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nottslove · 2 days ago

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Hello! My favorite song at the moment is bed chem sabrina carpenter

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4.6k words. longer than i expected. istg i should call these long-ass fics instead of mini-fics.

hi anon! thank you so much for requesting!! so since this song came from a summer album, it gave me summer vibes... as in, a summer romance vibe. and who better to fill in the role than our favorite, italian reverie? presenting.... none other than theo nott!

warnings: google translated italian, fluff, angst, use of y/n.

song: bed chem, sabrina carpenter slytherin boy: theo nott

Italy in the summer was nothing short of magical. Ever since childhood, you had dreamt of wandering its sun-drenched streets, breathing in the scent of fresh espresso and warm pastries, getting lost in the hum of its language. Finally, after years of waiting—graduation behind you, a job secured—you seized the moment. Three months of careful planning had led to this: a solo summer in your dream country.

From the instant you arrived, Italy wove its spell around you. The rich culture, the lyrical cadence of the language, the way history seemed to press against the very walls of the cities—it all made your heart swell. Rome for the first week, Venice for the second, Verona for the third, before returning home to England. A carefully mapped-out itinerary, structured yet bursting with anticipation. And yet, only two days in, the thought of leaving already felt unbearable.

Your schedule was packed, each day a whirlwind of exploration. Today, you were on a mission—to find the restaurant your coworker had raved about. But somehow, amidst the maze-like streets, you lost your way. A wrong turn led you somewhere unexpected—quieter, tucked away from the usual tourist bustle. The air here felt different, carrying the aroma of fresh bread and roasted coffee.

That was when you saw it.

A small, unassuming café nestled into the corner of a street you hadn’t intended to walk down. At first, you nearly passed it by, lost in thought, until your hip accidentally brushed against a potted plant perched on an outdoor table. As you bent down to set it upright, your gaze traveled to the building—soft yellow paint, ivy cascading like a green waterfall over the doorway, curling around the windows as if cradling the café in a warm embrace.

Through the glass, maritozzo sat temptingly on display, golden and pillowy, just waiting to be devoured. Your stomach made the decision for you—you stepped inside without another thought.

The café had a charm that was impossible to ignore. Dim lighting, shelves stacked with books worn from time, the quiet murmur of conversation blending into the clinking of porcelain. You spotted the perfect table by the window and moved toward it, but something stopped you. A pull, inexplicable yet undeniable, tugging you gently in another direction.

You turned.

There he was.

A classic Italian gentleman, effortlessly poised, his fingers curled around a porcelain mug. Dark curls framed his chiseled features, his presence magnetic, as if he had been waiting for someone—perhaps, for you.

He sat there with an effortless grace, the kind that spoke of quiet confidence rather than arrogance. His strong jawline framed a face that seemed sculpted by the hands of an artist—sharp cheekbones softened only by the warm olive tone of his skin. His deep brown eyes, rich like freshly brewed espresso, carried an intensity that made it impossible to look away. They held stories, secrets, a depth that hinted at a life well-lived, or perhaps, one waiting to begin.

The soft curls of his dark hair, slightly tousled yet undeniably charming, brushed against his forehead, the kind you could easily imagine running your fingers through absentmindedly. His neatly pressed shirt, a shade of crisp white that contrasted beautifully against his sun-kissed skin, was unbuttoned just enough at the collar to suggest a sense of ease. The sleeves were rolled to his forearms, revealing toned muscles beneath, a glimpse of strength tempered by elegance.

As he lifted his coffee to his lips, the movement was deliberate, languid, as if savoring not just the drink but the moment itself. His fingers—long, graceful—curled around the porcelain mug, and you couldn't help but wonder how they might feel tracing against yours.

There was something about him—an air of mystery, a quiet magnetism—that pulled you in. A presence that demanded attention without asking for it. And in that instant, as the world outside continued to bustle on, he was the only thing that mattered.

His eyes locked onto yours, unflinching, electric—a mesmerizing shade of aquamarine that seemed almost unreal, like the sunlit waters of the Amalfi Coast. They held something—an unspoken challenge, curiosity, or perhaps recognition. A glint of amusement flickered beneath the depths, but there was something else too, something that sent a shiver down your spine. It was as if, in that single moment, he had unraveled you entirely—seen you in a way no one else had.

The way they caught the light, reflecting hints of seafoam and cerulean, made them impossibly captivating, as if they carried fragments of Italy itself. And just like that, without a single word, you knew—this summer, your summer, had shifted in a way you never anticipated.

Just like that, your summer had changed.

It didn't take long before you were at his apartment, tangled up in his sheets, bodies pressed close, the world outside forgotten, him feeding you strawberries with your head on his chest.

Your head rested against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulling you into quiet contentment. He reached for a strawberry, holding it delicately between his fingers before pressing it gently to your lips. The sweetness burst against your tongue, mingling with the lingering taste of his kiss, and somehow, it all felt so natural.

It was intimate in a way you had never experienced before. Here you were, in the arms of a total stranger, yet somehow, you felt safer than you ever had in a long time. It had barely been two hours since you met, and he already knew so much—the tender details of your childhood, the wistful echoes of your first love.

You exhaled, staring at the soft rays of the golden setting sun filtering through the window. Was it him, or was it simply Italy itself—the spell this country seemed to weave around everything and everyone? Were all Italian men this effortlessly charming, this easy to talk to, to surrender yourself to?

"Come mai la tua bella testolina è così silenziosa, hmm?" he murmured, large hands sliding down your hair and brushing it away from your face.

You giggled, reaching for another strawberry and placing it between his lips. "I already told you I don't understand a word of Italian..."

"I've heard I'm a very good teacher," he replied with that confident, lazy smirk of his. "I could show you Italy better than any..." he paused, furrowing his brows slightly to think of the word. "guida turistica..."

Once again, you giggled softly, the moment he pressed his lips to your fingers to lick up whatever was left of the strawberry his mouth had just stolen from you. "tour guide?" you asked, trying to provide him with the correct word.

"Si. Tour guide. I can be yours, if you like..." He punctuated his suggestion with a series of open mouthed kisses along your neck and collarbones.

And just like that, all plans of going to Verona and Venice were out the window, and you rescheduled your return trip to a whole month later than your original return date.

His name was Theodore Nott, but you called him Teddy for short.

He had somehow managed you to move into his penthouse, where you spent every morning waking up in his bed, and the scent of freshly brewed espresso all over the penthouse.

Every morning, without fail, he insisted on spoiling you. Before the sun had fully risen over the terracotta rooftops, before the city outside had begun to stir, he was already at work in the kitchen, crafting something new—something special—for you.

The aroma would reach you first, warm and inviting, coaxing you from sleep before his voice did. And then, there he was, standing at the edge of the bed, tray in hand, a knowing smile playing at his lips. He never let you lift a finger.

It was never the same meal twice. One morning, perfectly flaky cornetti dusted with powdered sugar, paired with rich, velvety cappuccino. The next, eggs cooked just right, fresh tomatoes bursting with flavor, crusty bread straight from the bakery down the street. Then, perhaps, a delicate frittata, infused with fragrant herbs, the kind only someone born into the heart of Italian cooking could master.

He knew what he was doing. Better than half the chefs you had encountered. Every bite was a revelation, every flavor precise yet effortless, as if he were drawing from an endless well of knowledge passed down through generations.

And there, in the quiet glow of morning light, the two of you would share more than just the meal. Between sips of coffee and bites of something impossibly delicious, the conversations flowed—deep, unfiltered, woven with laughter and confessions.

It was indulgent, intimate in a way that felt rare, precious. You had never been cared for like this before, never been seen in such a quiet, effortless way.

And each morning, as he looked at you over the rim of his cup, you wondered how you could possibly go back to a life without this. Without him.

But both of you knew that this golden relationship you had wasn't meant to last. It would be over once the summer came to an end. It was nothing but a summer romance, no matter how real it felt.

Yet, despite knowing, neither of you spoke of it. The truth lingered between kisses, between laughter that melted into quiet sighs, between mornings wrapped in sheets that smelled of sun and him. It was there—in the way his touch lingered a moment too long, as if memorizing the feel of you. In the way you watched him, tracing every detail, as if trying to capture something fleeting, something slipping through your fingers.

It wasn’t just a romance. It felt bigger than that. Real, golden, drenched in the warmth of a summer that would soon end. But endings had a way of creeping in, of pressing against even the sweetest moments. The whispered promise of farewell was in every embrace, every shared meal, every sunset you watched together with unsaid words weighing in the silence.

And yet, despite it all, neither of you pulled away. Because for now—just for now—it was enough. It had to be.

He was true to his word. He showed you Italy better than any tour guide would. All the intimate places he spent his time at, all the tourist spots... everything.

And he did it with a kind of quiet pride, as if sharing these places with you meant something—meant more than just sightseeing. He led you through the winding alleys of Rome, past the bustling piazzas and into corners untouched by the hurried footsteps of tourists. The hidden cafés where the locals greeted him by name, the bookstore tucked away in a side street where he had spent lazy afternoons, the unmarked trattoria where the food was better than anything you’d find on a guide’s list.

But he didn’t ignore the classics. He took you to the Colosseum when the sun was soft, when the crowds hadn’t fully formed, so you could stand there in the open space and feel the weight of history pressing against your skin. He pointed out the details in Michelangelo’s work, things that even the guides didn’t mention. He let you linger at the Trevi Fountain, grinning when you tossed a coin in and made a wish, teasing you about what it might be.

"What did you wish for, cara?"

"Would you like to know?" you replied with an air of mystery and a suggestive raise of your eyebrow.

Venice came next, the city that felt suspended between reality and dream. He showed you how the water reflected the light just right in the early evening, how the gondoliers sang not for show, but because music was woven into the city’s bones.

And in Verona, he traced his fingers along the worn letters left at Juliet’s wall, smiling as you read them, as you let yourself believe—for just a moment—that love like that could live beyond legend.

He gave you Italy. Not the packaged version, not the curated one. He gave you the one he loved, the one that had shaped him, the one that mattered.

And in doing so, it became yours too.

He showed you Italy, and you showed him your soul.

He had given you Italy—the real Italy, the one written in hidden alleyways and the scent of fresh espresso, in the history etched into crumbling stone and the rhythm of a language that felt like poetry.

And in return, without meaning to, without even realizing it at first, you had given him pieces of yourself. The quiet corners of your heart, the stories tucked away for only the most deserving ears. The fears, the dreams, the moments that had shaped you. He saw them all—held them gently, as if they were something precious.

And somehow, he remembered all of it.

The way your fingers moved when tying your laces—quick, practiced, a subconscious rhythm you never thought twice about. The way you stirred your coffee absentmindedly, always three times, never more, never less. How your nose scrunched up ever so slightly before a sip, testing the temperature without thinking.

Then, of course, there was the pineapple on pizza—your unforgivable offense. He had gasped dramatically when you first admitted it, clutching his heart as if wounded by the mere thought.

"Mio Dio!" he had gasped, when he had first seen you put pineapple slices on your slice of the pizza he had spent four hours making for you at home, from scratch. "Stai rovinando tutto! This is a betrayal..." he declared, eyes alight with playful scandal, yet he still took your hand that evening, still kissed you like you belonged to every part of Italy.

And perhaps that was what struck you most—how easily he collected these pieces of you, storing them as if they were something worth keeping, worth cherishing.

It was fleeting, ephemeral, destined to fade when summer did.

But for now, he knew you, and you knew him.

It was unexpected—the way he let you in, the way he unraveled parts of himself that felt sacred, deeply personal.

He showed you the school where he had spent his earliest years, where he had first learned to chase dreams too big for a boy his age. He traced his fingers along the worn stone walls, the graffiti scrawled by restless students, and laughed as he recounted the trouble he used to get into, the teachers who never quite knew what to do with him.

Then, there was his childhood home—a modest place tucked away in a quiet neighborhood, walls filled with echoes of the past. He told you about summers spent on that tiny balcony, about the way his father used to hum old songs while cooking dinner, about the arguments, the celebrations, the life that had unfolded within those walls.

But it was when he brought you to her grave that everything shifted. His mother—the woman who had shaped him, guided him, loved him deeply, and left too soon. He didn’t speak much at first, just stood there, quiet, thoughtful, fingers brushing the cool stone. Then, slowly, he told you about her—the warmth of her presence, the lessons she had given him, the ache of losing her.

And in between, you lived with him—fully, unapologetically, as if time had no claim on the moments you shared.

You laughed until your stomach ached, until your cheeks hurt from smiling, until your laughter tangled with his and filled the spaces between you like music. You cried in ways you hadn’t before—not from sorrow, but from honesty, from the weight of stories told that had never been voiced so openly.

Together, you existed in a space untouched by reality, wrapped in something golden and fleeting. Neither of you spoke of the end, but it lingered, always, just beneath the surface.

Yet, somehow, that made it all the more beautiful.

And you loved him.

You loved him like you had never loved anyone else in your entire life. And he knew it.

Tangled up in the sheets after yet another round of him completely rocking your world, your head was resting on his chest when you tilted your head to look into his eyes and whisper the two little words that you had learnt on Google just for him.

"Ti amo..."

His grin stretched wide, unmistakable, almost wicked in its delight—the kind that sent a thrill down your spine, that made you wonder what thoughts ran through his mind in that exact moment. It was the kind of smile that could pull you in effortlessly, like a secret he was daring you to uncover, like he had already won a game you didn’t know you were playing.

The corners of his mouth curled with satisfaction, his eyes gleaming with mischief, amusement flickering beneath the striking aquamarine depths. He leaned forward slightly, as if savoring the way the words hung in the air between you, his fingers tracing absent patterns against the table, his body relaxed, utterly at ease.

Without hesitating, he said it back, "anch'io ti amo, tesoro."

But all good things eventually come to an end, and within the blink of an eye, your summer had come to a close.

You had gotten to know his soul in depth— every inch of him, every quirk, every flutter, every mark on his body. It was a lifetime of love experienced in one single summer.

A love that burned brightly, condensed into fleeting moments, yet carrying the weight of something much greater.

You knew him. Not just his laughter or his charm, but the quiet pauses between his sentences, the way his fingers twitched when he was deep in thought, the crease in his brow that only appeared when he spoke of things that truly mattered. You memorized the rhythm of his breathing, the softness of his voice just before sleep, the way his presence wrapped around you like warmth you never wanted to let go of.

Every mark on his body told a story, every scar a memory, every glance a secret shared only between the two of you. And in the golden stretch of those summer days, you traced them all, learning him in ways that felt impossibly permanent.

A lifetime of love, packed into stolen kisses beneath a foreign sky, into whispered conversations at dawn, into the soft pull of fingertips against skin.

And yet, when the season came to its inevitable close, when the sun dipped lower, signaling the end, you both knew—this was exactly how it was meant to be.

No regrets. No bitterness. Just a summer that would live in your bones forever.

And when the time came, when the final days of summer settled upon you both like the last golden rays of the evening sun, there was no bitterness. No desperate clinging, no sorrowful goodbyes laced with regret.

You had known him completely—every detail, every quirk, every unspoken thought behind those aquamarine eyes. And he had known you just the same. There was nothing left unexplored, no corner of his world, or yours, left untouched.

Yet, this was how it had always meant to end. Not in heartbreak, but in understanding. A gentle farewell, filled with gratitude for what it had been, rather than grief for what it could not be.

Right person. Wrong time. Right place.

You stopped at the café where it all began one more time before he dropped you off at the airport.

It had been almost two months ago that you met him here, but now?

It felt like a lifetime ago.

And so, beneath the amber glow of the setting sun, with Italy wrapping itself around you like a final embrace, you made a promise.

Not one bound by desperation or longing, but by understanding. By the quiet certainty that, though your story was meant to end now, perhaps—just perhaps—it wasn’t meant to end forever.

"If you’re still single," you murmured, fingers tracing the rim of your coffee cup, voice steady but soft, "meet me here. Ten years from now. Same place, same table."

He studied you for a long moment, aquamarine eyes deep with something unreadable—something like hope, something like fate. Then, slowly, he smiled. A real one. A promise sealed with nothing but the weight of the unspoken.

"Ten years," he whispered softly, but you knew him well enough to know what he was saying. "If you find yourself lost, or lonely," he continued softly, looking at you longingly, like he wanted to tell you to stay, but he knew he would be asking too much. "Will you come find me?"

He looked like he was losing a part of himself that he had never realized was missing until he met you.

Your lips curved into a watery smile. "Of course I will..." you replied, your fingers gently brushing his jaw, the way you had done countless of times. "I'll always find you, Teddy..."

And just like that, leaving him was easier, leaving Italy was easier, carrying the summer in your bones, the memory of him pressed into every part of you.

Maybe you’d return. Maybe he would. Maybe, just maybe, the right person at the wrong time would, one day, become the right person at the right time.

He was your soulmate. You never believed in them before, but you certainly believed in them now.

With your pact in mind, of a futuristic promise, you had finally agreed to part ways.

And just like that, it was over.

No tears, no grand gestures—just a quiet understanding, a moment suspended in time, wrapped in the golden haze of a summer that had changed you both.

He had dropped you to the airport, and your heart felt heavy and full as you parted ways.

One last goodbye kiss.

One last fleeting touch.

One last look of his beautiful aquamarine eyes meeting yours.

And then, you turned your back on him and began to walk away.

"Wait," he had called right before you fell out of earshot.

You turned, pressing your lips together to stop yourself from making this farewell harder for you than it was supposed to be.

A moment of silence.

And then he spoke.

"Goodbye, Y/N," he murmured.

"Goodbye Teddy."

It was only when you had turned around fully and passed through the security gates that you allowed the tears to finally spill.

But you held hope in your heart.

You walked away, carrying the weight of what had been, the tenderness of shared mornings, the electricity of stolen glances, the laughter, the knowing, the love—brief but undeniable.

Yet there was no sadness in the goodbye. Because, in the heart of Rome, beneath the watchful gaze of history itself, you had made a promise.

Ten years. Same place. Same table.

And whether fate would honor such a pact, whether time would lead you back to him, was a mystery left to the future.

But for now, you carried him with you, and he carried you with him.

And maybe—just maybe—Italy would call you home once more.

Ten years passed faster than you anticipated. The years slipped through your fingers like sand, faster than you ever imagined.

Lovers came, and lovers went. Life unfolded—new places, new faces, fleeting romances that never quite ignited the way that summer had.

Theo was embedded into your soul. He was there in every, single thing you did. Your summer in Italy was no longer a distant memory, but a whole different lifetime, one that was etched so fiercely into your soul that it was a part of you. You lived, you loved, you lost, and yet, through it all, Theo remained.

Not in a way that haunted you, not in a way that stopped you from moving forward. No, he was simply there—woven into the fabric of your existence, stitched into the smallest, quietest moments.

It was in the smallest things—the subconscious gestures, the habits formed over a lifetime. In the way you lingered at cafés with ivy-clad doors, in the way you stirred your coffee three times, in the soft ache that settled in your chest when the golden glow of evening light reminded you of the way his skin had looked beneath the setting Italian sun.

Your summer with him wasn’t just a memory—it was a lifetime, a part of you, embedded so deeply that no amount of time could erase it. It had shaped you, changed you, taught you things no other experience ever could.

