laugh at his anecdote. Watching him from the side, you heave out through your laughs. “That’s actually hilarious,” you get out, washing your hands in the sink. “What about some funny stories about yourself, though?”

“Don’t have any. I’m too perfect to humiliate myself like that,” he notes, pressing his lips together and raising his eyebrows at you in an ironic expression, nodding.

“Oh, as if–”

“How is it?” he asks you suddenly in the middle of the sentence, seemingly done with kneading the mixture. Sunwoo puts the cookie dough in front of your lips, waiting for you to taste it. You’d do it all the time when you were both teenagers, but back then, the gesture didn’t feel half as intimate as the mere image of it does now.

Locking eyes with the male, you hesitantly open your mouth and let him put the dough into it, tasting the sweetness on your tongue. Sunwoo’s eyes darken, as if he’s just realized what he’s done, the weight of the situation falling down on him as your tongue comes in contact with the skin of his fingertips. Gulping, he watches as you suck the tip of his digit into your mouth, getting all last remains of the sweetness off of it, something in the air shifting towards a direction you didn’t expect from tonight.

“Good,” you nod, licking your lips, “delicious.”

Seconds turn to what feels like eternities as you stop all motion and look into each other’s eyes, finding any hint of disapproval with the so obvious turn of events. His chocolate orbs peer into yours, making you ignite with something close to an urge you can’t control, his eyes anchoring themselves to the curve of your lips when you decide to let go of all anxiety and insecurities and just go for it. The cookie dough was sweet, but you’ve never tasted anything sweeter than Sunwoo’s lips. You might just have to refresh your mind, you think.

Leaning closer to him, your breathing mixing in the few centimeters left between your mouths, you relish in the déja vu this action brings you. It feels like yesterday, yet also centuries ago since you last kissed the male, and although you’re sure you enjoyed it back then, you wish you could’ve told the younger you to kiss him more often, more firmly, with more passion, maybe even sooner. For longer.

Pressing your lips against his first, almost like always– since Kim Sunwoo was a bit shy with his kisses when you were both just high school seniors– your eyes shut close and everything around you disappears. You guess there’s something about baking that makes the two of you want to feed off each other’s lips– except this time, it’s not practice anymore. It’s not innocent, it’s not clueless. This time, it’s real, alive and passionate. You can’t say you hate the sentiment, the weird parallel your relationship has come to. It’s like you’re reliving your life again, but this time, you know how the story ends– you know how to fix the ending. How to keep him here.

Sunwoo’s more experienced than he was when you kissed him for the first time. He’s less shy and more bold, lips firmer against yours, but still careful and gentle. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw and position you so he has the best access to your mouth as he slips his tongue in, as if chasing down the taste of cookie dough he fed you just a few seconds ago, and although you liked to battle him when you were young, you let him win this time– you let him take you home, bring your mind to where it’s supposed to be.

Hands gripping the front of his shirt, but immediately going to circle around his neck when a particular movement of his makes you moan slightly into his mouth, you play with the hair on his nape and feel him shuddering under your movements, an automatic response that makes fondness spread over your chest. Everything about him is familiar to you– he still reacts the same way to your tender ministrations, he still smiles against your lips when you tangle your fingers through his hair and want to ground yourself in the touch.

You know him like the palm of your hand. It’s easy to get lost in something you are so familiar with, in someone that was once your everything. It’s easy to indulge too much in something that was forcefully taken from you, to get right back where you left with him, because time and circumstances were never on your side.

A touch of his hand on the side of your neck, lips trailing down your mouth towards your jaw. The boldness, the urgency of his movements is enough to have you turn your back against the counter, his body pressed tightly against yours. His palms under the backside of your knees have you sitting up on the cold marble, his lips never breaking away from your skin.

You’re enjoying the shift in the dynamic. You’re enchanted with the way he handles you, like he’s been starved of you for years, wanting to chase down all the time you spent away from each other. Breathing heavily, feeling his plush lips sucking down on the sweet spot under your ear, then trailing down the side until he reaches the juncture of your neck, an involuntary “God…” slips past your mouth.

“I missed you,” he says, words muffling against your skin, “I missed you so much, I felt like I was going crazy.”

The confession makes you dizzy, your whole body growing weak. It’s like he knows exactly what words you wanted to hear. It’s like he knows what haunted you all those years, what you kept asking the universe on sleepless nights over and over, praying for an answer. It’s like he knows exactly how to get you close to him, to have you completely let go of the past.

“I missed your jokes,” he says, planting a kiss on your neck. “I missed your smile,” he presses another one a little more up, “I missed your laugh,” another kiss, now on your jaw. “I missed holding your hand,” a peck planted to the corner of your lips, “and I missed kissing you…” he trails off, pointing his attention back on your mouth, locking the two of you together again, as if kissing you was his new addiction and you were the drug.

Sunwoo’s hot hand creeps up your waist, fingers slipping under the thin fabric of your tank top. The contact makes you shiver in response, your bodies still as responsive to each other as back when you were 19, and when you tug at his bottom lip with your teeth and slip your tongue back into his mouth, you feel the boy tug at the right strap of your top, sliding it down your shoulder. You’re barely registering the bowl of dough to your right, the fact that you’re in the kitchen of Juyeon’s parent’s bakery, or the fact that you only just met the boy two weeks ago for the first time in years. All you focus on is him– his touch, his taste, the way he makes you feel. All you know is longing. The desire.

Before you have the chance to take anything further, the sound of the door opening makes you jump away from each other– your head almost hitting the top cabinets, had Sunwoo not instinctively put his hand there to shield you from the impact. Before you get a chance to register what’s happening, a familiar voice calls for you, their tone a little guilty and bashful.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt, or anything–” Juyeon peeps, clearing his throat.

Glancing at Sunwoo, you see his cheeks redden at being caught by his older friend, yet his eyes still roll in annoyance at the interruption. You can’t help but try to hide your face into his shoulder– it’s not like you’re embarrassed of being with Sunwoo, you’re just embarrassed that it had to happen here, of all places.

“Well, you just did,” Sunwoo grunts, frustration coating his words.

“I’m just here to grab something,” Juyeon hums, almost racing through the room to get to the fridge on the other side of the kitchen, taking out a carton of milk from the inside and showing it to the two of you. “This is gonna go bad soon, so I’m taking it home to use it. Uhm.. anyways, well, don’t let me stop you in anything… bye!”

Neither of you greet the male back, instead sharing a meaningful, knowing look between each other. The view of your first boyfriend with his lips puffy, cheeks flushed and hair a little disheveled makes your senses go crazy, and although you’d like to continue what you started, you don’t think now is the right time or place.

Hopping off the counter, you smile. “So… where were we with the cookies?”

to. my first girlfriend

May 2000

Eyes trained on the ball, feet restless as he runs across the field to retrieve it and pass it to one of the shooters– either Donghyuck or Jinyoung, the more capable ones of the team– Sunwoo finds himself completely focused on the game. It’s one of the last matches of the season, and since he doesn’t know if he’s ever going to play his favorite sport again– he hasn’t received a verdict on the university applications he sent yet– the boy figures he should enjoy each game like it’s the last. Because who knows– one day, it may as well be, and if he’s not prepared for it, if he has any regrets, he knows he’ll take it harder than he’s supposed to.

Kim Sunwoo’s position in football is midfielder. While Eric once told him that it’s a loser position, since he’s not the shooter and he doesn’t score many goals (which is a lie– the boy had him know he scored his fair share despite his defensive position on the field), Sunwoo’s grown to love it. He’s the one that’s supposed to counter all attacks on his teammates. He’s the one that runs after the ball and passes it to the shooters, so technically, he’s the reason why any of them even have the opportunity to score. His position is as important as any other player's, and he takes pride in the compliments he gets from his coach whenever he does particularly well at a game.

Sunwoo loves football. He’d say his first love is football, but something inside of him keeps telling him that that’s a lie (don’t ask him why. It’s a secret.). It’s the first game he’s ever been exceptionally good at, the first thing he could do for periods longer than a few weeks. He’s been playing with the ball since he was young, and although he never had a father to kick the football around with in his backyard, his sister was always happy to be included in anything he was into at the time– when she got older, she even got better at being his designated goalie, although less interested in the play itself. Sunwoo feels like he lets go of all worries when he plays. It’s good to have an escape, something to keep his mind occupied. He doesn’t have many things to worry about, but he finds that kicking the ball around, making strategies in his brain on how to get it to his teammates the fastest, is enough for him to get out both his frustration and get something nice out of it. He enjoys the thrill. He enjoys the excitement, the shared joy of the team whenever someone scores a goal. He is addicted to the ecstasy in his veins whenever his team wins.

It was easy to determine that if Sunwoo wanted to do anything for the rest of his life, it would be football. It’s what he enjoys, what he loves. It’s what he’s good at.

It’s strange to imagine a time when he wouldn’t play football. He doesn’t even want to imagine it in the first place– it makes a chill run down his spine and an unsettling feeling churn in his stomach. In a perfect world, he’s always a football player.

Everyone keeps telling him he could easily make it professional, if he tried.

Football is how he met most of his friends. It’s how he met Juyeon– he was the captain of the high school team when Sunwoo was a sophomore, and he found that hanging out with the older boy was easy and fun. It’s how he met Donghyuck and Jihoon (before the latter dropped out of the team after a few months). It’s how he met you.

His coach always warned the players about dating the cheerleaders. For his coach, it wasn’t right to do so– it would throw off the dynamic of the game. “Nobody wants their ex to stare at them during their game!” the coach had said– not even thinking of the possibility of any of those teenage romances to last. Sunwoo only laughed back then. It wasn’t something he should be afraid of– he never liked anyone on the cheer team.

Until… until he did. Sunwoo met you on one sunny day, at your joint cheer-slash-football practice. You pointed out that the number on his jersey– 03– was your favorite, and the boy felt himself smile. Ever since then, he never wore any other number. He considered it to be his lucky charm. What started as friendship blossomed into something much more for the boy, and somehow, he can’t even remember when the feelings he had for you morphed into adoration. He doesn’t know when they shifted Into absolute enchantment, or Into a silly crush– he doesn’t know when he started seeing you in a light that was more romantic.

Wearing your favorite number on his back, Sunwoo runs towards the opposing player. There’s something akin to an angry face playing with the man’s features, and Sunwoo imagines it’s because of the very clear lead his team has on them. Sunwoo makes sure he doesn’t slip as he tackles the opposing player– he swears he heard someone call the shooter Jaechan– and as soon as he secures the ball, Sunwoo aims to forward it to his teammate.

The screams resonating all around him– although he tries hard to filter them out to focus on the game completely– suggest that it’s only a few moments before the game is over. It wouldn’t matter even if they didn’t score the goal, but something inside of Sunwoo’s heart leaps at the thought of winning with such a lead. The boyish excitement only grows when he watches Donghyuck retrieve the goal and run towards the goalpost, neon-orange sneakers shining through the green grass.

“Come on!” Sunwoo cheers, a hopeful spark lighting within him as the boy prepares to shoot, eyes quickly scanning the field.

And Lee Donghyuck almost never lets him down. Maybe that’s why he liked the boy so much in the first place– Sunwoo didn’t like players that dismissed the chance he won for them. He liked the skillful ones. The ones that knew what they were doing. (He also liked Donghyuck’s humor. He found himself grateful to have a friend so funny. He made even losing feel like it wasn’t such a big deal.)

Choosing the golden shooter proved to be a good idea once again– Donghyuck, number 35, shoots for the goal and the ball gets in. Seconds after, the sound of a whistle is heard across the place, the game over with Sunwoo’s team winning 4:1.

Everyone cheers– yells from the audience are heard, excitement reeking through the air. The whole football team gathers around, sweaty bodies sticking together as they perform some sort of a cliche group hug, arms patting each other’s backs and complimenting each other’s play.

The commotion dissolves shortly after. Sunwoo finds himself trying to catch his breath, eyes looking across the space for someone in particular. His heart leaps even harder when he finds you standing at the edge of the field in your cheer uniform, a big smile plastered on your face. Your eyes are glimmering as they meet with his. Your hair is a little tousled from the routine you just finished doing and there are smears and smudges on your cheeks from the face paint you used to symbolize the team’s colors– blue and gold. Over-all, you look ecstatic.