Because that summer lived within you, etched into your very being, woven into the quiet moments of your day.

It was there in the way your lips curled into a soft, private smile whenever a passing scent reminded you of fresh espresso in a hidden café. In the way your fingers brushed against ivy-covered doors, lingering as if searching for something lost. In the way your heart skipped—just barely—when the evening light mirrored the golden glow of those long-forgotten afternoons.

It wasn’t just a memorable summer vacation. It was a presence, a whisper of something untouchable yet undeniably real.

And whether the promise would be fulfilled or left behind in the folds of time, one truth remained—Italy had never truly let you go.

And neither had he.

And now, here you were. Ten years later.

Standing in front of the café where it had all begun.

Heart pounding. Breath shallow.

Wondering if fate still had a place for the two of you.

The café still looks the same. The ivy overgrown a little more, the paint a little more faded and worn and the steps that lead to the café a lot more rough and round-edged.

You stepped inside, your breath shaky as you tuck your handbag underneath your arm, tilting your head back to shake the hair all away from your face.

Your heart in thumping, your fingers are sweaty as you look around once, a quick scan of your eyes across the room.

And everything stops.

Your breath catches.

Just like that, time collapses.

Ten years, a lifetime’s worth of moments, all fading into insignificance the instant your gaze locks onto his.

He’s there. Exactly where he said he would be.

The same table, the same quiet confidence, the same presence that had once unraveled you completely. But different too—aged by experience, refined by the years that shaped him in your absence.

It's his eyes that give it away— that he's the same person as he was a lifetime ago, the same person you fell so hard for.

His eyes—impossibly vivid, the color of sunlit tides and forgotten dreams—burn into yours, a tether pulling you back, back to a time when love was effortless and fleeting, yet somehow eternal.

Yet, as his aquamarine eyes meet yours, as recognition flashes across his face, as his lips part ever so slightly in stunned disbelief—none of that matters.

"Teddy," you whisper breathlessly, your eyes meeting his, the rest of the occupants of the café fading into a blur— nothing else matters as much as him.

It takes two strides for him to reach you.

"Y/N," he pulls you into his arms, and your lips crash against his, tears spilling down your cheeks as you hear the golden sound of his voice calling out your name.

And you're finally home.

Because this was never truly a goodbye.

And somehow, somehow, it feels like the beginning all over again.

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pollkien · 3 days ago

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CURUFIN PROPAGANDA:

Sideeyeing the grass toucher

Called Orodreth stupid behind his back in the Lay of Leithian

#1 Eöl hater of all time

#1 Beren hater of all time also

Daddy’s most specialest boy. So special that both of his names are about his dad. This slut has absolutely no identity outside of his father and I think this is extremely appealing to some

“he alone showed in some degree the same temper and talents. He also resembled Fëanor very much in face.” I mean if you resemble the hottest elf ever you must also be hot.

Absolute cunt. Just a huge asshole. I love that for him

Actually in a draft, Fëanor called on Curufin and a few other of his most trusted servants to burn the ships at night <3

His only redeeming quality is when he told Eöl off that one time

Says the funniest line in all of Silm. “By the laws of the Eldar I may not slay you at this time” is incredible. He invented “Had It Not Been For the Laws of This Land”

Can usurp your heart ;)

Married! Canonically fucked! Unlike most other people here

This also means Curufin is a dilf.

Set evil in Celegorm’s heart <3

If his dad was so so hot Curufin must also be very hot

NOT racist! He was friends with Telchar and wrote much about the Dwarves and Khuzdul. #DiversityWin

Curufin the Crafty more like Curufin the Cunty

He schemes so hard. Do you like scheming boys? He is THE scheming boy for you.

Has a named weapon!

“Eöl, however, Curufin loved not at all. Curufin was aware of Eöl's resentment towards the Noldor, and that Eöl was using his friendship with the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains, which Curufin was jealous of, to stir up unfriendliness against them. Regardless, Eöl was still allowed to cross through East Beleriand, though a constant watch was placed on Nan Elmoth as they mistrusted his doings and goings.” No fucking way DUDE YOU ARE ALSO FRIENDS WITH THE DWARVES OF THE BLUE MOUNTAINS

“In The Earliest Annals of Valinor, the translation of Curufin's name in to Old English is given as Cyrefinn Facensearo and defined as "[Curufin the Crafty, O.E. cyre 'choice', facen 'deceit, guile, wickedness' (a word of wholly bad meaning); searu 'skill, cunning' (also with bad meaning, 'plot, snare, treachery'); facensearu 'treachery'.]"” someone fuck this whore right now

Sorry i am now just reading his TG page “In relation to Celegorm, Christopher Tolkien notes that Curufin is "the more longheaded schemer, standing behind his brother and prompting him - it is clear ... that Celegorm has some authority — or is felt by Curufin to have some authority — that Curufin lacks"[23]:247 and that Curufin was "the wickeder (as he was certainly also the cleverer) of the brothers".” Oh my god.

He has quite the long TG page. Not propaganda just very surprising. Did you know his name shows up 30 times in the published Silm, 34 if you include the name index

Oh he is also divorced.

FINARFIN PROPAGANDA:

Certified grass toucher, as can be seen from the image

“He was of his mother’s kind in mind and body, having the golden hair of the Vanyar, their noble and gentle temper, and their love of the Valar. As well as he could he kept aloof from the strife of his brothers and their estrangement from the Valar, and he often sought peace among the Teleri, whose language he learned.” HE IS SO ADORABLE

Blonde!

Invented blonde Noldor probably

Likely divorced with Earwen. Come get your single dilfs

The fairest and wisest of heart 🥺🥺🥺

“But Finarfin spoke softly, as was his wont, and sought to calm the Noldor, persuading them to pause and ponder ere deeds were done that could not be undone” he just seems so cute

Turned back in the march like a good boy. King of Valinor. He deserves it

Led the Valinorean Noldor to war against Morgoth <3

Also his house is the fairest of the three houses. Fun fact. Wink judge

“In earlier texts Ingoldo was the mother-name of Fingolfin, whereas Finarfin's was Ingalaurë, given to him due his Vanyarin golden hair,[15] which was even more golden than the Vanyar” so so blond

#silmarillion #the silmarillion #tolkien #tolkien polls #curufin #finarfin #poll tournament #silm sexyman tournament

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vegan-kaktus · 2 months ago

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i saw taemin in helsinki!!!

can i rant for a minute? fans requested 'sexuality' but taemin said he wanted to sing a(nother) ballad as the last song, then people screamed “nooo!!”???? excuse you? i felt so bad for him, like what the fuck? /end of rant

also: why does every site hate hdr? this video looks so much better on my phone

#taemin #taemin helsinki #ephemeral gaze in helsinki #nonsims #also the… etiquette? of people in the pit? awful #two girls pushed their way from wayy back to in front of me (i was like 2nd row before they came)#they were short though (not said in a derogatory way) so it wasn’t an issue #but then they - like so many others - recorded with their phones up in the sky #this was my first pit experience #and i’m sure this is not only the case for kpop concerts #but goddamn i dislike kpop fans #not only because of this but #how they behave? it feels so competitive and ungenuine somehow? idk #not everyone is like this of course #shawols tend to be a very nice fandom #but the people around me in the pit felt like (only) solo taemin fans 🤢#also i understood everything he said (in korean)!#and was i the only one who felt the translator kind of.. translated his words very flat?#he said them so much more colorful if that makes sense? than what was translated #not me screaming/chanting btw #im too awkward to make any noise when recording hahaha #my videos

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lowkeyren · 5 months ago

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in which : alhaitham speaks to you in 5 different languages, unaware that you understand every word he says.

wc 7.3k (pls give it a chance lol), academic rivals to lovers, unrequited hate, attempt at humor, college au, denial + pinning.. crazy ik, he falls first (and harder), tw stalking by a drunkard, a genius on paper but a total dumbass when it comes to crushes, lil smau at the end!, ft. sumeru gang. art by @/gamegatchihaja on x.

ps. translations ay nasa maliliit na titik, katulad neto!!

ps. translations will be in small letters, like this!!

PROLOGUE: GOD I HATE THIS GUY! (DOES HE THINK IM STUPID?)

the semester is nearing its conclusion, and the imminent approach of finals marks the most critical period of the year; students rush through the halls, clutching their notes and textbooks like lifelines, while you pour every ounce of effort into your studies —not just for your grades, but also to surpass a certain arrogant scholar.

alhaitham.

the name tastes like spoiled milk on your tongue, a sour reminder of all the times he’s bested you, even if it’s just by a small margin, leaving you dumbfounded when the difference between your marks during the last exam was a mere 1%.

you were groveling in front of your professor, “please, just round the marks up?” you could practically feel your dignity slipping away. and the worst part? you were so desperate that you started mentally calculating how many odd jobs you’d be willing to do just to sweeten the deal.

(maybe you’ll help organize the office, run around the campus to buy him drinks every day, or even wipe down the windows of his car…)

disclaimer: he ultimately said no, but he did compliment your impeccable taste in coffee so, a win is a win?

anyhow, alhaitham’s nonchalance only adds to your frustration, especially when he switches to a different language mid-conversation. it feels like he’s rubbing salt in your wounds, why of course you can understand him perfectly —after all, you aren’t majoring in linguistics for no reason, plus he's not the only one who’s fluent in multiple languages.

though you keep that to yourself, perhaps because the things he says in those languages, which he assumes you don’t understand, are far from innocent, unknowingly letting you have a glimpse into his true feelings.

ACT I: WHOLEHEARTEDLY, I DETEST YOU.

alhaitham would never fall in love —such irrational and illogical emotions held no value to him.

that was what he always believed, but then he saw you.

the way you laughed so unapologetically at cyno’s jokes, how you always stood firm by your beliefs, your refusal to compromise who you are; you were a breath of fresh air in a world that often felt stifling.

as much as he tries to act unfazed, he can't help the heat prickling his skin nor the way his composure falters just slightly in your presence. and when his heart raced for the first time in what felt like forever, he knew —he was completely, utterly screwed.

(“fix me, kaveh.” / “hah. who do you think i am, ‘y/n’?”)

when kaveh told him that he just had a simple “crush”, he nearly rolled his eyes so hard he thought they might get stuck there permanently.)

likewise, this ugly arrogant handsome bastard here, is one you’ll never fall in love with.

he’s infuriating, completely insufferable, and yet there’s something about him, something hidden beneath that arrogance, that draws you in. the idea that you could ever fall for someone like him seems laughable, impossible even. he's exactly the kind of person you should avoid and you know better than to be charmed by someone like him. yet, there's that nagging feeling, deep down, that perhaps you’re not as immune to him as you think.

by some stroke of luck, you’re in the same major, same year, and even enrolled in the same lecture periods, which means you end up in the same place at the same time more often than not.

but you can’t deny that, in some twisted way, you admire him. his intellect is beyond impressive, even if it annoys you to admit it. so surely, in his eyes, you’re still inferior, and you often wonder if he even considers your ideas as worthy of attention.

(they are.)

ACT II: YOUR WATCHFUL EYES, I CAN’T IGNORE.

your pen glides across the pages as you jot down notes, fully absorbed in your studies, barely registering the faint sound of distant chatter.

unbeknownst to you, a group of students has gathered just outside the lecture hall, peeking in from the door with curious, amused expressions. they’re clearly there for you, exchanging glances and murmurs, waiting for the moment you step outside.

you don’t notice, but alhaitham, seated a few feet away, certainly does.

his eyes narrow slightly as he takes in the scene. he doesn’t say anything at first, but his jaw clenches ever so subtly. as you begin to pack up, you glance up to find him standing in front of you, his tall figure effectively blocking the group outside’s direct line of sight to you.

with a discreet glance over his shoulder, he shoots them a cold, unmistakable glare. they visibly shudder, seemingly getting the message as they awkwardly shuffle away.

“what was that about?”

alhaitham leans against your desk, “nothing important,” his tone is dismissive, laced with irritation, his gaze still fixed on the now-empty doorway.

you narrow your eyes, unimpressed. “really? you just scared them off for no reason?”

“just getting rid of some… distractions,” he says casually, turning his attention back towards you. you raise an eyebrow, clearly not believing his words. “distractions? they weren’t bothering me.”

his expression remains impassive, “khi họ cứ để ý đến em như vậy… em thấy không phiền, c��n tôi thì có.”

“seeing them constantly paying attention to you… you're not bothered by it, but i am.”

“bởi vì cái cách mà em chú tâm hoàn toàn vào một việc gì đó… nó quyến rũ vô cùng.”

because the way you completely focus on something… is truly mesmerising.

you blink, feeling a momentary flush of confusion and surprise at the words slipping from his mouth. did he just—? but before you can fully process it, he continues.

“vậy nên tôi cũng không thể trách họ khi họ muốn nhìn em gần và lâu hơn được.”

so i don’t blame them when they want to look at you closer and longer.

his words linger in the air, a moment passes before it clicks —he doesn’t think you understand. that’s why he’s speaking so… freely; letting slip things he’d never say outright in a language you both speak fluently.

“nhưng mà… chắc không ai trong số bọn họ có thể sánh ngang với tôi, em nhỉ?”

but… none of them can compare to me, right?

your chest tightens as a surge of warmth courses through you.

his detached attitude only fuels your irritation. but there’s also a certain satisfaction in knowing something he doesn’t: you’ve understood every single word he’s said.

feigning ignorance, you raise an eyebrow, meeting his gaze with what you hope is a neutral expression. "what are you going on about?" you ask.

his expression remains as stoic as ever, not a single crack in his mask. he simply shrugs, eyes still on you, "just telling you to focus more.”

your grip on the pen tightens, there's a part of you that wants to wipe that smug look off his face, to show him you're not as clueless as he assumes. but not yet —you’re curious to see just how far he’s willing to push.

"right," you mutter under your breath, tapping the pen against your notebook. "focus. got it."

he leans down slightly, one arm resting on the back of your chair while the other presses against the table, effectively caging you in.

"you're wasting time, finals are coming up." he takes a brief pause before continuing, "i wish you the best of luck, you’ll need it.”

your eyes snap up to him in a glare, “don’t you have somewhere to be?" you bite back.

alhaitham straightens, giving you a final glance before turning towards the door. “naturally, i have studying to do.”

“bởi vì tôi sẽ chứng minh cho em thấy rằng chỉ có tôi mới xứng tầm làm đối thủ học thuật của em, không một ai khác.”

because i will prove to you that only i am worthy of being your rival, no one else.

why did he frame it as if it’s a privilege only he can claim? or is he trying to… flatter you?!

you shake your head, no way, that’s ridiculous. finals are coming up, there’s no time to dwell on whatever mind games he’s playing. though if the almighty alhaitham wants a rival, then you’ll show him exactly what it means to stand at the pinnacle.

ACT III: IN MY DREAMS, I SCORED HIGHER THAN YOU.

you’re tired, the kind of tired that seeps deep into your bones. every blink stretches longer than the last and you find it increasingly difficult to focus on the words in front of you. stifling a yawn, you feel the pull of sleep tugging at you, whispering sweet promises of rest.

there’s still time till your next class.

maybe you'll take a moment to close your eyes, just for a few seconds…

did you not get enough sleep last night, or did you stay up late studying again? alhaitham watches silently from across the room, his eyes narrowing as your head droops lower, your exhaustion becoming painfully obvious with each passing second. his gaze lingers on the way your pen pauses mid-sentence, the line on your notebook trailing off as your hand grows heavy.

he pushes himself up from his seat, and approaches your desk; he notices the sunlight streaming through the window, harsh and unrelenting, hitting right over the table where you’re sitting. he looks at you —eyes closed, with the faintest crease of discomfort on your brow.

without a word, he reaches out and slips the pen from your grip, the slight shift causing your fingers to twitch, but you don’t wake.

for a fleeting second, he considers waking you. but then, as you shift again, settling more comfortably into your chair, he decides against it. what good would that do, anyway? you’d probably just brush him off and keep going until you collapse from sheer fatigue. typical.

instead, he adjusts his stance slightly, positioning himself just right to make sure the sunlight is fully blocked from your face, casting you in a cool shadow.

you mumble something incoherent, and he can’t help but roll his eyes at your state. did you really think burning yourself out like this would help you focus?

“stubborn,” he mutters under his breath.

you're always like this, pushing yourself past your limits, and while part of him respects your determination to outdo him, he won’t allow it to come at the expense of your health.

you stir from your slumber, lifting your head, your gaze lands on a familiar figure standing to the side of your table. his back turned, facing the sunlight that streams in from the window.

alhaitham.

he’s close, so close that his broad shoulders completely block out the sunlight from the window. the sight sends a rush of confusion through your already sleep-addled mind. did he… stand there the whole time? why?

you shift slightly in your seat, your movement catching his attention. without turning, he speaks in that low, steady tone of his, “you’re awake.”

“alhaitham?” you murmur, your voice still thick with sleep.

he glances over his shoulder, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the calm expression on his face. “you’ve been out for a while,” he comments, a hint of amusement in his voice. “i was starting to think you’d sleep through your next class.”

you rub the sleep from your eyes, “why didn’t you wake me up then?”

his shoulders shift slightly as he shrugs, still facing away from you. “you looked like you needed the rest. besides, it’s more entertaining to see how long you’d stay asleep.”

a flicker of annoyance courses through you as you roll your eyes, “oh, so you mean you care?”

he turns slightly, and you can see a hint of a smirk on his lips. “don’t read too much into it. i just prefer my competition functioning at their best.”

you wish you could roll your eyes harder because this man has an uncanny talent for grating on your nerves while somehow being insufferably charming at the same time.

“ah yes —because you need me to keep up with you,” you remark sarcastically.

“exactly.” you let out an exasperated sigh as you lean back in your chair. “you really think so highly of yourself, don’t you?”

“mushiro, kimi no koto o hijō ni takaku hyōka shiteiru yo.”

if anything, i think highly of you.

your brows knit together in surprise, and you can’t help but scoff. “what was that? i didn't catch it.”

“i said i won’t go easy on you.” oh, the audacity. he’s lying again, and he knows it.

the corners of your mouth twitch in disbelief as you scrutinise his expression. there’s that familiar glimmer in his eyes, a spark of mischief that tells you he’s enjoying this too much.

“whatever,” you retort, crossing your arms defiantly. “not like i want you to anyway.”

despite your words, you can't deny that his actions earlier were surprisingly endearing. you wonder how long he intends to keep this up. perhaps it’s time you let him know.

“ii ne, kimi ga iraira shite iru toki wa kawaiikara.”

good, because you’re cute when you’re all riled up.

you feel a blush creep into your cheeks at his words, okay maybe you shouldn’t let him know. you instinctively look away, as if avoiding his gaze can help you regain your composure.

cute? what does he mean “cute”?! he thinks he can get away with calling you cute —well… well, there’s not much you can do about it, you’re not ready to confront him about this either.

the mere thought of asking him directly makes your stomach twist with a year’s worth of embarrassment. yet, as you try to refocus on the book in front of you, you find yourself biting your lip, struggling to suppress a smile that threatens to break free.

ACT IV: I WOKE UP TODAY, AND A DREAM CAME TRUE.

the hallway buzzes with excitement as students gather around the large announcement board, eager to see the results of their theses. you push through the crowd, heart pounding, the low hum of chatter filling your ears.

when you reach the front, you quickly scan the list; the moment your eyes land on your name, your breath catches in your throat.

there it is, in bold red ink at the top of the board —a score higher than you’d ever hoped for, higher than his. and your name, on top of his.

alhaitham.

you glance over and spot him approaching the board, approaching you. his expression is, as always, unreadable. but you know him well enough by now to catch the slight pause in his movements, the brief moment where his eyes linger just a second too long on the board.

you try not to think too much about it as you collect your thesis, with alhaitham following closely behind, his fingers nearly grazing yours as you both sift through the stack of papers on the table.

you take in the glowing praise from your professor, each word making you feel like every all-nighter was worth it. you clutch the paper, resisting the urge to grin like an idiot.

glancing sideways, you wait for him to say something, maybe some backhanded comment, but he remains silent. your eyes meet, and there’s a shift in his gaze as the usual sharpness in his eyes dulls ever so slightly, your smile lingering like the first light of dawn breaking through the night's embrace.

it’s subtle —just a flicker —but you catch how his gaze falters, softening, if only for a heartbeat. the edges of his stare blur, drawn to the warmth of your expression as though it’s something he hadn’t meant to witness, yet can’t look away from.

at this moment,

"looks like i finally beat you," you say, not bothering to suppress the grin spreading across your face now.

he feels like

there’s no scowl, no sign of frustration —just the slightest raise of an eyebrow. “hmm. by a point.” he pauses, studying you for a second longer than necessary before returning his gaze to his paper. “enjoy it while it lasts.”

he's in heaven.

it’s as if he’s not bothered by the outcome at all. in fact, if anything, he seems... satisfied?

"hindi dapat ganito kalala ang epekto ng ngiti mo sa akin."

your smile shouldn't affect me this badly.

“—huh?” your mouth drops slightly open at his words; out of everything, you didn’t expect him to say that. it catches you off guard, making your heart race just a little faster. if you peer closely enough, you might catch a glimpse of the gentle arch of his lips, a ghost of a smile.

the silence stretches on for a beat too long before he clears his throat and shifts his gaze away from you. “ang iyong ngiti ang pinakamagandang tanawin ng aking araw.”

your smile is the most beautiful sight of my day.

“what?” the word slips from your lips, barely a breath, a soft gasp that hangs in the air. it feels almost surreal and you wonder if you’ve misheard him.

each heartbeat thunders in your ears, a rhythm that matches the erratic flutter in your chest. why is he saying these things, what for in a different language…? there’s no way that he—

"—tulad mo na ang hinangad ko na ligawan, ngunit sa bawat ngiti mo, halip ay mas lalo akong nahulog para sayo."

—like you, who i wish to court, but with every smile, i instead found myself falling for you.

your breath hitches as your heart stumbles, the implications of his words washing over you like a wave. a rush of heat floods your cheeks, “what… did you say?”

his shoulders stiffen, and there’s a subtle tension in the way his fingers curl against the paper he’s holding. “see you tomorrow, [name],” he mutters, his voice low but hurried, and before you know it, he’s already walking away.

two strange things happened today:

1. you finally beat your sworn enemy!

2. said enemy… complimented you?

huh, it’s as if the words slipped out before he could catch them, as if he’s been holding them in for far too long, as if… you notice the way his neck reddens, even as he turns away.

behind the door, alhaitham lets out a quiet breath.

“gago… nagkamali ba ako?”

stupid… did i make a mistake?

to his dismay, an annoyingly familiar voice cuts through the silence. kaveh, who had been waiting just down the hall, notices him standing there, a little too still.

“oh, what do we have here?" there's a slight pause, followed by a raised eyebrow. "is that—no way, your face is red!” kaveh teases, amusement dancing in his eyes. “what happened there?" he leans in, clearly enjoying himself. "come on, spill the tea..!”

"not a chance," alhaitham retorts, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms defensively.

just then, kaveh spots cyno and tighnari; grinning, he waves them over. “what’s going on? did alhaitham finally crack under pressure?”

alhaitham would rather reorganise the entire library than listen to kaveh recount what happened.

“i’m leaving.”

"no, i'm afraid you're not getting out of this one.” cyno steps forward, blocking alhaitham’s path; and tighnari, who has been quietly observing till now, chimes in, “don’t leave us hanging.”

“you’re outnumbered.”

alhaitham sighs and shakes his head. he hadn’t even thought it was physically possible for him, of all people, to do something as ridiculous as blushing —until today.

(on the other side of the door, their banter echoes through, and you can’t help but chuckle to yourself at alhaitham’s misery.)

ACT V: PLAUSIBLE DENIABILITY, YOU SAY? BUT EVERYONE CALLS IT FLIRTING.

“i think alhaitham likes [name].”

the whole table falls silent before kaveh dramatically slams his glass down on the table, causing a splash of alcohol to spill over the edge. “oh finally, it’s so obvious! have you all seen the way he looks at them?”

across the table, tighnari taps his fingers absentmindedly on his notebook, his attention only half on kaveh’s (incoming) rant but clearly invested enough, as shown by the slight twitching of his ears, to be listening.

cyno snickers, “you’re telling me the man who can dissect any philosophical argument can’t handle a little crush? that’s rich.”

kaveh waves a hand dismissively. “come on! remember that time they were partnered up for a project? he was so... uncharacteristically patient! i’d almost say it’s cute if it weren’t alhaitham we’re talking about!”

right, it’d be almost endearing —if it weren’t coming from the most stoic, intimidatingly aloof guy in the entire school. it’d be adorable —if it weren’t alhaitham, who instinctively covers the corner of your table with his hand when you drop your pencil, ensuring you won’t hit your head as you bend down to retrieve it.

oh, you don’t notice (of course not). but your friend dehya, sitting nearby, catches the whole scene out of the corner of her eye. she raises an eyebrow, nudging the girl beside her.

(“candace, do you see that shit.” / “yeah.”)

“a soft spot for [name], you say? well, i’ve got a story of my own, too.” cyno glances around, ensuring no one else is within earshot, then lowers his voice conspiratorially. “have you noticed? he doesn’t wear his earphones when he’s around them.”

kaveh pipes up, nodding eagerly.

“he’s got those earphones practically glued to his head, he doesn’t hear anything he doesn’t want to, and he certainly doesn’t talk unless he’s forced to. but around them?” cyno pauses, pretending to think for a while. “not once. he’ll put them away entirely, like he’s actually willing to be… present.”

sure it’s small, subtle, the kind of habit no one would pick up on unless they were looking closely. but to anyone who knew alhaitham well, it tells them more than words ever could.

for him, actions speak louder than words, even if he often doesn’t realise the meaning behind his own gestures.

his earphones slide down, resting forgotten around his neck, all so he can be close enough to catch the delightful lilt of your laughter. his chair inches a fraction closer, seemingly by accident. a subtle upward twitch at the corner of his mouth, so fleeting and often passing so quickly if one weren’t paying attention.

for him, it’s a language without words.

dehya laughs softly. "for someone who supposedly ‘doesn’t like being bothered,’ he sure seems invested in whatever [name] has to say."

and what sealed their suspicions?

definitely the time when kaveh complimented nilou’s new bracelet. he glanced over at the man beside him, nudging him lightly. “what do you think?”

alhaitham gave the bracelet a cursory glance, before replying, “it’s nice.” though his gaze flickered back; and almost absently, he added after a pause, “[name] has the same one too.”

oh… oh? well that was oddly specific. kaveh’s eyebrow quirked as he fought to suppress a grin.

alhaitham had noticed a detail seemingly insignificant about [name] —the kind of thing he never cared to show the slightest interest in when it came to anyone else.

the glint in nilou’s eyes seemed to mirror kaveh’s unspoken thoughts, silently agreeing with his suspicions.

now they’re certain —100% sure, in fact —that alhaitham has a crush on you.

“well, speak of the devil… lovely seeing you here, alhaitham,” kaveh quips. tighnari, ever observant, gives him a pointed look. “your jacket’s missing.”

“someone took it,” alhaitham replies, his tone as composed as always, giving nothing away.

—nothing until you walked past. draped over your shoulders, unmistakable, is alhaitham’s jacket. you don’t notice the way every pair of eyes follows you, or the way kaveh barely stifles a triumphant laugh.

...make that 110%.

(translation: he means he borrowed his jacket because [name] was cold.)

ACT VI: IT’S YOU, WHO COMES TO MY RESCUE.

the quiet night hangs heavy, the road empty and bathed in the dim glow of distant streetlights. you weave through the streets, but no matter how many twists and turns you take, that weirdo just won’t leave you alone.

he’s been trailing behind you for blocks now, his persistence grating on your nerves, cornering you with endless “compliments” and invasive questions. you’ve tried to shake him off, but his determination far exceeds your patience.

"come on, just give me a chance," he insists, stepping closer, a little too close for comfort. you take a step back. the smell of alcohol reeks from his breath, and his grin is making your skin crawl.

"i told you, i’m not interested," you say firmly, keeping your voice steady, but the panic was starting to creep in. you glance at the empty bottle in his hand —he’s definitely drunk out his mind.

“you sure?" he completely ignores your clear discomfort. "how about you just give me your number, yeah?" he slurs out.

"no, i have a boyfriend." you lie through your teeth, hoping that would be enough to make him back off.

unfortunately, he’s as insufferable as he is persistent.

he snorts dismissively, "yeah, right. a boyfriend? you’re just playing hard to get."

you sigh, you aren’t in the mood for this, not here, not now, and especially not with someone like him. "i already told you, i have a boyfriend," your voice now tinged with frustration. "so please, just leave me alone.”

"oh, don't be like that," he steps in front of you, blocking your way. "prove it. call your boyfriend. show me you’re not lying."

your heart races as the man reaches out for you, dodging his hand, you take the chance to look behind him for an escape. just then, you see an all-too-familiar figure in the distance.

alhaitham.

you barely manage to suppress a relieved sigh as you wave frantically in his direction. he spots you almost immediately and without hesitation, he rushes over.

"what, this your boyfriend?" the guy sneers with derision, still sounding a little too cocky for someone who was about to get a reality check.

alhaitham steps beside you, you can feel his eyes on you for just a brief moment, the faintest flicker of worry flashing across his face. it’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but you catch it—and it makes your chest tighten.

his voice is low, unmistakably carrying a warning, "yes, i’m their boyfriend. and if you don’t want things to escalate, i suggest you leave."

the man’s face twists as anger flares in his bloodshot eyes. he takes a step forward, his grip tightening around the neck of the bottle, the glass slightly cracking. "you think you can tell me what to do?" he slurs, gaze wild and unfocused. “y-you think you’re some kind of saviour? *hic* a-and you! how… how dare you reject me?!”

alhaitham doesn’t move, his expression cold and unbothered, and that only seems to make the man angrier. his frustration boils over, and with a snarl, he clumsily swings the bottle in his hand, aggressively lurching towards your direction.

the world seems to slow for a moment. though before you can even react, alhaitham pulls you firmly behind him with one swift motion, his other arm instinctively rising to shield the both of you from the blow. the sound of glass meeting his forearm is sharp and jarring —you can hear the high-pitched tinkle of glass scattering, the jagged shards bouncing off the pavement, and some skittering across the ground.

but he doesn’t even flinch, his stance unwavering as the man stumbles back, glass crunching underfoot. you’re still frozen from shock, your heart racing in your chest as you watch the scene unfold.

“big mistake,” he starts, and the man visibly falters. “harassment, assault —keep this up, and you’ll regret every choice that brought you here tonight.”

the man shifts around, clearly disoriented. his eyes dart between you and alhaitham, but it’s clear that the fight’s already left him. “you— you can’t do this!” the man stammers, trying to regain some semblance of courage; unfortunately for him, the tremor in his voice is unmistakable.

“do you really want to find out?” alhaitham asks, to which the man shakes his head vigorously. “get lost,” he mutters. the man, looking more pathetic than threatening now, quickly stumbles away, mumbling incoherent curses under his breath.

you’re breathless, still clutching the edge of his jacket, fingers trembling slightly as the adrenaline courses through you.

"are you alright?"

you nod, forcing a small, unconvincing smile."yeah... i’m fine. thanks to you."

alhaitham’s eyes narrow slightly, scanning you for any sign of injury. you follow his gaze instinctively, glancing down at yourself. that’s when you notice it —not on you, but on him.

streaks of red stain his forearm, where jagged shards of glass must have cut him during the confrontation. the gash bleeds steadily, a dark line of blood seeping through the fabric of his jacket.

"wait," you breathe, your heart sinking. "you're bleeding."

your stomach twists with guilt.

"why didn’t you say anything?" you exclaim.

he shakes his head, a dismissive gesture that does nothing to ease the knot forming in your stomach. "it’s nothing," he says, but the slight furrow in his brow and the tension in his jaw betray his words.

"nothing?" you fix him with a hard glare. "idiot… you just blocked a glass bottle with your arm, don’t try to downplay this."

you grab his sleeve, tugging it gently but firmly, the fabric sliding beneath your fingers as you pull it up. “—and unless you think an infection is ‘nothing’, you’ll let me take care of this."

"hold still," you murmur as you settle beside him on the couch, your supplies spread across the coffee table in front of you.

the scent of antiseptic fills the air as you take a disinfectant wipe and gently dab it against the gash. the sting of the alcohol makes him flinch slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. you mutter a soft apology, your movements slow and deliberate as you try to be as gentle as you can.

you open a tube of ointment, squeezing a small amount onto your finger before smoothing it carefully along the edges of the cut. the cool gel glides over his skin, and you can feel the tension in his arm ease ever so slightly under your touch.

“nǐ zhème guān xīn wǒ, huì ràng wǒ wù huì de.”

if you care so much about me, i might misunderstand you.

your fingers pause briefly, the words catching you off guard. you glance up at him, but he only averts his gaze, his eyes remaining fixed on a distant spot beyond the room.

misunderstand? misunderstand what, exactly?

the bandage wraps securely around his arm as you smooth it into place. as you tuck the end of the bandage, his voice comes again, just as soft, but no less clear.

“—wù huì nǐ duì wǒ yǒu gǎn jué.”

"—misunderstand that you have feelings for me."

your brain short-circuits, and in your shock, your hands jerk. in turn, the bandage tightens way too much, causing him to wince and tense up. before you can apologise, he lets out a light chuckle.

“suǒ yǐ nǐ dān xīn wǒ… nǐ shì bù shì gù yì ràng rén xīn dòng de?”

“so you're worried about me… are you purposely trying to make my heart race?”

his words only make you more flustered, and you find yourself fumbling to fix the bandage. “i’m sorry! i didn’t mean to—”

his chuckle only grows softer, and you catch the glint of amusement in his eyes. “it’s fine.”

you quickly finish adjusting the bandage, trying to focus on anything other than how your heart is now racing. (ironically)

“you seem flustered,” he comments casually, as if he isn’t the one who just made your head spin. “did i say something wrong?”

you shake your head quickly, hoping to hide the flush creeping up your neck. "no, not at all.”

his lips twitch into the faintest hint of a smirk.

"nǐ bù bì yǎn shì, wǒ xǐ huān nǐ hài xiū de yàng zǐ, tǐng kě ài de.”

“you don’t have to hide it. i like seeing your flustered expression, it’s quite cute.”

(oh this bastard!!!!)

you try to speak, but the words get stuck in your throat. what do you say when someone’s teasing you so openly —and they think you don’t even realise it?

after a long moment, he stands, “it’s getting late, i should get going.” alhaitham gives you a small, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes meeting yours for a brief moment —and there it was, that trace of softness reserved only for you.

he heads toward the door, you watch him, feeling a strange sense of emptiness when he turns away.

“i’ll see you,” he pauses. "...and thank you for tending to me."

you watch him leave, the door clicking softly behind him, and the silence settles back into the room.

you blink, taking a deep breath. what a rollercoaster of a day. yawning, you turn to start tidying up, but your eyes land on something on the couch.

it’s his jacket, draped over the armrest. you notice a tear on the sleeve, just where his injured forearm had been. what truly catches your attention, however, is a folded piece of paper slipping out of the pocket.

intrigued, you unfold it, revealing his neat, precise handwriting.

ACT VII: THE SECRET I’VE ALWAYS KNOWN.

To [Name], I once believed you to be little more than a nuisance. A bright, well-meaning nuisance, no doubt, but a nuisance nonetheless. One who seemed intent only on striving for perfection, always seeking to best me at every turn, not out of malice but out of some earnest desire to prove your worth. In my arrogance, I mistook your relentless pursuit for a need for recognition, as if you sought my attention in some petty rivalry. Though very quickly, you made me think otherwise. You saw the world differently, you also saw me differently. You didn’t treat me with the reverence others seemed to, nor did you shy away from challenging me. You refused to be seen as anything other than yourself; and that, in itself, was what made me admire you —what made me long to understand you more. Now, I find that I am standing with half a heart and an emptiness I never knew I could feel, because you showed me what it truly means to crave something more, something I never thought I deserved. You may think I’m a coward for not expressing my feelings more directly, perhaps you are right. I am a coward for fearing to lay bare the vulnerability of my heart. But even in my cowardice, know that my thoughts have always been of you. If you have seen through my silence and hesitation, if you understand my actions when my words fail me, then perhaps you have already known this truth. I care for you, more deeply than I can fully express. Though I may never be able to say these things as openly as I wish, I’d like you to know that my actions have always been my confession. Even now, I’m still a coward for you. So please, if you decide to give me a chance, I’ll be waiting at nightfall. Helplessly, Alhaitham.

you absentmindedly trace the edges of the letter with your fingers while your eyes skim over his writing for the nth time, the ink seeming to blur together with your thoughts as you try to process everything. your fingers curl around the fabric of his jacket, a foolish smile creeping onto your face.

tomorrow’s nightfall feels impossibly far away, yet you can’t wait for it.

alhaitham lays on his bed, his arm aches slightly from the injury, but it’s nothing he can’t ignore. plus, the bandage you had carefully wrapped around his arm is enough to keep the discomfort at bay.

(originally, he had only planned to meet you, slip you the note, and be on his way. things didn’t go exactly to plan, but either way, he hopes you’ve read it by now.)

of all the possibilities, he’s never accounted for the one he’d be at mercy of his own emotions; he had always prided himself on his rationality, his restraint. but now? he’s reckless, absurd, foolish even —he can admit that to himself. but he finds he doesn’t care in the slightest.

for as much as he is a coward in your presence, he is just as much a fool in your absence.

ACT VIII: UNDER THE RAIN, I HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY.

“alhaitham isn’t really an expressive person, so don’t worry if he comes off as distant or uninterested. it’s not that he doesn’t care, he just… shows it differently.”

ah well, ‘differently’ indeed.

“—most importantly, alhaitham doesn’t waste time on people he doesn’t care about, so you must mean a lot to him.”

maybe you didn’t mind how your heart raced when you heard that.

“don’t fuss over it [name], you’ll know when he’s in love.”

how so?

if he was in love, what would it look like? would you be able to tell, or would it be just another one of those things you had to catch on to?

you wrapped the his jacket tighter around yourself, a faint smile tugging at your lips. it wasn’t the answers to those questions that mattered, but asking them in the first place —that was what made you realize you already knew all along.

the evening air is cool against your skin; a gentle breeze stirs the trees, their leaves rustling quietly, and your heart beats louder than ever, urging you forward.

in the distance, you spot him, standing still in the dim light. and without a second thought, you quicken your pace.