Sunwoo finds himself running over to you before he even registers that he’s going to do it. He’s like a fast, unguided missile, the goal of getting to you as fast as possible being the only thing resonating through his excited mind.

“Good jo-” you grunt as the boy finally gets to you, words cutting off when he (maybe a little harshly) puts his arms around your middle and picks you up, twirling you around. You screech a little into his ear and he finds himself laughing at your reaction. It’s like a runner's high– he feels like right now, he is capable of everything.

“Okay! Okay! Put me down!” you laugh when you start to get a little dizzy. The boy complies, since he’s running out of strength to carry you anyways, and puts you back to your feet. His arms stay tightly wrapped around your body, though, locking you into a secure hug.

“We won!” he cheers, the brightest grin settling to his lips as he announces the obvious.

You beam at him, eyes soft and crinckled into little moon crescents, a dumbfounded smile playing with your features. “I know, Sherlock,” you dismiss him again with the teasing nickname, shaking your head in disbelief, “I was here. Cheering for you,” you say.

And sure, Sunwoo knows that by you, you don’t necessarily mean him in particular– more like cheering for the whole team, the whole 11 players on the field– but something about the sentiment makes his stomach feel all light and a slight blush spread over his glowing cheeks. You were here– cheering for him (and his team) – and although you’re here out of your own will, out of your own devotion to your hobby, he somehow feels grateful for your presence. You never miss a game. You went even when you caught the flu and felt too sick to do your cheer routine– you just sat on the bench and rooted for your best friend. (The team lost that match. Sunwoo felt a little bad for tugging you out of your bed for it.)

The boy studies your face for a while. You look perfectly content in his hold. You fit perfectly into his arms, he thinks– almost like you’re supposed to be there all the time. He should hug you more often, he decides. Sunwoo foolishly finds himself focusing onto your lips– he blames the shiny lipgloss you put on today– the words coming out of your mouth not quite registering in his brain. “As I was saying, good job! The whole team, but you especially. Don’t tell anyone, but I think you really shined in this game. I’m really prou–”

A single peck is pressed to your glossy, sticky lips, cutting you off in the middle of the sentence yet again. Sunwoo surprises himself with the gesture– he was always too shy to initiate something with you, too hesitant to even touch you sometimes– but the euphoria is still playing with his senses, clouding his brain. He doesn’t think of consequences.

He can’t control himself anymore. It’s been weeks since you two kissed for the first time– exactly 4 and a half weeks since you taught him how to do so– and since that afternoon, he found himself thinking about it every single day, every single minute, all. The. Time. You two haven’t spoken about it since, making the poor boy a little disappointed, but he respected your decision. He knew that you didn’t particularly reciprocate his feelings, but he still expected your dynamic to shift. At least a little bit.

And although he should’ve been glad nothing changed and your friendship didn’t crumble because of a simple kiss, he found himself desiring to kiss you every time he saw your face.

You peer at him with eyes wide open, mouth a little agape. Sunwoo doesn’t really know how to read your reaction– you didn’t look particularly happy, but you also didn’t push him away– and so in the moment of panic, he begins to backtrack, his arms untangling from your sides.

“I- I’m sorry if I overstepped any boundary, or if I–”

You’re not fans of letting each other finish their sentences today, it seems. Before Sunwoo gets a chance to put a bigger distance between the two of you, he watches as you get on your tippy-toes and press a tender kiss on his lips– more firmer than the one he dared to give you, a little bit longer, yet still sweetly short. There’s something soft and gentle in your gaze when you pull away and press another peck onto his face– the tip of his nose this time– and Sunwoo almost physically feels his knees turning into jello, his own celebratory firework show erupting in the pits of his stomach.

“So, as I was saying,” you hum, hugging the boy around his neck, “you did well. You looked good out there,” you peep, the sparks in your eyes making Sunwoo’s skin burn with their contact.

That day, you teach him that to be loved is to have someone sharing your achievements with. To be loved is to be adored, to be loved is to have someone watching you and cheering you on, to have someone to run to with good news.

Kim Sunwoo’s football team won the match, but the boy thinks that perhaps, that day, he won something even greater.

to. my first lover

August 2000

The admission papers arrive at his house the morning he’s supposed to sleep over at your house. Your parents decided to take a trip to your aunt’s place for two days, so you invite the boy into the comfort of your home for the weekend– as far as Sunwoo’s mother is concerned, he’s sleeping over at Juyeon’s. He doesn’t have the boy covering him, but he’s also sure his mother won’t try to check if he’s telling her the truth. He’s not banned from having a girlfriend– he just doesn’t want his mum to get any wrong ideas.

He finds the envelope in the mailbox when he comes home from school, and something in his stomach drops when he sees the american stamp on the top right corner of the white paper. He debates on opening it, but every time he hypes himself up enough to tear the top of the envelope off, a little anxious voice on his inside tells him to wait.

Although reluctant to admit it to himself, Sunwoo is a little scared to see the result of his university application. Before he leaves for your house, he puts the envelope into the front pocket of his backpack and tries to forget about it. It works a bit better when he sees your face, hears your laugh– when he spends time with you and you two play the new board game you got from your cousin. Still, the weight of the envelope keeps bugging him in his mind no matter how hard he tries forgetting about it, and you finally notice (or finally bring it up after hours of ignoring his weird mood) when the two of you lay together in your bed in the evening, both facing the ceiling.

“Is everything alright?” you ask.

“Hm?” Sunwoo hums, lost in thought. “Oh, yeah,” he nods, “don’t worry.”

You don’t seem convinced. Shuffling a little in your sheets, you turn towards him and move your body closer to his, your arm suddenly draping over his middle. A tender kiss is placed on his temple, almost making him crumble under the gentle care, and your voice earns a concerned kind of timbre when you speak to him. “You can tell me,” you hum, “boyfriends and girlfriends are supposed to tell each other things.”

Boyfriends and girlfriends. Sunwoo feels himself soften under the possessive title. It has been close to 4 months of you dating– starting with the winning match in April, progressing slowly through the summer break– but the fact that you’re his partner is still a little unbelievable to him. Sometimes, when he hears you call him your boyfriend, he still gets a little bashful. He still feels like he’s been told the greatest news of his life.

Maybe it’s the nature of this sentiment that has him slowly unraveling to you. And maybe, it’s because he’d tell you anyways– you’d be the first to know. He was just waiting for the right time to bring it up.

“The reply to my university application came in the mail this morning…” he trails off, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

You plop up on your elbow, watching the boy from above. Eyes big, you peer into his face. “And?” you ask, an expecting gaze glazing his features.

“I… I don’t know,” he shrugs, “I was too scared to open it alone.”

“O-Oh,” you nod, furrowing your brows at him, “well, it’s okay to be scared. I believe in you, but even if it doesn’t go the way you wanted it to, I’m still proud of you for trying,” you say, a gentle tone of voice cooing at him, like the nature of the way you play with his hair, wanting to make the boy relax from his anxieties.

“I have the letter here with me,” he says, swallowing, “in my bag.”

“Do you want to open it together?” you ask, watching as the boy nods.

He’s getting off the bed in no time, wearing just sweatpants and a baggy shirt to sleep in, grabbing his bag from the corner of your room and unzipping the small compartment at the front. His fingers take the envelope out, legs walking him over back to your bed, your figure now sitting against the headboard. Sunwoo finds himself mirroring your position as his fingers turn the little white thing in his hold with much stumbling, preparing himself for whatever answer awaits him inside.

Glancing at you, seeing you looking at him with an encouraging expression on your face, Sunwoo takes a big breath in and out to calm his nerves before he tears the top open and takes out the expensive-feeling paper. Not stopping his actions anymore, knowing that if he takes another moment to himself, he won’t be able to read the letter, he unravels the note and lets his eyes skim over the words.

Before he even has a chance to register the sentences written down in the letter, before he can even let his mind accept the result he’s given– ‘we are pleased to announce that you were admitted to the athlete scholarship program…’– he feels a pair of arms wrapping around his shoulders, jolting him awake from his thoughts.

“You made it! Oh my god, you made it!” you cheer, excitement taking over your whole body as you shake the boy in your hold from side to side. The reality still isn’t quite settling in for him, so he just lets you do whatever you please– which includes all of the following: screaming incoherent words into his ear when you hug him closer to your chest, planting a kiss to his cheek and throwing your hands up into the air in a winning gesture.

“You made it, Sunwoo,” you repeat, this time a little more collected.

Sunwoo finally allows himself to put the letter away and look into your eyes. “I made it,” he sighs, a soft smile playing with his features.

“You did!” you nod, grinning back.

It’s strange. The first step towards Sunwoo’s dream is now complete. He got admitted to the university of his dreams– the one that’s good for athletes, the one that is supposed to shoot him towards stardom. He has the opportunity to take classes there and train with some of the best aspiring players in the whole world. He has the opportunity to move out of the country, live at dorms in Boston, and most importantly, he has everyone’s support.

There’s nothing more a boy his age could want more. He has everything. His whole life ahead of him, only the brightest future waiting for him at the end– only if he keeps trying hard and improving. He’s happy. Don’t get him wrong– he really is. Somehow, though, it all feels a bit scary.

“What’s wrong? Aren’t you excited?” you ask, a pout taking over your once excited features. The amount of worries you have over Sunwoo gets bigger and bigger the older the two of you are. There are only so many things that can go wrong when you are a teenager, but now that you’re adulting, the list keeps getting longer.

“I am,” he nods, forcing a smile onto his lips.

“You don’t seem excited,” you argue.

“I am! I really am,” he says, trying to battle with himself.

“What is it?”

“What is what?”

“Come on, Sunwoo,” you sigh, “I can tell when something’s wrong. You don’t have to hide it from me, because I’ll know anyway. What is it?” you insist, staring the boy down with an examining look.

The boy sighs, shrugging to himself. “Well,” he starts, “the school is in America.”

“And?” you start, furrowing your eyebrows. “We knew that when you applied. Why is it such a problem now?” you ask, genuinely not grasping the whole situation.

Sunwoo chews on his cheek for a little while, plays with his fingers in his lap. A part of him is telling him that he both looks and seems foolish– because you’re right. It was his dream, he is excited, and this is good news. But still, there’s something he didn’t really think of when applying. Well, he did. He just thinks that the fact that him being accepted wasn’t really a realistic idea, no matter how hard he wished and prayed for it, so he didn’t have the need to think about it so seriously back then. Now it’s here, all real, and it’s a struggle he didn’t really grasp that he was going to have to go through.

“Well,” he starts again, still avoiding your eyes, “that means I have to move. And we won’t see each other for a while.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence following his confession– one in which he contemplates all possible reactions you might give him, some with truly catastrophic endings– but after what seems like eternities, he hears your soft, gentle voice. “Is that what’s making you so worried?” you ask.

“Kind of,” he nods, feeling his cheeks redden. You handle him with so much care– sometimes, he doesn’t know how to react.

“Awh,” you coo, taking his hand into yours, preventing him from picking at the skin of his cuticles until they bleed– an action he always does and you keep scolding him for. “Sunwoo, we knew about this when you applied. I am okay with you going away. Sure, it will suck, but it’s only for a little time, and I can come visit you there and you’ll show me around and stuff…”

Sunwoo presses a tight-lipped, hesitant smile to his lips. He feels reassured.

“And we’ll call, and it’s going to be fine, because this is good. This is good news, Sunwoo, and you’re gonna do great, and you’re gonna be a star, and I’ll be so, so proud of you,” you hum, voice tender and caring, doing your best at consoling the boy.

“I’m already so proud of you now, y’know?” you hum, squeezing his hand. “Everything will be alright, so don’t you worry.”

Sunwoo’s arms reach out to envelop you into a hug. He once again recognises how easily you fit into his arms, how perfectly you shape into his skin, and when he burrows his nose into your neck, breathing in your scent, he feels your lips reach into his hair, planting a soft kiss into it. Your words did more to the boy than only consult him– they gave him hope, they gave him joy, they made him feel like perhaps, this is not such a terrifying occurrence. And it really isn’t– it’s quite possibly the best thing that he’s ever achieved, and the circumstances of him leaving don’t seem as horrifying to him now.