“haitham.”

the sound of your voice catches his attention as he turns to face you; you can’t help but notice how his gaze flickers down for just a moment, his eyes taking in on how his jacket looks on you, before meeting yours.

his posture is unnervingly perfect, rigid almost to the point of stiffness …is he nervous?

“hey,” he finally says, clearing his throat. “there’s something i need to tell you… though you’ve probably already figured it out. you’ve always been sharp.”

“i… ” he falters, and it’s the first time you see him hesitate. “i’m not sure how to put it… since i’m not exactly great at this.”

you tilt your head, subtly urging him to continue.

“but you’ve managed to make me care about things i never thought i would. and now i can’t seem to stop thinking about it —about you.” his voice lowers, softer now, but there’s a rawness there that’s unmistakable.

“i’m telling you this now, because not saying it... doesn’t feel right anymore."

suddenly, you feel a soft mist that barely kisses your skin, a slight chill against your cheeks, then a few tiny drops, until they start to gather in your hair, the beads of water slipping down the back of your neck, but you don't move. neither does he.

his hair is damp, sticking to his forehead, droplets trailing down his temple. his clothes cling to his frame, soaked by the rain, yet his attention remains solely on you.

“[name], i am irrevocably in love with you.”

you stand there, the rain falling relentlessly around you, the pitter-patter mirroring the frantic beat of your heart. the water trails down his face, but it’s hard to tell if it’s just the rain, or something else.

his lips part, as though he wants to say more, but the words seem caught in the storm, swallowed up by the downpour. the rain is cold, but his gaze? his gaze feels impossibly warm.

it’s only when you feel the dampness of his jacket beneath your fingers, that the words finally come. “you don’t need to convince me of that.”

you take a step closer, and for a moment, the world outside seems to disappear.

“i’ve known,” you add. “but hearing you say it,” you pause, allowing yourself a small smile, “makes all the difference.”

reaching up, your fingers graze his damp skin as you gently push a wet strand of hair from his forehead, the warmth of your touch lingering against his cool skin.

“'uhibuk aydan, alhaitham.”

i love you too, alhaitham.

a single droplet slides down his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw before falling to the soaked fabric of his collar. another follows. and then another. his breath catches in his throat, and a shaky exhale leaves his mouth.

you wrap your arms around him, and he sinks into your embrace, his hair tickling your cheeks, as his chest rises and falls against yours.

“you’re gonna make me cry too, idiot,” you murmur, burying your face in his chest, your eyes glassy. “you really are a fool,” you tease softly, a slight smile playing on your lips. “but only for me.”

slowly, his hands rise, trembling slightly, until they cup your cheeks, gently stroking it.

“la yujad 'ahad akhar 'urid 'an 'akun 'ahmaq min 'ajlihi.”

there’s no one else i’d ever want to be a fool for.

his palms are surprisingly warm despite the weather. his thumb grazes your cheekbone as he leans in, and the world falls away —nothing but the warmth of his presence and the soft press of his lips against yours.

“this is my first time in ten years seeing this guy cry! can you believe it?!” kaveh whisper-shouts, peeking out from behind the shrub.

nodding along, cyno agrees, poking his head out just right below the blond’s. “[name] is truly exceptional. though i must say, seeing alhaitham cry is quite tear-rifying.”

kaveh rolls his eyes in exasperation. “ugh, you and your puns.” he mutters under his breath while zooming in on his phone, which is currently recording the whole scene.

“quiet down, you two!” a voice hisses from behind them —tighnari, face flushed with panic. “they’re literally right there, and you’re making more noise than a herd of goats.”

“relax, we’re out of their line of sight anyway!” kaveh raises his phone higher, almost giddily, eyes glued to the screen. “and damn this is a good angle.”

tighnari exhales sharply, “you’re incorrigible.”

“look who’s talking,” cyno raises an eyebrow at tighnari… who’s also peeking out from behind the bush. (what a hypocrite)

…

“they kissed oh my g—” kaveh’s voice rises in disbelief, but cyno quickly covers his mouth with a swift hand. the three of them scramble to duck behind the bush just as you turn to glance in their direction.

(“is that… senior kaveh?” you squint your eyes, “cyno, and tighnari?”

alhaitham clears his throat before glancing over at his friends with a deadpan expression. “yes and unfortunately, they’re very invested in my personal life. so please don’t mind them."

you laugh, finding the whole situation a bit too amusing. “not in the slightest, but i’m sure they’ll never let you hear the end of it.”)

EPILOGUE: IN EVERY LANGUAGE, I HEAR LOVE YOU.

“how long?”

you blink, feigning confusion. “how long what?”

alhaitham’s eyes narrow slightly, an expression you know well. “how long have you understood everything i’ve been saying?”

you bite back a smile and offer a small shrug, “...ever since you started?”

his lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, you can’t tell if he’s upset or impressed. then, he sighs, almost amused. “and you let me embarrass myself all this time?”

“you were being honest,” you shrug, a smirk forming. “plus i knew you’d figure it out eventually.”

he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “may ideya ka ba kung ano ginawa mo?"

do you have any idea what you’ve done?

"mas lalong umibig sakin?"

made you fall in love with me even more?

you tease, but there’s a tenderness in your voice that softens the edge of your words.

“yes, and you really are insufferable,” he mutters with no malice. his tone is different now. softer. warmer, even.

you lean in slightly, a playful glint in your eyes. “that’s not what i heard you say before.” your fingers graze the skin of his cheek before you tenderly pinch it, giggling softly at the reaction you provoked.

in one smooth motion, he catches your hand before you can pull away and tugs you towards him, closing the distance between you in a heartbeat. you tilt your head back to meet alhaitham’s gaze.

you’ve often thought he’s the most-perfect boyfriend, undeniably handsome in every way —but there’s really just one flaw: his height.

“ugh, you’re too tall," you grumble, rubbing the back of your neck. "i’m having a neck sore just looking at you."

he quirks an eyebrow at your sudden words. “you could use a stepstool.”

"or," you counter, "you could get on your knees and save me the trouble.”

he slowly lets out a breath, his lips curling ever so slightly.

“'akida, 'antaziri hataa 'ashtari alkhatama.”

sure, just wait till i buy the ring.

"wh—"

he crosses his arms, "what’s wrong? isn’t that what people expect when someone gets on their knees?"

you roll your eyes, half-smiling. "fine, then i’ll eagerly wait for that day.”

his gaze softens as his hand reaches up, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face; his eyes drop to your lips for a moment, and you know what’s coming even before he speaks.

this fic was not sponsored by duolingo, but with the help of my beloved friends!! wouldn't have been possible w/o em please give them a round of applause xx

vietnamese — @https-sourlimes

tagalog / filipino — @vxnuslogy

arabic — @ughscara

chinese, japanese — me!

ty @mitsvriii for proofreading, love u all <3

and thank you for reading!! reblogs are appreciated ^^

pspspss check out the cool fanart / comic based on this fic here by @rei-plswork 🤍

MASTERLIST.

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kathaelipwse · 1 month ago

Text

Contract, Cooked & Kissed | C.Seungcheol

Pairing: Chef!Seungcheol × Journalist!Reader

Requested: Yes

Word Count: 8256 words ; Reading Time: 30-ish mins

Trope: Arranged Marriage | Strangers to Lovers | Mutual Pining | Secret Softies

Warnings: angst, mentions of family pressure, suggestive language, slow burn, Mingyu is cheol's bestie and woozi is the the reader's bestie, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE

Synopsis: A rising journalist. A quiet chef. Thrown into a contract marriage to please their families, neither expected the late-night meals, soft silences, or stolen glances. But what happens when pretend becomes too real… and time runs out?

Author’s Note: This one’s for the foodies and the pining girlies. Cheol is soft, hot, and fully whipped—just how we like him. Hope you fall in love bite by bite.

The scent of freshly baked bread hit you before anything else. But it wasn’t the comforting, cozy kind that made you think of home, of cinnamon and shared laughter. No, this was the suffocating kind—the kind that followed a man who showed up forty minutes late to a dinner you didn’t even know was a marriage meeting.

You stared across the meticulously set table, chopsticks frozen mid-air, the half-eaten plate of what your mother had enthusiastically described as "a very auspicious pasta with a secret family sauce" suddenly tasting like ash. The front door creaked open, and in walked him.

Rolled-up sleeves revealed forearms dusted with a fine layer of white. A flour-dusted apron was still tied firmly at his waist, a testament to whatever culinary emergency had delayed him. Dark hair, usually neat in the photos your mother had subtly (and not-so-subtly) shown you, was ruffled like he’d run his fingers through it repeatedly in the car. His expression didn’t read "sorry I’m late." More like, “I’d rather be elbow-deep in fish guts than here.”

Same. A silent, emphatic agreement settled in your chest.

Your mother turned to you with that practiced smile—the one she only pulled out when she was scheming, a smile that promised both sugar and a hidden agenda.

“Y/N, darling, this is Seungcheol. Seungcheol, this is my daughter.” Her voice was saccharine sweet, the kind that usually preceded a request to call some distant relative you’d never met.

You managed a tight smile, the muscles in your cheeks protesting the forced pleasantry. “Wow. What a totally casual and not-at-all-orchestrated dinner. The surprise element really adds to the charm.”

He raised a dark eyebrow, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. Did you also get tricked into this elaborate carb-loading session?”

“Absolutely. I was promised jjajangmyeon and a quiet evening with Netflix, not a proposal disguised as a pasta night.”

A snort escaped him, a genuine, unguarded sound that surprised you. His eyes crinkled at the corners, softening his otherwise sharp features. “Good. Then we’re on the same sinking ship.”

You didn’t expect to laugh. But there it was, bubbling up like a secret understanding between two strangers thrown into the same ridiculous, sauce-splattered situation.

Dinner passed in a blur of polite conversation that felt anything but. Your mom gushed about your burgeoning writing career, exaggerating your freelance articles into the next great literary sensation. His father, a stern-faced man with kind eyes, boasted about his son’s Michelin-starred potential, his words painting a picture of a culinary prodigy. You exchanged increasingly bewildered looks with Seungcheol every five minutes, a silent language passing between you that translated to: is this real life? Are our parents actually serious?

And then came the bombshell, delivered with the same casual sweetness your mother reserved for offering you a second helping of suspiciously healthy vegetables.

“We’ve drawn up a six-month agreement,” your mother said, her smile unwavering. “Live together. Get to know each other. See if… compatibility blossoms. If it doesn’t work, no harm done. We’ll simply consider it a well-intentioned experiment.”

Your wine glass hit the table a little too hard, the clink echoing in the suddenly tense silence. A splash of red stained the white tablecloth like a dramatic punctuation mark. “I’m sorry—what agreement?”

Cheol didn’t look surprised. Just… resigned. A weariness settled on his face, etching lines around his mouth.

“They talked to me about it last week,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the intricate pattern of the tablecloth. “I said no. Several times.”

“So did I,” you echoed, the absurdity of the situation hitting you with the force of a rogue wave.

A beat of silence hung in the air, thick with unspoken expectations and parental determination.

Then:

“We’re still doing it,” your mom said, her tone leaving no room for argument. That was that. The finality in her voice was a familiar, frustrating force of nature.

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of hushed phone calls between your parents and his, logistical nightmares disguised as helpful suggestions, and a growing sense of surreal detachment. You found yourself signing papers you barely read, nodding along to conversations you only half-heard. It felt like you were sleepwalking through a bizarre play where you’d somehow landed the lead role in a romantic comedy you definitely hadn’t auditioned for.

Then came the day you found yourself standing in a sterile, brightly lit room, the scent of industrial-strength cleaner overpowering even the nervous sweat prickling your skin. A justice of the peace, a woman with tired eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor, droned on about the legalities of marriage. Your parents beamed from the front row, their faces radiating a triumphant “we know best” glow. His parents, while less overtly enthusiastic, offered polite, if somewhat strained, smiles.

Beside you stood Seungcheol. He looked… surprisingly calm. He wore a simple but elegant dark suit, the flour long gone, his hair neatly styled. He looked like he belonged here, in this official setting, taking these serious vows. You, on the other hand, felt like an imposter in the borrowed cream dress your mother had insisted on, your hands clammy as you clutched a small bouquet of white roses.

You hadn't had a proposal, no romantic declarations, no whispered promises under a starry sky. Instead, you had a late dinner, a shared sense of being tricked, and a six-month agreement. Yet, here you were, about to legally bind yourself to a man you’d met less than a month ago.

The justice of the peace turned to you. “L/N Y/N, do you take Seungcheol to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Your throat felt dry. You looked at Seungcheol, really looked at him. Beyond the initial annoyance and shared disbelief, you saw a flicker of something… else. A quiet understanding, a shared burden, maybe even a hint of reluctant curiosity.

Taking a deep breath, you said, your voice surprisingly steady, “I do.”

Then it was his turn. “Choi Seungcheol, do you take Y/N to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

He met your gaze, his dark eyes holding a depth you hadn’t noticed before. There was a seriousness there that went beyond the absurdity of the situation. “I do.”

And just like that, with a few signatures and the exchange of simple, unadorned silver bands that felt more like handcuffs than symbols of love, you were married.

The apartment you moved into together a week later was bigger than you expected. Minimalistic, all neutral tones and clean lines, with a kitchen so pristine it clearly belonged to someone who knew how to use it. Aka, definitely not you.

“You take the left room,” he said, lugging in a surprisingly heavy box labeled “Spices – Handle with Extreme Care.” “I’ll take the right.”

“Thanks. Also, no offense, but if you burn something past midnight and set off the fire alarm, I will throw you and your precious spices and you off the balcony.”

“Fair. And if you leave so much as a single strand of your hair in the drain, I’m reporting you to the housing gods for crimes against plumbing.”

You smiled, a genuine smile this time, as you set your suitcase by the door of your designated room. “Sounds like the beginning of a beautiful fake marriage.”

He turned away, his shoulders slightly hunched as he wrestled with another box. But not before you caught it—a small, real smile playing on his lips.

That night, you lay in bed, the unfamiliar silence of the apartment amplifying the frantic spinning of the ceiling fan. From the kitchen, a soft clinking of pots and pans drifted through the thin walls. Maybe he was cooking, a late-night creation born out of habit and passion. Or maybe, like you, he was stress-baking his way through the sheer, unbelievable reality of it all.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Woozi : please tell me this isn’t real please tell me he’s not hot You sighed, picking up your phone and typing back, a small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips. You: he showed up with flour in his hair and he made me laugh. and yeah… he looked surprisingly decent in a suit today. so yes. I’m doomed.

Deadlines felt less like a ticking clock and more like a pack of rabid badgers gnawing at your sanity. You’d been surgically attached to your laptop for what felt like a geological epoch, the blue light from the screen tattooing itself onto your retinas.

Eight hours. Eight glorious hours spent wrestling with the elusive nuances of Seoul’s underground supper club scene, a world apparently fueled by more secrecy than the CIA and questionable amounts of soju. Your editor, bless their demanding soul, had graced your inbox with a string of three increasingly frantic question marks.

Your stomach, meanwhile, had long since moved past rumbling and was now emitting a low, mournful groan that echoed the general state of your existence. You were too caffeine-addled and deadline-induced to even register hunger as a tangible sensation.

So, when the unmistakable aroma of garlic sautéing in sesame oil began to snake its way under your door and infiltrate your cramped office-slash-bedroom, your initial reaction wasn’t a Pavlovian surge of appetite.

No, it was a sharp pang of guilt, the kind that usually accompanied forgetting your best friend’s birthday or accidentally liking a tweet from 2012. This guilt, however, had a distinctly culinary origin. You knew exactly who was responsible for the tantalizing scent assaulting your senses.

With the slow, deliberate movements of a zombie emerging from its digital grave, you swiveled your chair around.

The kitchen lights blazed with an almost aggressively cheerful brightness, illuminating Seungcheol as he navigated the small space with an unnerving level of calm. Olive oil hissed gently in a pan, a soft sizzle that spoke of practiced hands and controlled heat. With a casual flick of his wrist, he sent a shower of perfectly diced carrots into a gentle, aromatic tumble.

He looked… composed. Unflustered. Like he wasn’t currently orchestrating a meal for a roommate who had communicated with him solely through a series of increasingly desperate Slack messages to her editor and the occasional frustrated sigh that probably vibrated through the shared walls.

“I… didn’t ask you to cook,” you mumbled from the hallway, your voice raspy from disuse and the sheer effort of forming coherent words.

He didn’t even glance up, his focus entirely on the sizzling vegetables. “Didn’t ask for your permission either.”

You blinked slowly, the sarcasm bubbling up despite your exhaustion. “Wow. How utterly… romantic. Should I expect a serenade next? Perhaps a sonnet dedicated to the exquisite aroma of sautéed onions?”

“I’m not trying to be romantic,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of any playful inflection. “I’m trying to prevent you from collapsing face-first onto your keyboard and leaving a permanent imprint of the ‘shift’ key on your forehead.”

His bluntness, while undeniably practical, still managed to make your ears burn with a faint blush. You opened your mouth to deliver a suitably withering retort, something about the inherent dangers of unsolicited culinary interventions, but the way he was now meticulously plating fluffy white rice into a bowl stopped you. There was a quiet focus in his movements, a deliberate care that seemed at odds with the forced nature of your cohabitation.

Then, with a silent grace that felt almost theatrical, he slid the filled bowl across the countertop towards your designated spot at the small kitchen table.

You froze, halfway between the hallway and the kitchen. The aroma hit you then, fully, and it was like a punch to the gut. It was your comfort food, the culinary equivalent of a warm hug on a bad day. Soy-braised beef, cooked the way your mom used to make it.

The meat was impossibly tender, glistening with a hint of honey in the rich, savory glaze. And the carrots… the carrots were cut into perfect little stars. Your mom had always insisted on that flourish, a ridiculously time-consuming detail that had annoyed your younger self to no end, but now… now it just felt like a memory, warm and unexpected.

“How did you—?” The question hung in the air, a mixture of disbelief and something akin to… gratitude? You weren’t entirely sure.

He finally wiped his hands on a clean kitchen towel, his expression still neutral. “You mentioned it in passing last week. Something about childhood comfort food and the psychological benefits of star-shaped vegetables. I Googled a bit.”

“You… Googled the recipe of my childhood comfort food?” The absurdity of the situation almost made you laugh, a dry, humorless sound.

You sat down slowly, the wooden chair scraping against the linoleum. You picked up the offered chopsticks, the smooth bamboo feeling strangely foreign in your hand.

You didn’t say thank you. The words felt too inadequate, too… real for this bizarre, orchestrated reality.

But you cleaned the bowl. Every last morsel of tender beef, every star-shaped carrot, every grain of rice soaked in the sweet and savory sauce. You even used a stray piece of lettuce to mop up the remaining glaze, a testament to your unexpected hunger and the undeniable deliciousness of the meal.

Later that night, the glow of your laptop screen finally fading, you padded out of your room in search of water, your bare feet silent on the cool wooden floor. Sleep clung to you like a heavy blanket, blurring the edges of your vision.