As long as he knows that you have his back, he thinks he can do anything. And what’s 3 years abroad against the 4 years he’s known you?

When you pull away, you press your lips against his, the contact making his muscles finally relax and his mind let go of all the worries. There’s suddenly nothing in the world that could make him falter, nothing that could make him worry or stress or fret or change his mind, because he has your support, and you’re here with him, promising him that you’ll always be right by his side, wherever he is.

Your mouth molds against his, the familiar motion of your lips against his still surprising him sometimes, still making him curious even after those months. He’s been dating you for some while, but he still likes to explore what makes you crumble under him, what makes you hum into the kiss, what makes you tug him closer to you– it’s a fun game to him, trying to figure you out completely.

He still has some time, but it’s like he is trying to engrave those moments into his memory before he no longer can experience them first-hand as easily.

He goes out to explore again– his tongue gently inviting itself into your mouth with a swipe of your lower lip, relishing in the way your composure falters a little bit, letting him be in charge. You were always the more experienced one out of you two, so Sunwoo often shied away from being the one dominating intimate situations– afraid he’s not good enough, too inexperienced, too immature for you– but in the rare moments he does take the lead, your reactions give him a new source of confidence.

His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, nose pressing against your cheek as he angles you so he has more access to your lips. Something about his ministrations makes you forget to breathe, breaking away from him in a search for much needed oxygen, but Sunwoo acts like he’s been starved of you, latching his lips to the trail from your mouth towards your neck, planting open-mouthed kisses to your soft skin. He faintly remembers the time you gave him a lovebite that one time you came over to his house to work on homework together, sucking and biting at his neck (and although he enjoyed seeing the possessive bruise on his skin whenever he saw himself in the mirror, he wore the strings of his hoodies tightly tied to his neck, shielding him from being teased by everyone– but mostly Eric). He tries to mirror your motions, recreating the action to the best of his abilities.

He hears you grunt, making him fear that he’s doing it wrong– a momentarily panic settling in his chest screaming at him that he hurt you– but the worries are quickly dismissed as you move impossibly closer to the boy, straddling his lap and threading your fingers through his hair, keeping him close.

Humming under his touch, Sunwoo gets a kick from hearing the sounds coming out of your mouth. It’s like a reward– it’s like the praise he goes after his whole life, like validation of his actions being satisfactory for you. The pressure of your body against his lap makes him feel hot all over, sweaty hands holding you by your sides. Every slightest shift of your figure against his makes him shudder, composure faltering when you move in a way that has his breathing particularly quicken, a bundle of nerves forming in his stomach from the newly found hypersensitivity. There’s only so much fabric shielding the two of you from each other, and just the thought of it is slowly driving the boy crazy.

Pulling away from your neck, admiring the artwork he managed to portray on your skin, he feels you pulling him up to meet your lips again, heated, firm kisses shared in the silence of the room. He feels your hands resting on his abdomen, feeling him up for a moment before you sneak them under the hem of his shirt, dragging your nails against his skin.

Sunwoo hears a sound escape his throat at the contact, making him instantly feel foolish– until he feels you smile against his lips, following your ministrations by mirroring his previous actions and kissing down his neck, finding all the spots that make him the most reactive– like the place under his ear, the juncture of his shoulder. You revisit all the places you’ve tested before and perfected your aim to make him efficiently crumble under you. Sunwoo finds himself losing the initial control he had over the situation, instead letting you take over and lead him, much like you’ve done in most areas of his life. He likes to be your follower. He likes to see where you want him, where you need him, he likes to comply. It’s more comfortable for him this way. It makes him swell with pride when he makes you happy.

Another shift of your hips against him has Sunwoo digging his fingers to your side, whole body feeling like it’s electrified under your touch. Placing a soft peck to the spot you’ve had your attention on, you mumble into his skin. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Sunwoo swallows, noticing you leaning your forehead against his tenderly, eyes meeting.

“Are you sure?”

He nods. He’s never been more sure about anything in his life– he enjoys your company, he loves your touch, the way you make his every sense heighten, his heart beat quicker. Still, he feels a bit nervous at the prospected events. “I just– I’ve never done this before,” Sunwoo whispers the obvious, watching as you carefully observe him.

“Sweetheart,” you tenderly call, placing a soft peck to his lips. “That’s okay. Me neither, but we could… we could try and see where this leads us, if you’d like?”

The sweet pet name alone makes the boy let go of all his worries, of the stress and nerves he’s been holding on to for the past few weeks. You hold him like he’s going to break, and Sunwoo’s never felt so loved before. You reassure him that it’s going to be okay. You are there to remind him that life isn’t so hard, as long as you’re by his side.

“Okay,” he nods, smiling at you.

“Okay,” you repeat, holding his face in your hands as you kiss him again– it may as well be for the thousandth time. Truth is, while he tried to keep up at first, Sunwoo lost count a long time ago.

Everything there is to know about love, Kim Sunwoo learned from you. You showed him the childlike playfulness during your dates. You taught him how to kiss, only to take advantage of his newly found skills and keep them all for yourself. You showed him what it is to share joys, dreams, but also worries together. You were his first crush, date, relationship– and now, his first lover.

In the comfort of your childhood bedroom, holding you closer than ever, Sunwoo dreams of eternity with you. He doesn’t realize what a foolish thought it might be. Somehow, he’s got a feeling that no matter what it is, you two will figure it out. You always do.

to. my first love

September 2000

Muscles sore and whole body heaving in pain, Sunwoo trails inside the small bungalow the university gave him as student accommodation, dropping his duffel bag to the floor. His face is pulled into a small frown as he enters the house and his roommate can’t help but notice. “Everything alright?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Sunwoo hums, nodding at the question. He has 3 assigned roommates– all male, all around his age. Sunwoo’s english isn’t bad, but it also isn’t that great either. He knew that this was going to be one of the main concerns of him moving out abroad, but he figured that the more you encounter the language, the more comfortable you get with it. Due to this, though, the two American boys he rooms with– their names are Josh and Sam– aren’t as close with him. Sunwoo doesn’t really blame them. It’s not like he tried to get close with them anyway. He talks much more with Mark, the one year older boy that’s also Korean, but has been living in the States for years now. The language barrier is nearly nonexistent there, and so he feels much more comfortable.

Not comfortable enough to vent to him about his problems, though. It’s good to share a laugh with Mark when they eat breakfast together in the kitchen, but he won’t go on and talk his ear off about his homesickness, for example. Sunwoo wouldn’t talk to him about the weird, unsettling feeling in his gut whenever he takes the bus or walks down the street, not recognising every face he encounters like he did back home, in his small town. He won’t tell Mark Lee about how much he misses Korea– he’s sure the boy has his own things to worry about. Besides, it’s not like Mark talks about personal stuff with him either. After four days of living here, he can’t say their relationship got to the level of going deep with their personal lives.

And so, Sunwoo walks up the stairs in silence, not giving Mark more information about his mood. Each step up hurts, since the training is twice as demanding as it used to be at home, making his muscles sore and his back hurt terribly from the stone hard mattress in the bed of his new home. He is willing to endure it, but he also has the terrific need to complain about it to anyone that would be willing to listen.

He should start writing a diary, he thinks as he stares up on the ceiling, chewing on the inside of his cheek. It sounds good enough to channel his feelings out into while also not being a bother to anyone else. Besides, he doesn’t want anyone to know that he’s having a hard time here in Boston. This was all his decision, his dream, and sometimes, things are going to get difficult. And that’s okay. Sunwoo just… feels like he lacks the support system he once had back home in Korea. Like someone took it from between his fingertips, forcefully kept it away from him, locked somewhere miles away. Maybe the person who did that to him was himself all along…

Which is why he doesn’t deserve to whine about the fact that he feels terribly lonely. He did this to himself. All him.

If he had a diary, he’d write about the terrible mattress first, he thinks. Then, the weird weather around here– it’s always hot, but not humid. It doesn’t rain as much. He kind of misses the rain.

If he had a diary, he’d write about how he misses his old coach. The high school coach that always made sure the game was fun, yet productive. He misses his teammates as well. Their team never did big things, but he felt like they were some sort of a family. They knew each other well on the field. They had chemistry. They had fun.

He’d write about how he misses his annoying little sister. How he wishes she would appear in the doorway of his room and talked to him about the stickers she still collects, or dragged him to make another friendship bracelet together. How he feels bad for leaving her all alone back home, even though he was never the one to share his brotherly love for her so outwardly growing up. He feels a sort of appreciation for her that he didn’t quite understand when they were little. They are right when they say your sibling is your first best friend after all.

He’d write about the second best friend he’s ever made, Eric. He’d write about how he longs for his presence, his encouraging words. His funny remarks, the pranks he’d pull on him. How he always appreciated him being just across the street, how he enjoyed growing up with him by his side.

He’d write about how much he misses you– perhaps the most out of everyone. There aren’t many words he could use to describe how much he wishes for your presence, and so he thinks the pages filled with sentences directed to you would be rather sparse, and it makes him kind of sad to think about. In his mind, you deserve novels written about you. You deserve love letters and poems and essays filled with every little detail of your existence. Maybe if Sunwoo loved you less, he would be able to talk about it more.

When his eyes go out of focus staring at the ceiling, Sunwoo decides to call you. It’s been 4 days since he arrived and he hasn’t spoken to you since you waved him off to the airport. His mother drove him and you couldn’t go to send him off at the gate, but Sunwoo almost thinks he prefers the fact that you only said goodbye to him in front of his house. It would be that much harder if he saw your face the last thing before boarding the plane.

For the last four days, he’s been slowly settling in, taking in the new country and the new environment. He’d say he was just too busy to call, but that would be a lie.

He was just scared to hear your voice. Terribly.

What if you changed your mind? What if you no longer want to stay with him? What if it’s too hard to handle? And Sunwoo knows it’s hard– hell, it’s the most difficult thing he’s ever done– but all he wishes is for you to keep handling it well. To keep his heart in your hands gently, like you always have, sending him your energy.

He figures that if there’s one thing that can help his growing homesickness, it is to hear your voice.

Sitting up from his bed and walking over to the bag he carried with him through the airport and kept with him on the plane, he scrambles through the item to find the piece of paper you forced into his hand on the driveway of his house.

“We changed our landline yesterday, so call me on this number when you get there,” you said, pressing a kiss towards his cheek before you let him get into his mother’s car. Sunwoo promised to call back then– he hopes you don’t mind the delay. Maybe he could blame the timezones…

Hand thrusting into the front pocket of the bag, Sunwoo feels around and tries to fish out the little piece of paper. He’s 100% certain he put it there after he got into the car with his mum, making sure it’s safe and sound. He would hate to lose it– it was some sort of safety net for him. Something to fall back to, something to keep him above the water.

Panic settles in his chest when he doesn’t feel the soft piece of paper anywhere. The boy unzips all other compartments of the bag, turning it around, shaking out everything that’s inside. The phone number to your new landline has to be there somewhere in there. It needs to be.

When he doesn’t find it in his bag, he opens his closet. He throws everything out to the ground– his clothing, his shoes, the notebooks he bought for university– all in the search of the stupid, little, yet so important piece of paper. He searches through all his other bags. All pockets of his jeans, every centimeter of his folded clothing. All drawers of his desk, the whole floor, hell, he even crouches to check under his bed, blowing the dust bunnies out of reach, desperately hoping he could wish the paper into existence. He searches his bed. All possible parts where the landline number could be– some more unreasonable than others. Sunwoo feels like he is losing his mind.

The paper is nowhere in his room. It’s like it vanished. Was it really there at all? Did he dream that moment up?

Running down the stairs towards the landline, he takes the phone off the wall and punches in the numbers to your old landline, the pattern so familiar in his fingertips he couldn’t tell you the number if you asked, but he could recreate it with punching in the buttons in on any other phone in the world. He clenches his fist together, breathing more heavily as he listens in, praying for the universe to stop playing tricks on him and make you magically answer on the other side.