The faint sliver of light emanating from beneath Cheol’s closed bedroom door caught your attention. You were about to shuffle past, heading straight for the blessed oblivion of the kitchen sink, when a soft sound made you pause. The rhythmic click-click-click of a mouse. And then… a familiar headline.

Your name.

Curiosity, that insidious little gremlin, nudged you forward. You stepped closer to his door, your ear pressed lightly against the cool wood. The soft glow intensified, illuminating the space just beyond the frame.

He was reading your article. The one that was currently three frantic question marks away from being submitted.

You peeked just enough to see his screen. Your opening paragraph, the one you’d rewritten approximately seventeen times, was highlighted in a soft blue. His head was tilted slightly as he read, his brow furrowed in concentration, his mouth quirked in that thoughtful way you’d briefly observed during your disastrous first dinner. Then, a small, almost imperceptible huff escaped him. Was he…? Was he actually… smiling?

Panic, swift and sharp, shot through you. You backed away from the door as if it had suddenly become electrified, your bare feet padding silently back towards your own room.

Once inside, you leaned heavily against the closed door, the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat echoing in your ears.

He made you your mom’s ridiculously specific dish.

He was reading your work.

You were so utterly and completely screwed. This wasn't just a bizarre living arrangement anymore. This was… something else. Something unsettlingly domestic. Something that threatened the carefully constructed wall of sarcasm you’d erected around your unwilling participation in this matrimonial farce.

Whereas, cheol's phone kept buzzing.

mingyu: sooooooo mingyu: she licked the plate clean, didn’t she? Those star carrots really did the trick, huh? You're practically a culinary Cupid. cheol: shut up mingyu: OH MY GOD HE RESPONDED. The silent chef speaks! And with such eloquence! This is progress, my friend. Next thing you know, you'll be holding hands and gazing longingly at each other over a shared bowl of tteokbokki. cheol: blocked

This was going to be a long six months. A very, very long six months filled with unexpected acts of kindness, the lingering scent of delicious food, and increasingly uncomfortable eye contact that hinted at a reality far more complicated than a simple agreement.

Next Morning <3

You’d barely managed to peel your eyelids apart when the email notification chimed, a digital herald of the day’s impending absurdity.

Subject: New Series: Love in the Everyday—Couples Who Cook Together, Stay Together Your marriage is adorable. Myself as a editor, I am obsessed. First article & content due next week. Go wild, Mrs. Choi ❤️ Your lovely, Unhinged editor!

You stared at the glowing screen, the word “adorable” practically dripping with saccharine irony. Your contract marriage. Adorable. The sheer audacity of it made you want to bang your head gently against the headboard.

This was supposed to be a strategic alliance, a mutually beneficial arrangement built on tax breaks and convenient cohabitation, devoid of any genuine sentiment. Yet, your professional life was now hinging on convincing the world that you and your fake husband were the poster couple for domestic bliss.

Your life had officially devolved into a poorly written rom-com where the leads were constantly improvising a love story they weren’t actually living.

You found Cheol in the kitchen, a serene island of culinary focus amidst your internal storm. He was meticulously chopping vegetables, the rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of his knife a stark contrast to the chaotic thoughts swirling in your brain. He looked effortlessly domestic, a stark reminder of the role he was about to play.

“Hey,” you began, the laptop clutched under your arm like a shield against the impending awkwardness. “So, about this video series… the editor really wants us to lean into the ‘adorable married couple’ thing.” You cringed internally at your own words.

He didn’t look up, his concentration unwavering. “Adorable, huh? Should I start wearing matching aprons with little hearts on them?”

“Please, no,” you pleaded. “Just… you know… the usual. Cooking, maybe some light banter. But she specifically mentioned wanting to see the ‘husband and wife dynamic’ shine through.”

Cheol finally paused, wiping his hands on a pristine kitchen towel. “So, more… ‘my wife this’ and ‘my wife that’?”

You nodded, a wave of secondhand embarrassment washing over you. “Pretty much. Apparently, the readers are eating it up.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Eating up a lie. Fascinating.”

“It pays the bills,” you reminded him, a weak justification for the charade.

“True,” he conceded with a sigh. “Alright, Mrs. Choi. Let’s give the people what they apparently crave: a heaping serving of marital fiction.”

The first video shoot felt like a masterclass in forced intimacy. Every time you fumbled a step, Cheol would smoothly step in, his hand briefly covering yours as he corrected your technique, murmuring a casual, “My wife always struggles with this part.” The phrase felt foreign and yet… strangely natural coming from him.

“My wife has a particular fondness for extra garlic,” he’d declare to the camera, adding another clove with a knowing smile that wasn’t directed at you.

“Actually, my husband here sometimes overdoes it,” you’d retort, forcing a playful eye roll that felt about as genuine as a three-dollar bill.

By the third video, a strange rhythm had developed. Cheol seamlessly integrated the “my wife” moniker into his explanations, his tone a casual blend of affection and mild exasperation that, you had to admit, sounded surprisingly convincing.

“My wife insists on adding this much chili,” he’d say, holding up a generous pinch of red pepper flakes, a slight shake of his head that somehow conveyed years of loving compromise.

“Well, my husband has the taste buds of a toddler,” you’d fire back, a genuine smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

The fan comments exploded with even more fervor. @ KitchenGoddessFan: OMG the way he says “my wife” # marriedlife # soinlove @ KDramaObsessed: Their chemistry is OFF THE CHARTS! He’s totally whipped for his wife! # husbandgoals @ SwooningStans: Every time he calls her “my wife” I get butterflies! This is the cutest couple ever!

You tried to remain detached, reminding yourself that it was all an act, a carefully constructed performance for an audience that believed your carefully curated online persona. But with each casual “my wife,” a tiny crack seemed to appear in the wall you’d built around your emotions.

One evening, while filming a particularly chaotic attempt at making homemade pasta, flour dusted both of your faces. Cheol reached out, his thumb gently wiping a smudge from your cheek.

“My wife is a disaster in the kitchen,” he said to the camera, his voice softer than usual, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he looked at you.

Your breath hitched. The warmth of his touch lingered, and the casual endearment, spoken so naturally for the camera, resonated in a way it shouldn’t have.

Later, while editing, you replayed that moment countless times. The way his eyes had crinkled at the corners. The almost imperceptible tenderness in his touch. The easy, possessive way he’d said “my wife.”

It was all for show. You knew that. But a small, treacherous part of you couldn’t help but wonder if, somewhere beneath the layers of performance, a sliver of something real was starting to emerge.

Your phone buzzed.

Woozi : okay that “my wife” compilation your fans are making is genuinely concerning it’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion You: tell me about it i think i need to move to another continent Woozi : maybe just… stop letting him call you his wife so much on camera? You: easier said than done bestie the editor is OBSESSED with the “husband and wife dynamic” i think i’ve created a monster

One month after the “Love in the Everyday” videos had inexplicably turned your bizarre contractual arrangement into internet gold, you found yourself wishing for the sweet oblivion of a root canal. Family gatherings on your mother’s side were less about familial warmth and more about a meticulously orchestrated judgment parade, with you and your life choices invariably taking center stage.

And tonight’s special guest of honor? Your husband. Your arranged husband. Choi Seungcheol. The chef. The infuriatingly talented, quietly observant, and undeniably attractive man who had a disconcerting habit of positioning himself just slightly behind you in social situations, as if unsure if he’d been granted permission to occupy the spotlight.

Apparently, some things never changed, even with a burgeoning online fanbase and articles dissecting your “adorable” marriage.

“Ah, the literary sensation graces us with her presence,” your Aunt Hyemi sang out as she greeted you at the door, her arms opening wide in a gesture that felt more performative than welcoming. “Still churning out those little think pieces that set the internet ablaze, dear?” Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes, which held a familiar glint of condescension.

Then, her gaze slid to Cheol, lingering for a moment as if he were an unwelcome piece of furniture she hadn’t noticed until now.

“And the… husband,” she drawled, the word stretched out like a particularly unpleasant note in a poorly sung song. “Still… playing with food?” The implication hung heavy in the air: while you were out conquering the world with your intellect, he was merely toiling away in a kitchen.

Your grip on Cheol’s hand tightened instinctively, a silent offering of solidarity. He, as always, responded with a gentle squeeze and a polite bow, his expression serene.

"Still cooking, yes, Auntie. Someone has to ensure Y/N eats something other than lukewarm coffee and deadline-induced anxiety,” he replied, his tone even and devoid of any defensiveness. “Her work is important. I’m just here to… support her endeavors.” His choice of words, “support her endeavors,” felt deliberately understated, a subtle deflection of the implied slight.

You knew that smile. It was the carefully neutral mask he wore when people became too loud, too invasive, too prone to making assumptions based on outdated societal norms. It was the smile that preceded his polite but firm deflections when people asked him what it felt like to be married to someone “more successful” or when they patted him on the back and told him he’d “landed himself a good one.”

Your aunt tilted her head, her gaze sharp and probing. “Mm. Must be… peculiar, though. To be constantly in your wife’s shadow. A man… defined by his wife’s accomplishments.”

You choked on the lukewarm tea you’d just been handed, a sputtering cough escaping your lips. Cheol, however, didn’t so much as flinch.

He simply chuckled softly, the sound surprisingly genuine despite the underlying tension. “I find immense satisfaction in Y/N’s achievements. Being ‘in her shadow,’ as you so eloquently put it, doesn’t bother me in the slightest. We’re a team. Her wins are my wins.”

You weren’t sure if the sudden heat rising in your chest was pride at his quiet strength or a simmering fury at your aunt’s blatant rudeness. Perhaps it was a volatile cocktail of both.

Your aunt snorted, the sound akin to a cat hacking up a hairball. “That’s what men with no ambition say. A man content to stir pots while his wife ‘conquers the world’ with her… little articles?” She punctuated her statement with a loud, brittle laugh that echoed through the suddenly hushed living room. “He’s practically dirt under your heels, sweetheart. A charity case you keep around for the cooking and… well, whatever else a docile husband is good for.”

The room went utterly silent. Forks paused mid-air, halfway to pursed lips. Snippets of conversations died mid-sentence. Every eye in the room swiveled towards the unfolding drama.

Something inside you, something you hadn’t even realized was holding itself together with frayed edges, finally snapped. It didn’t crack subtly; it shattered into a million sharp pieces.

You stepped forward, your grip on Cheol’s hand tightening until your knuckles were white. Your voice, when it finally emerged, was low and sharp, each word clipped and cold as glass. “Say that again, Auntie.”

Your aunt blinked, her painted eyebrows arching in feigned surprise. “What, dear?”

“No, I want you to repeat it. Every single condescending, belittling word you just spewed about my husband. Go on. Say it again so I can hear just how utterly pathetic and small-minded you sound.” The polite facade you usually wore at these gatherings had completely crumbled, replaced by a raw, protective anger.

She recoiled slightly, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “Excuse me, young lady—”

“No, you excuse me,” you interrupted, your voice rising slightly. “You think because he chooses to work in a kitchen, because his passion lies in creating something tangible with his hands, that he’s somehow less of a man? He runs a kitchen that feeds hundreds of people every single day. He manages a team of skilled individuals. He knows more about the complexities of human nature in an hour of observing his diners than you’ve learned in a lifetime of judging others over lukewarm tea and stale gossip.”

You could feel Cheol’s steady gaze on your back, a silent presence of support.

“He has more strength, more integrity, more sheer grit in his pinky finger than half the men in this room who are currently trying to impress each other with their fancy business cards and hollow boasts. And if you genuinely believe that the size of someone’s bank account is the sole measure of their worth, the only reason to marry someone—then frankly, Auntie, I’m eternally grateful that your husband chooses to sleep in a different room, likely to escape your poisonous opinions.”

A stunned silence descended upon the room, thick and heavy. Your aunt’s perfectly painted mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fish gasping for air. Someone coughed nervously. Another relative muttered a low, impressed “damn.”

Cheol was still quiet, but the tips of his ears were flushed a delicate shade of pink, a rare outward display of his usually well-contained emotions.

You took his hand, your grip firm and possessive, and turned to address the rest of the room, your gaze sweeping over their stunned faces. “Anyone else have something they’d like to add? Any other insightful commentary on my husband’s chosen profession or his supposed lack of… backbone?”

They didn’t. The silence remained unbroken, save for the faint clinking of silverware as someone nervously resumed eating.

Later that night, after the tense atmosphere had (somewhat) dissipated and you’d retreated to the guest bedroom, you found a small tray outside your door. On it sat a bowl of still-warm stew, the comforting aroma filling the hallway. A neatly folded napkin lay beside it, and beneath it, a simple, handwritten note.

“You’ve been standing for me since day one. Let me be your place to fall. – Cheol”

You found him in the kitchen, the familiar quiet of his sanctuary enveloping him. His elbows were resting on the cool countertop, his dark hair tousled as if he’d been running his fingers through it, his gaze fixed on some unseen point in the distance.

He didn’t look up when you walked in, his posture radiating a quiet weariness. “I didn’t expect you to go that hard.”

“I didn’t expect her to be that… cruel,” you admitted, the anger from earlier having receded, leaving behind a hollow ache.

“She’s your family,” he said softly, a statement of fact, not an excuse.

You walked over to him, the silence between you comfortable and understanding. You pulled out the chair next to his and sat down, the wooden legs scraping softly against the floor.

“You’re my husband,” you said, the words spoken softly but with a newfound conviction that surprised even yourself.

Cheol finally looked up, his dark eyes meeting yours. For the first time since the ink had dried on the ridiculous contract, his carefully guarded expression cracked, just a little. A flicker of something vulnerable, something real, softened the sharp angles of his face. It was as if the lines between the performance and the unexpected connection you shared were finally starting to blur beyond recognition.

He smiled. Not the polite, reserved smile he offered to the world. This was a different smile. A real one. A smile that reached his eyes and held a hint of something… more.

You didn’t sleep in the guest bedroom that night. You found yourself drawn to the quiet comfort of the hallroom's couch. You fell asleep with your legs tangled together, your head resting on his steady chest, his hand gently resting on your waist, a silent promise of support and understanding passing between you in the darkness.

Next day, you find woozi's texts, you had vented to him….you always did. After all he is your bestfriend.

💬 Woozi : You defended him in front of your entire family? Like a freaking knight in shining armor? 💬 You: I wasn’t about to stand there and let her talk about him like he was disposable. Like his worth was tied to a paycheck. 💬 Woozi : Girl. You are so screwed. You know that, right? This isn't just some cooking show anymore.

The silence in the apartment had become a tangible thing, a heavy blanket suffocating the vibrant energy that had once flickered between you. It wasn’t the comfortable quiet of shared understanding, but a hollow echo in the spaces where laughter used to bounce off the walls. A silence that felt stolen, a temporary reprieve before the inevitable storm.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours ticking down with agonizing slowness until the contract expired. Until the apartment keys were exchanged, his worn leather apron would be folded away into a box, the subtle, comforting scent of his cologne would vanish from the bathroom counter, leaving behind only the ghost of his presence.

You’d meticulously constructed a narrative of readiness in your head, a mental checklist of practicalities and detached acceptance.

It was a lie. A pathetic, paper-thin fabrication that crumbled a little more each day.

You felt his absence in the way your hand instinctively reached for his when you navigated crowded spaces, only to grasp empty air. In the way your footsteps hesitated outside his closed bedroom door at night, a silent plea for connection warring with a stubborn refusal to acknowledge the ache in your chest. It intensified with the muffled sound of his laughter during phone calls with Mingyu, a pang of longing twisting in your gut because that unrestrained joy wasn’t directed at you.

And then Woozi, bless her oblivious heart, had dropped a conversational grenade with the casualness of commenting on the weather.

“You gonna write about his Paris job in the last article?”

Your feet had slammed to a halt in the middle of the living room, the mundane task of watering the wilting basil plant suddenly forgotten.

“His what?” The question hung in the air, laced with a dread you couldn’t quite articulate.

Later, with a trembling hand, you’d navigated to his open laptop, the screen glowing with an email that felt like a betrayal waiting to be discovered.

Subject: An Invitation to Paris – Chef Choi Seungcheol Chef Seungcheol, We are thrilled to extend an invitation to join our esteemed team in Paris… Our establishment boasts three Michelin stars… We offer a long-term residency with full creative freedom…

It was everything a chef of his caliber dreamed of, the pinnacle of his profession. A chance to truly shine.

And you hadn’t heard a single word.

He walked in later, the familiar comforting scent of cinnamon and star anise clinging to his clothes. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the familiar dusting of flour, his dark hair endearingly messy, his cheeks flushed a healthy pink from the kitchen’s heat. He looked vibrant, alive, on the cusp of something extraordinary.

You stood frozen at the counter, his laptop screen a silent accusation between you.

He stopped dead in his tracks, his easy smile fading as his gaze landed on the open laptop.

“You got an email,” you stated, your voice flat, devoid of inflection.

Cheol didn’t move, his eyes locked on the glowing screen. “You… you read it?”

You nodded, your fingers gripping the cool edge of the marble countertop as if it were the only thing anchoring you to reality.

“You weren’t going to tell me.” The words were a quiet accusation, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within you.

“I was going to,” he said, his voice low, defensive.

“When?” you pressed, the question laced with a bitter edge. “Before you packed your knives? Or after the plane took off, with a casual postcard saying ‘Wish you were here, wife’?”

His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking visibly. He finally broke eye contact, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere over your shoulder. “Why does it matter? This… this was always fake. Right?”

The air in the kitchen seemed to thicken, the comfortable warmth replaced by a glacial chill.

“You made it very clear from day one,” he continued, his voice tight. “We do the contract. We play the part. We get what we need. Then we leave. No strings. No… expectations.” He still wouldn’t meet your eyes, and the avoidance felt like a physical blow.

You opened your mouth to argue, to deny the sudden, sharp pain that pierced through your carefully constructed indifference, but the words caught in your throat. He was right. That had been the agreement.

But the agreement hadn’t accounted for the unexpected warmth of his smile, the quiet understanding in his eyes, the way your lives had inexplicably intertwined in the shared space of your fake marriage. The agreement hadn’t factored in the terrifying realization that you were falling for the man you were contractually obligated to leave.

That night, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime of shared meals, you cooked. You hadn’t done it in months. Not since the wedding, a distant, surreal memory. Not since he’d started anticipating your hunger, feeding you without a word, without expectation. Not since you’d realized how much you’d come to rely on his quiet care.

You made something simple, something that tasted of home before home became this strange, temporary space with him. A comforting kimchi jjigae, the familiar spicy aroma filling the silent apartment.

He took one tentative bite, his eyes closed, and then slowly, deliberately, set the spoon down.

“What?” you asked quietly, your voice barely a whisper in the echoing silence.

He shook his head, his gaze distant. “Tastes like… distance.” The word hung in the air, a heavy, unspoken truth.

The apartment became a battleground of unspoken words and averted gazes. He retreated to the comforting chaos of the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans a stark contrast to the heavy silence emanating from your closed bedroom door where you furiously typed words that refused to capture the storm raging within you. Dinners were eaten hours apart, cold and solitary affairs. Your carefully synchronized routines, once interwoven like delicate threads, now lay untangled, frayed at the edges.

But your heart, that stubborn, foolish organ, never stopped searching for him in the empty spaces.