When the phone makes a dismissive sound, signaling that the number he called no longer exists, Sunwoo shuts the phone against the wall and takes it again, putting in your old number once more, like a summoning ritual. Maybe he put the numbers in wrong the first time… Maybe he made a mistake somewhere along the way…

When he gets the same response, he tries again. And again. And again.

He can’t believe it. Tension settles into his shoulders, making him twirl the cord of the landline in between his fingers as a way to calm himself down, listening in to the dull noise on the other side telling him there’s nothing that can be done, nothing more that he can do. He doesn’t have the number, and somehow, although it sounds foolish, it feels like he lost you alongside it too.

“Everything alright, man? You look–” Mark enters the room, peering at the boy with curious, worried eyes. It’s only now that Sunwoo realizes he is breathing heavily, fingers clammy on the cord, heart begging to run out of his chest to get all across the ocean to you. It’s only now that he realizes his cheeks are wet with tears, the solidification of his inner turmoil taking a physical form and appearing on his face, making him feel pathetic in front of the older boy.

Sunwoo once again puts the phone back to its original place, but this time, he doesn’t take it back and tries the useless old phone number again. Simply turning away from his roommate, he accepts his fate as he quickly puts on his shoes and slams the door shut after him, going out for a run.

Is this his punishment for waiting too long? Did the paper vanish out of his possession because he was deemed unworthy of hearing your voice? Should he have tried to look for the number earlier? Would this have prevented it?

It’s hard to run when your nose is stuffed and your breathing hitches with silenced sobs, he learns. Sunwoo doesn’t get as far as he would have liked, crumbling on a bench somewhere next to a playground, picking at the dry skin of his lips until they bleed and the irony taste on his tongue snaps him back into reality.

What was once his dream is starting to feel more like a nightmare. When he calls Eric two days after to ask him to get him your new landline number, he gets the news that you abruptly moved out to New York.

September 2007

“If you really think about it, Y/N,” Sunwoo hums, making you shift your attention towards his serious-looking face, “we never really broke up in the first place.”

The boy is holding a bottle of cider in his hand, one of the four you got on your way to your tonight’s destination. Sunwoo rang the bell to your house a few minutes before 10 PM, and although you weren’t expecting to see him that day and you weren’t even looking as presentable as you’d like, you agreed to take a walk with him. Somehow, the two of you found yourselves climbing over the fence of your old high school, sneaking into the football field, figures settling on one of the benches of the tribune.

“Oh yeah,” you hum, lightness evident in your tone, “you just never called. What’s up with that, by the way?” you ask, snickering when you watch the male avert his gaze in a bashful manner, as if he was embarrassed to tell you his reasoning.

You take a sip of the apple cider, enjoying the sweet, fruity taste on your tongue, watching as the male contemplates his next response for a bit, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I lost your new landline number,” he peeps, voice barely louder than a whisper.

His answer doesn’t register immediately in your brain. The words take a moment to string themselves together into a sentence, taking another few seconds before you understand the meaning of his confession. A soft laugh drags out of your throat, disbelief coating your very essence. “What?”

“Yeah,” he nods, scratching the back of his neck before looking back at you, eyes full of guilt and shame, “I… I lost the number you gave me, and when I called Eric to try to make him get me your new number, he told me you moved to New York, and I guess… I guess I took it as a sign…?” he says, shrugging.

“A sign of what?” you ask, genuinely surprised to hear his answer.

All this time, you thought he didn’t call because he didn’t want to. You thought he didn’t call because he was too busy, too tired to deal with anything else other than his career at the moment. He was trying his hardest and training every day, so you understood that he wouldn’t have time for you every day. When he didn’t call for so long, even after you moved to the States as well– you hoped he’d somehow try searching for your number even then, because in your mind, everything was possible– one day, you just… stopped waiting for him to call. You stopped hoping you would hear his voice on the other side of the line.

And you accepted it. He realized long distance relationships were too difficult to maintain, especially in that time and age, and he had too many of his own worries to take care of before focusing his attention somewhere else. You didn’t resent him, no. You longed for him, you missed him, but you never once hated him for the decision he made. You wished him well, all this time.

“A sign that… that maybe we weren’t meant to be,” he hums, shrugging. “It sounds stupid, really, but…” he trails off, cutting himself off in the middle of the sentence.

Something about his confession makes you feel a bit lighter. Your shoulders feel like there’s no longer anything weighing them down. It’s not like you waited for an explanation all those years and when you finally got one, something in you shifted into a more comfortable position.

“For me, back then, you were the right person, wrong time. And I didn’t want to let you go, I really didn’t, it’s just… everything was already so hard and the world seemed to put so many obstacles in my way of contacting you, that I thought it was the universe telling me to drop it and let you go. So you could… so you could find someone else, I guess…” he finishes explaining. He averts his gaze from you, pointing it towards the empty field, as if scared to see your reaction to his blabbering. He takes another few sips of his cider, snickering. “It wasn’t fair of me to want you to wait for me either.”

So you could find someone else… You think back to all the times you went on dates after you concluded that your relationship with Sunwoo was over. You try to remember their faces, their mannerisms in such detail that you could only make up one of your previous lovers– the one sitting next to you right now– and you chuckle at your foolishness. Remembering how you kept comparing every new person in your life to the one that stole your heart first, remembering how you thought about him late at night, wondering where he is right now and how he’s doing. You used to look through the sports parts of newspapers, looking for his name somewhere, looking for his team name, but never seeing a glance of how he was doing. You wore the stupid friendship bracelet he gave you in your junior year around in New York, having people point it out and ask about it, all until it broke off by itself one day and you reluctantly said goodbye to the sentiment.

You dated around after losing contact with Sunwoo. You don’t really think you found someone else, though.

“I wanted to wait for you, though,” you say, shuffling closer to the male on the bench, voice sincere. “It was my decision.”

“Well,” he chuckles, “life had other plans for us two.”

His sentence makes you think. A few days ago, it would make you sad. Embarrassed, even. Life had other plans for you two and they didn’t align with what you two have calculated during the summer break after your senior year. Sunwoo didn’t become a star. His football career never took off. He finished his degree and came back home, bitter and heartbroken.

Your plans ended just as fast as you came up with them. Not going to university after high school, you were left with nothing to do. When the opportunity to take an internship for a news company in New York came to you so suddenly, you took it without thinking, trying to find your place in the big world ahead of you. You had no plan, but you think that maybe, some part of you wanted to get away from your hometown all along. You wanted to do big things, make everyone proud. Being a news anchor wasn’t even something you dreamed of when you were little, so you guess you weren't supposed to really feel that let down, but the defeat still stings.

Or, at least, it used to. You find that the failure doesn’t hurt as much anymore.

Looking at the male next to you, you think you know the reason why. “It’s okay,” you say, shrugging, “we figured it out anyways, didn’t we?”

“Yeah,” Sunwoo sighs, looking at you with a soft smile playing with his lips. “I guess we did.”

The sound of cicadas hits your ears when you two fall into a comfortable silence. Healing old wounds was surely one of the items on your check list when you came back home, but you didn’t expect to get over things so quickly. You don’t think you would have been able to get over everything alone, though– and this makes you twice as grateful to still have Sunwoo by your side. A sense of nostalgia takes over you at the fact, but this time, it hits you with more fondness than longing for the old times.

“Remember how young we were? It’s like I still see you chasing the ball around the field when I focus hard enough,” you say, pointing ahead of you.

Sunwoo laughs, shaking his head at your antics. “Yeah. I almost see you leading the cheer practice in the back there,” he points, “in your cute cheer uniform, with the ridiculous pom poms in your hands–”

“Hey, don’t call them ridiculous,” you gasp, “they were my favorite part of the whole routine!”

“Oh, I could tell,” he laughs, poking fun at you.

“Well, you must have liked the pom poms enough to stare at me during practice all the time,” you shrug, teasing the male back. The fact that Sunwoo had a crush on you long before you reciprocated the feelings wasn’t something you two explicitly talked about before, but you always deemed as clear as day. Or, at least, it was to everyone back then.

“I did not–” he gasps, making you gently shove him with your elbow.

“Come on, everybody used to say you had a crush on me back then,” you hum, “you were pretty obvious with it too.”

“You knew?” he looks at you, eyes big and surprised. Gears clearly running in his head, he tries to piece the information together, running through the memories now so distant, but still so clear.

“Girls always know,” you point out, shrugging. You take another sip of your cider, licking your lips after and speaking up again, tone of voice almost confidential. “I just acted like I didn’t. But then I realized I liked you back, so I was trying everything in my power to make you confess to me first. Which… took you long enough, young man,” you giggle, seeing the male shake his head at you in disapproval.

“You could’ve confessed first, if you were so confident,” he mutters, obviously a little gutted by the revelation.

“That would be below my level,” you nod, pressing your lips together into a straight line, “besides, it was fun watching you act all cute and clueless.”

“Don’t call me cute and clueless–”

“That’s what you were, though! Like the time when you got super drunk on your birthday and begged me not to leave–”

“I didn’t even like you back then!”

“Sure you didn’t.”

“I was in denial,” he furrows his brows theatrically, putting the empty glass bottle to the grass, “but I see that you had a lot of fun watching me suffer.”

“Fine, pretty boy,” you say, catching a glimpse of the boy momentarily shying away, presumably at the endearing nickname, his cheeks tinting pink even in the faint moonlight. “Would it make you feel better if I confessed first this time?”

“Huh?” the boy asks, lips parted, eyes a big, honest pool of honey.

Cute and clueless, you think.

The story comes full circle when you realize that this football field is perhaps what started it all. This is where you ran up to the new addition to the team, saying that your favorite number was on the back of his jersey. As the leader of the cheerleading team, you took it as your job to make every newbie feel welcomed– no matter if they were a fellow cheerleader or a football player. You didn’t expect for the boy to never stop wearing the number– although it was your favorite, it didn’t seem to be so important back then. (One day, you learned that Sunwoo kept the number on his jersey even after moving abroad. You read it in one of the sports magazines you foolishly flipped through in every kiosk you encountered and almost teared up in the busy store after.)

This field is where you watched him play football every week. It’s where you both practiced, sending each other funny faces after the coach was mean to either of you for not being focused on your training.

This is where Sunwoo found his passion– where he found his dream. This is the place that shifted the next couple of years of your life towards all sorts of directions. This is where he kissed you after winning a match, a gleeful confession slipping past his lips. This is where your relationship started, and metaphorically, also ended. The field that kept you apart is now a thousand miles away, but the one that brought you together is now right in front of you.

You guess it’s only right to use it for new beginnings.

“I think… I think I’m still in love with you, Sunwoo,” you start slowly, playing with your fingers in your lap, “well, I don’t know if my feelings for you ever ended… they could’ve, I mean, we were apart for so long… I just… all I know is that I don’t want us to be apart anymore, and I–”

Your words die on your tongue when the boy cuts you off with a kiss, the taste of apple cider mixing on your lips. The way he kisses you didn’t really change even after so many years, still swaying you with the familiarity of his loving. Still, even though you know the way he angles your jaw, the way he presses against you, the way he takes his sweet time, truly showing you how much he enjoys the act, you never grow tired of it. Something in you reacts the same way as when you were young. There’s still excitement, there’s still tender softness in your heart every time you kiss him.

His lips break apart from yours, a playful tint in his words when he speaks to you again. “Don’t try to take credit for it now,” he says, “because the last time I checked, we never really broke up in the first place, so you could say we were dating all along, all because I confessed back in–”

“God, you’re unbelievable,” you grunt.

“But you love me,” the boy says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it is.

“Always have,” you say, pressing a quick peck to his plush lips, “always will.”

The starlight glazes your cheekbones when you rest your forehead against his, as if to send him a telepathic message that is worth more than a thousand words. It’s hard to find the words to explain the mixture of your emotions right now, but when your memory washes up the encouraging monologue Sunwoo offered to you when you first arrived, you finally agree with his sentiment. Perhaps, one word could summarize it all– you feel truly content.

They say you never forget about your first love. At 25 and still counting, you guess you could say that’s true.

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