Two nights later, with a heavy heart and trembling fingers, you submitted the final article draft. The one your editor had eagerly anticipated – the grand finale of “Love in the Everyday,” featuring you and your adorably, undeniably real-seeming husband.

But the words on the screen weren’t the lighthearted anecdotes she expected. You didn’t write about the joy of shared cooking, the enthusiastic fan comments, or the viral videos that had chronicled your fabricated romance.

Instead, you wrote about him.

About the quiet strength with which he carried your world, never demanding center stage. About the way he’d wait patiently outside your office with a packed lunch, a silent gesture of care amidst your chaotic deadlines. About the fierce, unwavering support he’d offered that night with your family, standing steadfastly behind you, unflinching in the face of their cruel judgment.

You wrote about the terrifying, gut-wrenching realization of falling in love with someone who had never explicitly stated if he was allowed to love you back, within the confines of your bizarre, temporary arrangement. You poured your raw, vulnerable truth onto the digital page, a confession disguised as a farewell.

You hit send before your courage failed you, the click of the button echoing the finality of the impending goodbye.

💬 Mingyu : You really gonna leave without telling her how you feel, you idiot? She practically went to war for you. 💬 Cheol: What if… what if the ‘my wife’ thing was just for the cameras? What if the comfort food was just a nice gesture? What if I’ve completely misread everything? The contract ends in two weeks, Mingyu. Two weeks and this whole… performance is over. 💬 Mingyu : She made you dinner, Cheol. After finding out you’re leaving for Paris. A home-cooked meal filled with the taste of… distance, according to you. That’s not just a friendly gesture. That’s practically a declaration in Y/N-speak. She might as well have proposed with a side of kimchi. Don’t be a fool.

Choi Seungcheol, a man who could coax flavor from the simplest ingredients, had become a master of emotional suppression, a skill honed in the demanding heat of Michelin-starred kitchens where sentimentality was a weakness.

He had meticulously constructed a fortress around his burgeoning affection for Y/N, each brick a layer of logic, practicality, and the stark, unyielding reality of their contractual arrangement. Mingyu’s hopeful pronouncements, filled with the saccharine optimism of a K-drama fanatic, had been dismissed as mere fantasy. Love? A dangerous delusion.

Their entire relationship had been a carefully orchestrated performance, a series of “my wife this” and “my wife that” delivered for the insatiable gaze of the internet, a cruel pantomime of intimacy. The absence of a single genuine kiss, a fundamental act of connection, underscored the hollowness of their charade.

And a persistent, agonizing question gnawed at him: did she even need him beyond the occasional recipe critique and the shared performance of marital bliss?

And so, with a heart heavier than any cast-iron skillet, he had adhered to the cold, unyielding terms of their agreement. On the fourteenth day, the expiration date circled in his mental calendar since their first disastrous dinner, he had placed the signed divorce papers on the pristine kitchen counter, the crisp finality of the document a stark counterpoint to the messy tangle of his emotions.

The silence as he’d closed the apartment door behind him had been a deafening testament to the chasm he was leaving behind. The gleaming promise of a prestigious kitchen in Paris, a lifelong ambition realized, felt like ash in his mouth, the bitter taste of what he was sacrificing lingering on his tongue.

The journey to forget Y/N, the woman he had sworn to protect his heart from, stretched before him, a desolate and seemingly endless road.

Your final article went live at 7:00 a.m., a digital ghost released into the vast echo chamber of the internet. You didn’t refresh the page, didn’t dare to scroll through the comments section, a battlefield of opinions dissecting a love story that had never truly been yours. Woozi’s frantic texts remained unanswered, each unanswered ping a testament to your profound emotional exhaustion.

Instead, you remained on the cold kitchen floor, a fetal curl of despair amidst the sterile normalcy of the apartment. Your gaze was fixed on the empty space where Cheol’s favorite skillet had hung, a phantom weight pulling at your chest.

He was gone. The silence he’d left behind was a suffocating shroud, each breath a painful reminder of his absence. You replayed the soft click of the closing door in your mind, a sound that had severed the fragile thread connecting your lives. The image of his neatly packed suitcase leaning against the door the night before was a fresh wound.

And so, as the sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the empty rooms, you didn’t move. You simply let him go, the unspoken words and unacknowledged feelings a leaden weight in your soul. The future stretched before you, a vast and terrifying expanse devoid of his quiet presence.

But what you didn’t know, as you sat amidst the ruins of your almost-love story, was that miles above the earth, suspended in the sterile cabin of an airplane, your raw, vulnerable words were finding their mark.

[YOUR ARTICLE: EXCERPT] "He always used to say the right meal could mend a broken spirit. I was skeptical, a cynic of grand gestures and easy comfort. But then there were nights when the weight of the world pressed down, when the carefully constructed walls around my heart threatened to crumble, and he would simply offer a warm bowl, a silent presence, a tangible act of care that spoke volumes without uttering a single word of forced comfort. He held space for my anxieties, my exhaustion, the messy, unfiltered parts of myself that I usually kept hidden from the world. He saw the cracks in my facade, the vulnerabilities I fought so hard to conceal, and instead of recoiling, he offered a quiet understanding, a shared meal that tasted of acceptance. He never demanded explanations, never pushed for vulnerability I wasn’t ready to offer. He simply was, a steady anchor in the turbulent sea of my emotions. And now, the thought of a future without the comforting aroma of his cooking filling this apartment, without the quiet strength of his presence a constant reassurance, without the unexpected warmth of his hand brushing mine in a fleeting moment of shared laughter… the thought is a vast, echoing emptiness. The idea of navigating life without his quiet support is a chilling prospect, a flavor of profound loss that no amount of professional success or fleeting internet fame can ever hope to mask."

Seungcheol sat rigidly in seat 14A of his first class, the leather of his worn satchel digging into his clenched fists. The plane remained stubbornly grounded, the pre-flight announcements a distant, meaningless drone. Outside the window, the grey expanse of the tarmac mirrored the desolate landscape of his heart.

His gaze was fixed on the illuminated screen of his phone, your words a searing indictment of his carefully constructed logic. Each sentence was a fresh wound, tearing through the layers of denial he had so painstakingly built. He saw the quiet moments you described, the unspoken language of shared meals, the fragile connection he had so readily dismissed as mere performance.

A wave of agonizing regret washed over him, a bitter taste of what he was so carelessly leaving behind. He had prioritized a lifelong ambition over the quiet, unexpected love that had bloomed in the most unlikely of circumstances. He had chosen the glittering promise of Paris over the raw, vulnerable truth reflected in your words.

With a sudden, visceral certainty, he knew he was making a catastrophic mistake. The Michelin stars, the accolades, the culinary triumphs – they all paled in comparison to the simple, profound connection he had shared with you.

He unbuckled his seatbelt with a trembling hand and stood abruptly, his bag clutched like a lifeline.

“Sir, we are now preparing for departure—” the flight attendant began, her voice laced with professional concern.

“I can’t,” he choked out, the words a raw whisper torn from his throat. “I have to go back.” He didn’t meet her questioning gaze, his focus solely on the urgent, desperate need to return to the woman whose quiet strength had unknowingly become his own anchor.

You heard the hesitant knock around noon, a fragile sound that barely penetrated the heavy silence of the apartment. You remained curled on the floor, a hollow ache where your heart used to be.

Then another knock, slightly more insistent, followed by the soft, hesitant murmur of your name. His voice. The sound, so familiar yet so unexpected, sent a jolt of disbelief through your numb despair.

With a slow, almost agonizing movement, you pushed yourself up, your limbs heavy and unresponsive. He stood in the doorway, his breath ragged, his dark hair disheveled, the familiar fabric of his apron peeking out from beneath his rumpled jacket. He looked like a man who had run across continents for a single breath of air.

“I… I came back,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, his eyes searching yours with a desperate intensity.

A single tear traced a lonely path down your cheek. “Why?” The question was barely a whisper, laced with a fragile hope you didn’t dare to believe.

He held up the small bento box, his hands trembling slightly. The warmth radiating from it was a tangible reminder of his quiet care. Inside, nestled amongst the carefully arranged ingredients, was the simple, comforting stew he had made on the night your carefully constructed world had threatened to shatter.

“I made you this,” he said, his voice low and raw. “Because… because you once said it helped you survive. And… and your words… they made me realize… I don’t want to just survive without you, Y/N.”

He took a hesitant step closer, his gaze locking onto yours, his dark eyes filled with a raw vulnerability you had never witnessed before.

“You… you’re more than just someone I cooked for. You… you help me breathe,” he confessed, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. “I was so afraid… afraid of ruining what we had, even if it was… unconventional. I didn’t know if I was allowed to feel this… this real. I was so terrified of being rejected, of misreading every small gesture…”

Before he could unravel further, you reached for him, your fingers tangling in the soft fabric of his jacket, your face pressing into the familiar comfort of his chest. The scent of him, a blend of spices and something uniquely his, filled your senses, a lifeline in the suffocating emptiness.

“You always were,” you whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears, the words a fragile affirmation of the feelings you had both tried so hard to deny.

He leaned down, his lips finding yours with a desperate tenderness, a kiss that tasted of regret, of longing, and finally, of a hesitant, burgeoning hope. It wasn’t tentative, wasn’t careful, wasn’t a performance for an audience. It was real, raw, and a promise of something more than a contract.

That night, the silence in the apartment was finally replaced by the comfortable hum of shared presence. He moved around the kitchen with a familiar grace, preparing a simple meal while you sat on the counter, legs swinging, watching him with a newfound tenderness. You stole bites from the simmering pans, and he didn’t stop you, his gaze lingering on you with a soft smile. When you burned your tongue on a particularly eager taste, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a gentle, lingering kiss that tasted of forgiveness and the promise of a future finally worth savoring.

💬 Woozi : So… real marriage now? No more pretending for the internet? 💬 You: Real everything, Woozi. Finally. And it tastes so much better than any viral video. 💬 Woozi : My best friend’s finally whipped. Beautifully, irrevocably whipped. About damn time.

THE END.

1K notes · View notes

jensthwa · 9 months ago

Text

we can't be friends (CS x reader).

part of the love's an uncharted path universe ★.

SUMMARY:

San is your first love. He broke your heart and played with your feelings without even kissing you back when you two were in highschool. Now, many years later, you do your best to avoid crossing paths with him because there's just no way you could ever hate him, but there's also no way you two can be friends again. But his best friend is also one of your best friends, so there's only so much you can do to avoid San when he arranges a dinner you're forced to go to.

PAIRING: first love!choi san x afab reader.

GENRE: one shot (fluff, angst, smut)

WORD COUNT: 20k (yikes).

WARNINGS: SMUT ☽ (MINORS DNI) attempt !!! at comedy, unnecesary pinning, a looot of context, bad friends :(, some arguing, tension, drinking and drunk behavior, tears, making out, description of female anatomy, oral (f reciving), fingering, love making, pet names (babe, baby), flirty seonghwa, wooyoung being a little shit again but also a genius, gyuri almost commiting a crime.

NOTES: hi everyone! this is a lenghty one, i know, but trust me when I say the context is necessary to understand what reader goes through with san. also, some of this may or may not have happened to me (have fun figuring out which part) (it's quite obvious tbh). THIS IS PART OF THE SHOW AND TELL UNIVERSE BUT CAN BE READ AS A STAND ALONE, even though there's some references and characters that you can only know if you read s&t lol. this is 100% self indulgent, as all fics should be, and i think i've re-read it so many times that if you find a typo or something that just doesn't make sense, you can blame it on english not being my first language i guess lmao. i hope you enjoy it and if you do feel free to send/reblog/type in any feedback or thoughts! <3

POSTED: august 06 2024.

permanent taglist: @hotteokkay, @potatomountain, @fairylover68

masterlist.

You and Choi San go way back.

Well, it's nine years way back? You were only fourteen when you first saw him.

He moved back to your area of the city a year after you moved from an entirely different one. You thought you knew every school secret there ever was, provided by your new best friend, Gyuri, but she didn't tell you about him at all.

She claimed that it was because he didn't cause any stir the years they studied together before and after spending a whole first period in your eighth grade classroom with him at the back of the class, silently taking notes, you couldn't phantom why.

He was great at every subject, seemed to have a lot of popular friends and was, overall, a pretty nice guy. He was also very cute, skinny but you could tell he was the kind of guy who played a sport outside of school hours and he had a cute pair of dimples that showed everytime you scanned the classroom just to lay eyes on him.

Choi San was a perfect boy to crush on, even a perfect guy just to have as eye candy during recess. You felt really strongly about him, not really forming a full opinion although your gut told you right away you were right. There was something about him… but you only figured that something until later, next year, starting your ninth grade.

Gyuri and you were avid readers. Precocious girls, with minds way above your age. All your teachers praised came laced with the same compliment so you both decided that was the truth. You rejoiced in it, thinking you shared things in common with the grown ups and decided that that was the key to feeling a little superior in comparison to the rest of your classmates, who neither of you liked very much.

Until they all decided to start dating each other and you two realized you were nothing but two kids with great imaginations and a love for school, praise and fictional men that couldn't be translated to the real world without sounding delusional and weird.

So you decided to do something about it. And so, on a random Tuesday recess, you two scanned the crowd trying to find two boys (or a boy and a girl, because you always knew you liked girls too) worthy of your affections. One for her, one for you. Bonus points if the two of them were also best friends, of course.

Double dates were all the buzz at the time anyways.

Besides, only then they could understand the bond you and Gyuri had. Sisterhood like no other, nevermind Gyuri actually had an older sister and a niece at the ripe age of fifteen.

And so when your index finger scanned the crowd and eliminated at least three potential crushes before landing on Choi San, you felt like it was meant to be.

You see, his best friend, Jung Wooyoung, was perfect for Gyuri to crush on. He was almost as tall as she was at the time and his easy, outgoing personality was compatible with her book crush at the time as well.

He also flirted with her on several occasions before that.

So it was meant to be.

Choi San, on the other hand, had never even glanced in your direction before.

Just like your book crush did before he fell in love with the main character.

See? Meant. To. Be.

It was decided then that, although Choi San was not going to be your first crush ever, he was going to be the guy that motivated you to be at school for the time being, because math gets really boring after trying and failing at least ten times.

You thought nothing of it when it felt a little forced, when you couldn't blush at all at the sight of him and you gathered that it didn't need to happen like in the books you read. You simply needed to say his name when someone asked you if you had a crush on anyone and that was enough to be in symphony with the rest of your classmates.

Your longing glances were caught once or twice by him and you brushed the weird flip your stomach did everytime he looked away, blushing a little. You never really cared when it happened, really, knowing his crowd and your crowd (Gyuri and you) would never even cross paths in the first place.

You two kept to yourselves and your little book unofficial book club, sitting on the floor at lunch time and cursing everyone who dared to call you weird for it. San and Wooyoung had a crowd of people at the loudest table laughing with them over stupid teen jokes and, uh, sports? You didn't even know.

And then the unimaginable happened.

Jung Wooyoung sat down, criss cross applesauce and everything, in front of you on a random Monday afternoon while you and Gyuri discussed the english assignment due next period.

Gyuri was not too excited about that.

Turns out, the only one excited to have a crush at school was you. She was very much still in the Lonely Hearts Club phase while you skipped all the way to your The Notebook phase and she was, in her own words, too afraid to admit it when you came up with your crush plan.

You forgave her, of course, and decided to wait for her as long as needed because you were certainly not about to be an individual and have a crush on your own.

And by the time Wooyoung smiled at you both and introduced himself to you, like you weren't in the same class for a year already, you thought your pretend crush on his best friend evaporated and joined the void superficial and fleeting interests you had.

But then Choi San sat beside him, his knee brushing against yours in the process, and you knew you would have to issue a formal apology to your best and only friend for leaving her behind on this little thing.

Because, oh boy, were you crushing on Choi San.

You felt the blush rush to your cheeks and then fell silent while your friend and his friend discussed Fifty Shades of Grey for some reason you never cared enough to discover and you knew you were done for.

It was the first time seeing his dimples in full action, so close to you, so you completely stopped functioning all together. Amazing.

When you decided to have a crush, you never took into account that you were, actually, quite shy. And he really wasn't, but you noticed that he knew when to talk and what to say and with your friend being a lot more outgoing that you were it gave you the comfort that she would speak for the both of you while you admired from the sidelines as your little duo became a group of friends you still miss deeply to this day.

He was funny and you laughed at your jokes even though you pretended to be tired and completely worn out by the school day, resting your head on Gyuri’s shoulder and stealing glances at the boy while she kept arguing with his best friend.

Wooyoung was popular and liked enough to have a few people sit with you later that week, people who never even knew you existed before that. They were good friends with San as well, so you tried your best to keep up with everyone until she sat down next to you one day.

Arin was not really a bad person. She just was a bit conceited, calling herself princess type of conceited and you never really related to her even if she was nice to you to your face. She was absolutely gorgeous and, you found out with Wooyoung’s arm around your shoulder and a whisper to your ear, she had been San’s crush since they were both in elementary school.

That would explain the sudden tension at the table when she sat down next to you, said hello to everyone, offered you a sweet she just bought from the cafeteria, and stared at San for the remainder of lunch time.

You also noticed Wooyoung glaring at her a little and he later explained to you that he didn't really like her all that much. She loved attention and San gave her attention, so she would intentionally flirt with him to get her ego stroked in return.

It didn't really matter how he felt about the girl, though, he didn't have to like her just because his best friend did. And when you caught her batting her eyelashes at San, you knew you didn't even stand a chance.

You tried to hide the disappointed look on your face but both Gyuri and Wooyoung looked at you while the two of them flirted endlessly for the remainder of lunch time and you figured you were doing a pretty shitty job at it. He didn't glance at you once either way, so it didn't really matter.

Arin did but she just complimented your eyes and then started a conversation with someone across the table, her annoying sweet and fake voice making your right ear ring in disapproval.

Either way, you ended up becoming her friend. Gyuri was not very fond of her and neither were you, but you all went to the bathroom together, did your makeup together, did school projects together and then sat everyday at lunch together with the rest of the guys who were, in one way or another, trying to get her to like them.

Because, once again, she was a sight for sore eyes.

It wasn't until later, in the middle of the year, that one of them did. Not Choi San, but Choi Yeonjun.

You remember the day you found out they were together and the gut wrenching concern you felt when you found out that San was not at school that day.

It was after summer break, you remember Wooyoung telling you that San and his family took a few more days of vacation and if you couldn't believe your eyes when you saw the new couple sharing a sweet kiss at the designated lunch table, you could only imagine how San felt the next day when he saw the same image right in front of him.

Yeonjun was his friend, right? He knew about his crush and decided to get together with her anyways. Surely, San was devastated.

But he wasn't. He just cheered them on and then laughed along when Yeonjun shoved his arm playfully after the hollering.

But you saw through it.

Your crush on San made you observant. Made you believe you knew him better than everyone else and so, after lunch, you took out your phone and pulled up the notes app. Writing a simple “are you okay?” in it and passing it to him the next second, you were surprised with yourself before you saw him frown a bit. And then he understood what you meant.

Nodding, he passed you the phone back, before giving you a reassuring smile that you treasured in your heart and saw in your dreams.

You didn't believe him, though, but stayed close enough to everything related to the situation to hold Arin in your arms when Yeonjun inevitably broke her heart.

Starting your tenth year, he moved back to his city and decided to play the I thought we weren't even that serious card on her. Which was nasty, considering love it's very, very serious for a sixteen year old girl.

By this point, you were all a little family and hanging out after school and on the weekends was not unusual, so it didn't surprise you when Arin invited you, and only you, to her house after choir practice on a Thursday.

She lent you her older sister’s clothes to wear (because her's would never fit you. Her words, not yours) and took you to a walk in the park just to break your heart for the first time ever.

“You know… I thought love was something I couldn't find in highschool anymore. But San it's really making an effort, you know? He's been there for me ever since Yeonjun left and… Well, I think he's going to ask me to be his girlfriend tomorrow.”

Grasping the park bench she forced you to sit at, you only nodded and let out a shuddering breath that gave away what she was trying to figure out since earlier that day.

“I'll say yes but only if you say it's okay to do so.”

Arin was not really your friend, the same way Yeonjun was not really San’s friend.

Because there's no way you would ever be okay with it.

And yet, you tried your best to give her a smile and pretend the sound of your heart breaking didn't bring tears to your eyes “Of course it's okay. Why wouldn't it be?”

A week later, they were officially dating. The rumors spread around like a wildfire and it took out of you with everyone calling San a nasty rebound and you doing your best to prioritize the ghost of the friendship you had with him. That whole fiasco lasted a few months.

Months in which your friendship with everyone just grew stronger. Gyuri was still your best friend, Wooyoung was crushing on her hard and everyone knew, Arin and San were a steady couple, a new girl joined your class that year, named Yeri, and the principal assigned her to you because she thought you two would get along really well.

“I like girls,” was like, the third thing she ever told you while you were showing her the school “I'm just telling you now because I don't plan on hiding it and you are wearing a pride pin.”

“Oh, that's cool. I like girls too,” you smiled, looking at your pride pin “I didn't hide it either and no one gave me shit about it, so, don't worry.”

Yeri also liked the mainstream music that you liked and soon she became a new addition to your group. And with Arin spending all of her free time with San, you, Gyuri and Yeri only grew closer and closer. You didn't have Arin’s voice in your ear telling you the million reasons she found Yeri uncool, but you saw it in her face every time the table laughed at one of Yeri’s jokes.

And so, it went on for a while:

Your mom driving all of you around in her car to the beach, to dinner, to the movies and letting you have mixed sleepovers at your house (meaning you, Arin, Gyuri, Wooyoung, Yeri and San) was fun and all, but it was not enough to distract yourself entirely. Everytime you glanced at the couple, that sinking feeling in your chest would appear and sulk your whole mood for, at least, fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes of pretending you were okay with them before forgetting completely for an hour or so and then the cycle would repeat until you were alone staring at the ceiling and doing your best to not cry about it.

All it took was your first kiss being Yeri of all people for you to decide that it was time to retire your crush for Choi San once and for all.

And for a while, it all went according to plan. You decided to tell Gyuri that it was okay because he was your friend first and the guy that you liked second and that you were not fourteen and desperate for love anymore, that it was time to go on with your life as if nothing really happened in the first place.

You were hooking up with Yeri anyways, so it seemed like you were doing just fine.

You grew closer to San as well and even though he mostly talked to you about Arin and whatever tantrum she was throwing at the time, you really started to feel some sense of normalcy within you when it came to just speaking to him.

You no longer blushed when he made you laugh, you no longer looked at him with the longing of a past life lover and you were really happy for him because, at the end of the day, he was really happy with his relationship.

Until winter break came around and Arin decided to give San his first heartbreak ever.

She decided to call for a break in their relationship because she was, in his words, too overwhelmed with the amount of love and attention she was getting from him.

Which was completely fucking insane considering the fact she forced him to save her contact as Princess Arin and all.

So naturally, you sided with him. And she didn't take it to heart because everyone knew you liked San anyways.

She told you the news herself through Facebook after asking you to explain to her the English assignment due next day and then she decided to tell you something you'll never understand because you no longer are on speaking terms with her:

Princess Arin: u know i broke up with him because of u right? :)

Princess Arin: one day I'll tell u all abt it.

She never told you anything about it. And by then, you were starting your last year and San was your best friend who hung out with you everyday after school, calling you late at night and helping you with assignments through Skype. So you didn't really care.

And as the day passed, you started understanding the connection they talked about in books and movies. You thought you did before, Gyuri being your eternal person in this world, but it felt so different with San.

Different and good. Different and achy enough for you to want to keep it in your life.

Your dynamic was friendly, sure, but it was alright. It consisted of banter and daring stares as well as laughter and soft moments you treasured till this day.

“It's way too early to be this annoying, Choi San.”

“Oh, you think this is me being annoying?”

You both got an hour of detention for disturbing the class that day.

You loved it.

But then, after almost a month of picking up the broken pieces of his heart one by one, and your mother giving him a self-help book to make him regain the confidence he lost during the breakup process, you realized that you were in love with him and there was nothing you could do about that.

You noticed one friday afternoon, when he offered to pay for your and your mom's ice cream at the drive through, when he scrambled to get all the change he had on him to leave a tip for the person who handed you guys the sweet treat, that there was no way you didn't love him.

And it was confusing as fuck when everyone else started to tell you he had feelings for you as well.

“Think about it. You text each other good morning everyday” Yeri listed with her finger and you nodded “Then, you go to school, sit together and spend the rest of the day together” another nod “Then after school you either go get ice cream together or hang out for a bit with your mom while she drives him home. And after that, you get on Skype for the reminder of the afternoon and then he calls you on your house phone and you two spend the rest of the night talking before falling asleep on the line together,” she looked at you like you were insane for even denying the accusations made against San, but she continued anyway “And then it's rinse and repeat and it has been that way since… What? Three months ago?”

You nodded again, defeated.

“Girl, he likes you.” she sighed, annoyed and a little tired, before sitting on your lap and kissing your lips affectionately “And you're here making out with me instead of him. You really are a lost cause.”

That didn't stop you from hooking up with her until she found a girl who's heart was not reserved for someone else, though. Said girl went to a different school and was a year younger than all of you, but she looked very happy and stopped secretly kissing you in the school bathroom like a week after they met.

And when she finally told everyone, you were really happy for her, but San not so much.

It was the night you thought everything was about to change. The night you thought he was about to kiss you or you were about to kiss him, whatever happened first.

Laying in your bed, facing each other in the dim light, he thought it was the biggest form of betrayal and pouted the whole time he explained to you why.

He thought you liked her and you realized he didn't really pay attention to you after all. Not the way you did with him.

Bless his heart.

You didn't kiss him that night because he wouldn't shut up about you and Yeri.

“I mean, why couldn't it be you? She clearly liked you if you two were hooking up for over a year” and when his hand came to rest on your back, under your shirt, you breath hitched enough for him to notice it but not enough for him to just don't do anything about it except trace the curve of your silhouette with the pad of his thumb “I don't understand why anyone would pass the opportunity to be with you.”

Huh. Maybe he did have feelings for you.

No. He's just being a great best friend. Don't take that for granted.

But it was impossible for you not to take Yeri’s words seriously as time went on.

You didn't want to think he was giving you mixed signals, but yet again there was that one time when you reached behind your passenger seat in your mothers car to pinch his leg playfully after he pulled on your hair a little bit from behind, only to end up holding his hand the rest of the car trip to his house.

His fingers slowly caressing the back of your hand were just too much for you not to get everything mixed up.

Or that other time when your school held a Woman's Day event, and your class president decided that all the boys in the class were going to give roses to the girls.

When it was your turn to get a rose, you knew no one would give you one. But Yeri stood in line and collected a rose from the bin before the class president had the opportunity to say anything else.

“I'll take that, thank you very much.” She turned to you, smiling. San blocked her way to you a second after.

“And just what do you think you're doing?”

“Giving my best girl a rose, of course.” She peeked around him, giving you a wink that you could only roll your eyes to.

San turned to you, the fondness in his eyes making you question the decision of not pretending to be sick that day. It was too much for you to handle.

“To the back of the line, then. I already called dibs on her,” he turned to your friend, snatching the rose from her hand in one swift move “I'll take that, thank you very much.”

He had no idea what that meant to you back then. It was true that, at school, he behaved a little differently than when you two were alone.

He was athletic, so he had some friends that you were sure used to ask him what the fuck was he doing wasting his time with a girl like you instead of getting a new girlfriend.

He had a family that didn't approve of yours, too. You felt it the first time you met his mom and, even though she was nice to you and your mom, you could feel the judgemental stare she gave both of you when your mom told her she was a single parent.

San told you that it didn't really matter, that his mom didn't have to like you because you weren't her friend, you were his.

He played with your feelings a little too well. Wanting him, adoring him and letting yourself be consumed by the thought of him loving you back was enough to keep it going. To ignore the fluttering way your heart kept beating whenever he talked to you which was all the time.

You assumed the way he behaved with you in private was the real him. The one who didn't care about appearances or his family approval.

The one who cared about you.

It was dizzying and fantastic and you thought he just might've been the love of your life.

But then he would tell you how much it hurted when he saw Arin at school and how much he missed her, the intimacy they shared before, and reality would come crashing down and setting your delusions on fire again.

He had sex with Arin. You would never stand a chance.

Or so you thought he did. Except when you overheard Arin speaking to her friends and that was the first time you ever got mad at Choi San.

“And, you know, me and San were never intimate like that so I wouldn't know but I think boys have no idea how to please a woman if they tried to.”

What?

Oh. So he lied to you.

And you were so upset by the thought of him making up stories of their intimate time together that it didn't even cross your mind that Arin might've been lying to save face.

So when he came back from the bathroom and sat at his usual desk in front of you, you didn't even think about his feelings when you decided to treat him like shit for lying about something so important like sex to your face.

“Leave me alone, San! I don't want to fucking talk to you right now!”

The hurt expression he gave you after that is one you would never be able to forget.

But you grew to be stubborn and a little overprotective of your own feelings, so you thought him playing the part of your best friend all these months and sweet talking to you was just another one of his lies.

“You guys not being friends right now doesn't make any fucking sense, sweetheart.” Wooyoung's tone is careful and laced with affection, but you knew he was playing the devil's advocate on behalf of San. With his arm around Gyuri’s shoulder (by that point, they were a thing for over two months) you could swear you saw him smirk when the nickname brought a scowl to your face.

He might've been worried, but he was also a little shit.

“You really are going to let Arin ruin what you two have?” Your best friend was, of course, on your side. But she was your best friend for a reason and her love included pointing out when you were behaving like an infant at the age of seventeen and a half.

“You two are practically dating and you're going to let the evil ex-girlfriend get in the way? Over something you weren't even supposed to hear in the first place? Come on.”

Again, Wooyoung was a little shit. And you were so upset about everything that you shyness couldn't even help the fury behind your reply:

“Stop saying that! We are not practically dating, he's in love with Arin and I'm not sure I even like him like that anymore!” Getting tired of everyone and their mother (your mother) feeding your delusions, you came to the conclusion that putting a stop to your friendship with Choi San was for the best.

And, in doing so, you ended up breaking your own heart for the second time in your life.

But he didn't put up an easy fight at all. You remember the feeling of pure joy when he grabbed your hand on the way to the cafeteria one day, pulling you so hard you almost ended up sitting in his lap, and the way his pleading eyes begged you to listen to him one last time.

“Us not being friends doesn't feel right, Y/N…” he said and the word he used to categorize what both of you had hurted you, but you pushed the feeling away “Please, let's not fight anymore. I don't even know what happened, but I forgive you for yelling at me and I hope you forgive me for whatever it is you think I did.”

Of course, you forgave him the next second without thinking too much about it. And for a while, everything went back to normal. You Skyped as usual and occasionally you let your other friends join the call even though it didn't really feel like it used to before.

The next thing you knew, your feelings were in full bloom again and when you realized it, it was too late.

Because by then, you had already let your childhood friend, Sunhee, join a few Skype calls and by the fourth one she invited her friend, Minseo, to them as well.

Terrible, terrible mistake. Because even through the screen, you could see that Minseo looked a lot like Arin with the added bonus that she was down to earth and cool and liked the same things San liked.

You liked the same things San liked as well, but it never seemed to matter.

Because not even two months after you decided to stop talking to San over a lie you weren't supposed to find out in the first place and then became friends one more time, he gets together with Minseo and you're sick to your stomach all over again.

You hated her. Not because she was, suddenly, his girlfriend (not girlfriend girlfriend, but in a friends with benefits arrangement you never even knew why he agreed on in the first place) but because suddenly she was so fucking obnoxious and didn't seem to like you either.

Was it not painfully obvious San didn't have feelings for you? Why was she mad at you then? You literally brought them together!

And all you got in return was her telling him she didn't feel comfortable with him having a girl best friend. That ungrateful bitch.

He stopped calling. He stopped texting, he stopped carpooling with you and your mom after school and he stopped caring whether your math assignment was done or not.

He stared pulling away more and more and it didn't matter how hard you tried to get him to talk to you, it seemed like he never really fucking cared about you in the first place.

And by may that year, you didn't speak to San anymore. Granted, the only person he did speak to was Wooyoung, but even their friendship was falling apart.

For the first time ever, San broke your heart firsthand. And it felt really, really fucking bad.

You cried to your mom about it, she reminded you that you were nothing but a great friend to him and that, if he didn't take the time to appreciate that, that was his loss not yours.

And she started hating him from that moment on. But you couldn't hate San, not even a little bit.

Why would you hate him for not liking you back? For not loving you the way you loved hi—

Your laptop closes down right in front of you and when you try to look up to find out who's responsible for interrupting your writing time, you get interrupted again.

“Ouch! What the fuck, Gyuri?” The slap to the back of your head is quick and filled with rage.

“What the fuck are you even writing. I can read from here, you know?”

“I'm just laying my feelings down and— Ouch! Stop that!” You try to hit her back but she turns away quickly when your hands almost knock her coffee mug out of hers.

“You can't possibly still have love for San, Y/N. It's been years.”

It's been four and a half, to be precise. But who's counting, right?

“And why are you writing it in third person? You don't usually do that.”

“I don't really know, Gyuri!”

“I’m telling you, this celebratory dinner bullshit it's affecting you way more than it should,” she sighs, plopping down on the couch of your shared living room, and you leave your seat at the table to join her “He might not even show up. He has that thing with Kyungmi.”

Kyungmi.

You couldn't get to that part on your open document, but San left Minseo when he met Kyungmi at one of the frat parties they love to attend. Wooyoung told you that he said that it was love at first sight and you even met her briefly when you picked Gyuri up from the apartment he and San got when they started college together.

She’s gorgeous and doesn't look like Arin or Minseo at all. It’s a different type of gorgeous. She's a year older than San and went to the same school as them and Gyuri.

You think you might even like her better than him.

You tried to be happy for San when you found out, but you two barely even speak a word to each other and you convinced yourself a while ago that you couldn't care less if he sees right through you and your fake smiles.

You gathered, after everything happened, that San knew you liked him and took advantage of that. Unintentionally, but he did anyway.

You sigh, resting your head on your best friend's shoulder. “It’s his best friend's celebratory dinner, though, he needs to be there.”

Two seconds pass and then you both say it at the same time: “He’s in love.”

And when San is in love, he has a one track mind with the name of his lover as the goal.

You nod, but you can't help but to be insistent “It's Wooyoung's celebratory dinner, he needs to show up, right?”

“I might not even show up, he's a pain in the ass.” She replies but you can tell her annoyance is not genuine and it makes you smile.

Gyuri and Wooyoung broke up towards the end of your first year of college but you all stayed close friends. A one year relationship was not enough to fuck up the friendship they had and they decided to stay civil until, eventually, they became close friends again.

To this day, you wonder why you and San couldn't rekindle your friendship when it became clear to you that you missed your friend and not the guy that you liked.

Because San was always your friend first and your first love second.

But it doesn't really matter anymore, because Gyuri is forcing you to shower and reminding you that you two need to keep Wooyoung on his best behavior tonight.

“That girl he used to like before me is going, he said. I looked her up, she's single and he needs to get together with her because I can't take him whining about it anymore.”

They keep things with each other way too civil, you think.

“I'm telling you, if we don't show up he's going to do that thing where he gets drunk and makes a fool of himself. I can't have that, I'm on a mission.”

“A mission to get your ex laid?” You ask, shampooing your hair.

“A mission to get him a girlfriend so he can stop crying to me about feeling lonely.”

“Maybe he wants you guys to—” The shower curtain opens and you see your best friend’s scowl before covering yourself up with your hands.

“Gyuri!”

“Don't you dare say what you were about to say or I'm divorcing you.”

You chuckle “Sure you are.”

You're left alone again with the water stream and she goes back to do her makeup “I told you back in ninth grade that we weren't a great fit and I was right. We can't get back together,” she sighs “It'll ruin everything.”

“I doubt it will but you guys have been friends longer than you were boyfriend and girlfriend, so I'll just have to deal with my parents being divorced and civil.”

“God, don't ever refer to us like that again— Oh! Speaking of parents,” you see her beam at her phone when you move the shower curtain to search for your towel and then she shows it to you “Mingi and Love just celebrated their one year anniversary!”

Love being Mingi’s best friend. Gyuri talks to you about her college friend group all the time. The drama fuels your dinner conversations, you even follow a few of them on social media.

“What does that have to do with parents?”

“They're the mom and dad of the group.”

San is in that friend group, you can see him in the back of the picture and you recognize his apartment layout too. He's not the main focus of it but he's all you can see until you notice the couple sitting near him on the couch.

The picture shows both of them, her in his lap and Mingi looking at her with stars in his eyes.

Good for them.

“Is that the girl he was friends with forever before they finally realized that they were in love?”

“Yeah,” she sighs in contempt, looking down at the picture again “I was there the day it happened. I mean, not physically with them, but they left Yunho's party together and I told Wooyoung that it was finally about to happen!”

Gyuri is not a romantic person at all. Her excitement shows you that she really loves them and so you soften at the news that would usually give you and your dry love life a headache “It was the day before you called me to get you out of that awful date.”

Ah, that also happened back then. You shudder at the memory.

“Tell them I say congrats, babe.”

“I'm bringing you as my plus one.”

You laugh, confused “To where?”

“Their wedding, duh.”

“They practically just got together,” you remind her, a year is not enough time to propose “And I don't really know them, Gyuri!”

“They love you,” she assures you as you step out of the shower “I have been speaking about your antisocial ass for years. They can't wait to meet you.”

“So you've been shit talking behind my back for years? Is that what I'm hearing?”

She laughs “No, babe, that's Wooyoung's job.”

Clearing your throat and looking at your friend through the mirror, you try to be as nonchalant as you can when you ask: “Has he… Did he tell you if…”

“No, Y/N, I have no clue if San is going or not and Wooyoung is actually mad at him at the moment.”

“Why?”

She looks at you, sighing “He's been lacking as a friend lately.”

“Hm.”

“I hope you're not planning on swooning if you see him. Fuck him, Y/N.”

“I know…”

“And by fuck him I mean he doesn't deserve you or your forgiveness.”

“He didn't do anything to me, Gyuri,” you remind her, shrugging “Not reciprocating my feelings is not a crime so I don't have to forgive him for anything.”

You can practically feel her starting the San hate train engine, so you step out of the bathroom but her voice follows you.

“And what about that time he ditched you for Minseo when you asked him to go with you to that medical appointment, huh?”

“Cut it out, Gyuri…”

But her head peaks around the corner, into the hall where you're rushing towards your room “Or that time when—”

“Can't hear you!” Turning to look at her, she gives you an affectionate middle finger and heads back to the bathroom.

Closing the door, you lean into the thin wood and sigh, getting San’s face out of your mind so you can focus on getting ready and actually show up for Wooyoung and Wooyoung only.

He just got a permanent position after completing his internship at a company that's your company's rival. He's going to crush you and steal clients from you but you are genuinely so happy for him.

You should've guessed he enjoyed books as much as you did back in highschool. The debates he used to have with Gyuri were not all about flirting with her but also because he has a passion for books.

And now he's going to work in the same field as you.

You're so proud of your friend.

As you get ready, you remember the excitement cruising through your body when your boss trusted you enough to give you the first manuscript of a new client so you could edit it. You're sure Wooyoung is going to do better than you, taking into account that he actually went to college for this.

You didn't.

You met your boss at the part-time job you got in senior year, when you were trying to distract yourself from all the pain and the horrors of becoming a grown up. She was chatty, got a little too drunk on soju and told you she was starting her own book publishing company.

When she returned months later after remembering that you told her you loved books and would love to work for as a publisher one day, she offered you a job in her company right after graduating highschool.

You took it because you didn't think an opportunity like this would show up ever again.

She was truly a blessing, the kind of person you never really believed in until she taught you all you needed to know about publishing and editing and encouraged you to take online classes during the nights so you could get, at least, a certification on what you do.

You're proud of yourself too. The opportunity found you in a specific moment of your life where both your heart and your self esteem were destroyed and now you're not the person you used to be.

Maybe that's why the possibility of facing San makes you so nervous. Collective memories are dangerous because the details never match the ones on the other person's head.

You know who you were back then but… Are you the same person in San’s head?

You don't even want to find out.

Scanning your outfit in the mirror for the last time, you take the shoes you're wearing tonight out of your closet and walk over to the living room.

Only to find Gyuri laying on the carpet under the coffee table, half dressed and on her phone.

“You're going to mess up your hair.”

“I don't care, I'm not going.”

Sighing, you sit down on the couch and staring at the wood of the table covering her face.

“What happened now?”

“The bitch canceled!”

“Wooyoung?”

Poking her head out, she frowns at you “No, his first love.”

“You were his first love.”

“You know what I'm talking about, Y/N!”

Laughing at her, you offer her your hand “Get dressed. Who cares if she's not going? He's not going to sulk because he's going to have you and his best friends there.”

She whines like a child when you pull her up from the floor “I had a plan!”

“Then make a new one, babe. We're going to be late.”

She starts to whine again but then stops mid-groan to give you a once over. You shift uncomfortably on your feet, suddenly self-conscious about your appearance for the first time in years.

“You look really hot…” she tells you and you fake gag at her words “Really pretty. Like a fairy and a smoke show at the same time.”

You can't possibly look like that when you have such a simple outfit on, floor length high waist black pants and a flowy sleeve top that ties in the middle. It's barely formal but now you're thinking too hard about it.

Blushing, you wave your hand to dismiss her compliment “Oh, my god. Go and change!”

She rushes to her room on the opposite end of the hall and you finally breathe, looking down at your choice of fit and wondering if it's too much.

Gyuri would've told you if that's the case, but either way it haunts your mind in the car on the way there, leg bouncing up and down under your best friend's judging gaze that only softens when you pout at her.

“They are going to love you, babe. I'm so serious, they've been waiting years to meet you.”

You nod because, yes, you're concerned that her friend group is not all as welcoming as she paints them to be.

And you wish your doubts would go away but you're really, really not good at making friends. You're cautious, extremely closed off to new people and not as good with conversation no matter how much confidence you gained over the past years.

When you walk to the loudest table at the laid back restaurant their friend Seonghwa made the reservation at, you think you won't be able to fit in with everyone else. You feel like an intruder, like Gyuri is supposed to enjoy this part of her life without you here.

That's why you rejected every invitation they ever made.

You celebrate birthdays with her, with Woo as well, but it's all very intimate and separate from their social circle, the one that includes the man you haven't fully faced in years.

But you can't exactly back out now, not when one of them turns to you and seems to light up when they see you.

“Oh? Is this her?” you recognize Hongjoong from pictures, he's the only one facing you when you approach the table, lowkey hiding behind Gyuri like a child.

“Who?”

“Huh?”

San is nowhere to be seen. Thank god.

Slowly, everyone turns around and you see their faces light up with both delight and surprise. Your heart is pounding, you feel it in your throat, in your eyes, in the heat that colors your cheeks.

But Gyuri just steps aside and presents you with a smile “This is her!”

“Oh, Y/N!” Wooyoung gets up, rushing towards you and crashing into your frame with a crushing hug “I'm so glad you're here,” he murmurs into your hair and then turns to his friends, quiet them down “Everyone, this is Y/N, one of my best friends in the entire world.”

He's such a dramatic human being.

You love him so much.

Raising your hand, you shyly wave at them “Hi.”

The entire table erupts with joy. Some of them greet you, some of them are saying that they are happy to be finally meeting you and Wooyoung grabs your arm and plops you down into the seat next to Gyuri, at the edge of the table.

Laughing, you apologize for not meeting them sooner and then you feel a pair of hands on your shoulders.

Panic raising, you quickly turn around to see who it is before releasing a shuddering, but calmer, breath.

“She's a very busy woman, guys. She works for the competition, my competition,” everyone gasps at that but Wooyoung is smiling at you “and she's very good at what she does. Which means she's busy, get off her case,” he puts a glass and a can of beer in front of you “Drink, babe.”

“Thanks, babe.” You whisper back and he leans in to peck your head before going away.

Gyuri groans “Stop stealing that from us! It's our thing, Y/N, don't indulge him.”

“It's his celebratory dinner…” you argue with a laugh that Hongjoong and Mingi follow.

“Yeah! Can you get off my case tonight, Gyuri?”

She huffs, wrapping her arms around you “I hate you all.”

“No you don't!”

The table laughs and everyone returns to their individual conversations when Woo sits down on his spot.

There's a few seats left, one besides Mingi and one right in front of you but you don't think too much about it because soon Gyuri gets up to ask Yeosang something and Seonghwa occupies her seat right beside you.

You think he can sense that you're more shy than you let on, because he doesn't include you in whatever he and Yunho were talking about and waits until he stops talking to him to turn to you.

“So, you work for a publishing company?”

The question catches you off guard and you swallow the beer quickly before nodding “Y-yeah, I… Yeah.”

He chuckles “You're nervous.”

“I'm just not as good at meeting people as Gyuri is. She usually does the job and I tag along.”

“I feel like I know you already, though.” He says, leaning back on his chair.

“Because she talks a lot about me?” he nods “Yeah, she tends to do that.”

“Wooyoung also talks a lot about you, San too… Sometimes,” your cheeks heat up and he misinterprets what it means “All good things, I promise.”

You doubt that.

Your brain gives you a hundred and one possible things San could've said about you.

For some reason, none of them are good. But you choose to believe the gorgeous, long haired guy in front of you.

“Well that's good to hear,” you take another sip of your drink before smiling at him “I was sure Woo was trash talking about me.”

He shakes his head with a smile “He wouldn't dare, he has Gyuri on his ass all the time and I'm sure she would kill him.”

“I'm sure she would kill him even if he didn't do it.”

His smile grows wider “That's true,” he says, looking over at them who are, very coincidentally, fighting about something. You let out a sigh and he laughs again before clearing his throat “So, the publishing company. What kind of books do you like to edit the most?”

Your smile grows wider too.

For the next hour, you talk to Seonghwa about your job and how you started in it. He asks you about your classes and the challenges that you face on a daily basis and Wooyoung overhears and ends up joining the conversation as well.

You don't even hear footsteps nearing until a voice cuts everyone off.

“I'm sorry I'm late!”

“Baby!” Mingi gets up from his seat, but no one else does so he's stuck between the table and his girlfriend.

“Oh, that's Love, huh?” you ask Seonghwa, Wooyoung too entertained messing with the couple to hear you anyways.

“Yeah… Is that how Gyuri refers to her?” He frowns.

“Mhm,” you answer, leaning into him like you're about to tell him an important secret “I'm not supposed to call her that, don't tell her.”

Seonghwa leans in too, pretending to zip his mouth shut and you laugh.

The girl wiggles her way into the seat reserved for her and everyone lets out a groan when they smooch each other. You can only giggle and the sound draws her attention to you “Y/N?”

You quickly nod “Yeah, hi, nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you! Finally, I thought Wooyoung and Gyuri had an imaginary friend,” you laugh, shrugging at the joke “Love your outfit, by the way, are those— Oh, San, hi— Are those jellyfish?”

You want to answer. You truly do, the yes right at the tip of your tongue, but words leave you when you turn your head around and find San already looking at you with wide eyes.

He looks great, he's a bit more muscular than what the pictures show and than the last time that you saw him, his arms hugging the fabric of the dress shirt he's wearing like it was tailored for him and everything.

How dare he.

You wonder if his heart is beating as loud as yours is right now. If he's surprised, disappointed or happy to see you at all.

“Her favorite animal.” He answers for you “Hi, Y/N.”

“Hi…” you whisper back and it feels like you're in a trance. He doesn't look away but the table quieting down once again snaps you out of it and you turn to the girl with a wide smile that you hope conceals whatever the fuck you're feeling at the moment “I love jellyfishes. Had a phase as a child when I would exclusively talk about them, too,” you chuckle, nervously, reaching for your earrings instinctively “Gyuri gave them to me as a present last Christmas.”

You definitely overshared just now. From the corner of your eye you catch your best friend getting ready to step in if needed.

Love looks at you, then at San (who's just standing next to you without uttering a word) and then back at you again, smiling like she just figured something out “Well, I love them.”

“Thanks…”

Coughing unnecessarily loud, Wooyoung gets up from his seat “You're late.”

It takes a second but San tears his gaze away from you to look at his best friend and you take the opportunity to chug down the rest of your beer “Sorry, something came up.”

Seonghwa turns at that and looks at him as well “You good?”

“I am. Did you guys already eat? I'm starving.”

“Nope. We're about to order. Let me get you a drink, come here.” And just like that, he disappears from your view and you almost sigh in relief.

“Are you good?” Seonghwa asks you next and you reckon he's very observant. But then again, you're not the most gracious human being when you're in San’s presence, so, you figure everyone else noticed your change of mood as well.

“Yeah, I just… I haven't seen him in a while and I didn't think he was coming. I was surprised, that's all.”

“I can see that,” his eyes move around your face for some reason, frowning a little bit but then he seems to let it go, getting the menu closer to you “Okay, good, um… I actually made the reservation here because they have the best samgyeopsal in town.”

“Do they?”

“Mhm, so…”

He helps you pick your food and when it's time to order, he moves back to his seat. Gyuri asks you with her eyes if you're okay, you nod and grab her hand under the table with a tiny smile and then everyone is moving around to make space for San and Woo once they return.

He doesn't sit in front of you.

Relief floods you and you can finally feel your muscles relax as he is so far away, at the other end of the table and in the same row of seats, so you don't really see him unless you really try.

Which you don't, so your food goes down easy and the rest of the night as well.

Until everyone but you and Seonghwa move around their seats and he ends up right in your point of view as you do your best to ignore him and focus on his friend.

Seonghwa asks you about your hobbies, you tell him that you love to write movie essays on websites no one even cares to read and he asks you to show it to him so he can look it up when he gets home.

“And you've always done this? Since highschool?”

You nod and he beams “I read like the first three lines and it looks really good, Y/N. Is that why you love books so much? Because you're a writer?”

“I wouldn't consider myself a writer but… Sure, I love to write.”

“Did you know this?” he turns to San and your smile drops a little.

“Know what?”

“Your friend is an excellent writer.”

“Oh, I know. She, uh… Used to write stories on her notebook instead of paying attention in math class,” he sips on his drink and at the detail you didn't know he knew, you turn to him fully “I used to read over her shoulder sometimes.”

“She's really good.” Seonghwa is looking at your phone, still reading “Really smart, too.”

San’s jaw tenses a little and you can't understand why “I know.” He says again.

His friend is none the wiser, blocking your phone and returning it to you “I like it,” he says, smiling and you blush “The essay.” He clarifies after a second, prompting a laugh out of you that he joins.

San doesn't laugh, but you don't pay attention to him because Seonghwa is asking you something else.

When it's time to leave the restaurant, Wooyoung suggests going back to his apartment to milk the get-together as much as you all can.

You all throw your napkins at him in feign disgust at the choice of words but you all accept his proposal either way.

So now you're sitting on the couch, legs crossed and head on Gyuri’s shoulder while you listen to all of them talk (more like argue) about something that happened at their university last week, their voices drowning the soft music playing out of the tiny speaker resting on the counter.

San is on the floor, to your right. It's hard to keep your eyes off him when you feel him looking at you when you close your eyes and let the noise fade into the background. It's not like you're able to add something to the conversation anyway and Gyuri seems to be drinking her sorrows (not being able to hook Woo up with the girl she told you about) away.

Your best friend is slurring her words already, drink in hand and index finger pointing at Jongho accusatively because, apparently, the fight they're talking about was his fault.

“You don't—” she hiccups “You don't even know why it was your fault and it pisses me off even more, you know?”

“Okay, let me take that.” Taking the drink from her hand and before she starts complaining you stand up to make your way into the kitchen.

The sink is full and a mess, so you pour the liquid into it and leave the glass sitting right beside it. Distracted by the dilemma of helping Woo out with the dishes or not, you don't notice someone else also entering the space.

That's why you jump a little when you turn and catch Seonghwa leaning on the wall by the entrance. It startles you enough to laugh the nerves out afterwards and he shakes his head, smiling.

“Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. They're boring me to death with the fight story.”

You nod, realizing that maybe that's because he doesn't attend the university anymore. He told you he graduated last year “They're too drunk to let it go.”

“Too drunk to dance to this amazing song, too. Who's playlist is that?” he frowns and you rest your back into the sink, rolling your eyes because he's pretending he doesn't know “Oh! Right, it's mine.”

“And they just don't know how to appreciate it, huh?” he shrugs and you click your tongue “They're such bad friends, Seonghwa, I truly don't know why you keep them around.”

“You appreciate it,” it's your turn to frown and he leaves his spot at the wall to walk towards you “You were singing along to it,” he explains and you let out an ah, nodding as he extends his palm to you, clearly inviting you to dance.

“Oh, I don't… I don't really know how to—”

“I'll show you.”

His kind eyes are asking you to trust him. You really, really shouldn't.

No matter how hard you try to bury the hopeless romantic little girl who decided to have a crush on a guy back in ninth grade, she's still there, begging you to let loose and live a little.

When you grab Seonghwa’s hand, you think the smile he gives you was worth listening to her.

You can't even tell the song that's softly playing anymore, a mellow r&b melody reaches your ear but you are not listening. You're focused on him, on the way he spins you around even if it doesn't fit the bit, on the way he laughs softly against your ear when he pulls you close by your hand and then pulls away just as quickly.

Laughing as well, the spell of this beautiful stranger (because you remind yourself you don't really know him that well) is hard to break.

Until it does.

Someone clearing their throat behind you stops you and Seonghwa's feet from moving any further. When the tall, older guy turns you around, you're face to face with San and his scowl.

“Sorry to interrupt but I need to get started on the dishes. Everyone else is heading out too,” he looks behind you, at the man who's still standing close to you and grabbing your hand “In case you want to ask Mingi for a ride.”

“They finally stopped fighting!” he fakes excitement, finally letting go of your hand and walking in front of you, blocking San with his body. You chuckle, barely clapping your hands to join the pretense as he's pulling up his phone “Can I ask for your number, Y/N?”

Blinking a few times, you're not sure if your heart speeds up because he's asking or because you hear San sigh exasperated behind him “S-sure.”

When you put your information on his phone, he bids you goodbye with a pat on your head and hugs San on his way out the kitchen.

Now that you two are alone, you suddenly want to run and join Seonghwa. You were doing so, so well.

Avoiding San like the plague it's much easier when you're safe hiding behind your two best friends.

Ignoring his stare would be much easier if you weren't stuck into place.

“I—”

“You—”

You both speak over each other and you force out an uncomfortable laugh that he doesn't return. Instead, he motions you to go first while he occupies the space in front of the sink, turning the faucet on. In doing so, he has to grab your waist and move you out of the way which makes you short circuit for a second “I was going to help you with that.” You finally stammer out.

He lets out what you take as an annoyed chuckle.

“You seemed busy, I don't know how you would've done it.”

Ouch.

Why do you allow his words to cut so deep when you stopped caring about what he does a long time ago?

The band aid rips, the stitches come undone and all it took him were five seconds to melt your resolve away like it was never there in the first place.

“I'll… I go get Gyuri so we can leave Woo and you to get to it, then.”

“Bathroom.” You hear him mutter under his breath as you are taking the final step to leave.

“Huh?”

“She's in the bathroom, probably puking her breakfast out,” he looks up at you to give you a tiny smile “You left her alone with Jongho and Woo for five minutes so she got ahold of another drink.”

“God damnit.”

Rushing out, you run into everyone else at the door and Mingi has to let go of his very intoxicated girlfriend when she reaches you to give you a hug “Don't be a stranger, Y/N! It was lovely to be around you, hm?”

The sudden physical contact almost makes you gasp but you cover it up with a shy giggle “O-oh. Yeah, um, lovely to meet you too. All of you.”

“Sorry about that,” her boyfriend grabs her arms and breaks the hug “She's right, though. Don't be a stranger.”

You nod once, smiling a little more sincerely now and everyone says bye to you, including Seonghwa, who grabs your hand one last time and gives it a squeeze before closing the front door of the apartment.

You think you feel your heart skip a tiny bit under all the shit San’s words pulled up to the surface a minute ago. But there's no time to dwell in that: you hear Gyuri opening up the bathroom door before gagging and closing it again with a slam.

Jesus Christ.

You two are really getting old. You stopped drinking like an hour ago, when you were starting to feel tipsy after your second beer, and you know she didn't drink as much as she used to maybe four years ago, but the visage that welcomes you when you open the door and find her crouched down in front of the toilet certainly brings back memories of those times.

“I left you alone for like… five minutes.” Sighing, you lean in to hold her flimsy ponytail and pat her back.

“I'm good,” she gags again and then holds up her hand to stop you from saying anything else “I'm fine.”

Smiling, you help her up and she grabs the counter as she's washing away the taste of whatever she ate earlier today and alcohol “Me when I lie…”

“Y/N!” she hits your arm but the movement somehow almost makes her trip.

“You want to lay down?”

“Is she okay?” Woo’s head peaks into the bathroom and when he sees his ex, he makes a face.

“Does she look like she's okay?” you help her out of the bathroom and start heading for Wooyoung's room.

“Wow, wow— Where do you think you're taking her?”

“To your room, dumbass!”

“Why mine? San's is literally right there.” He whines, pointing at the door you pass by without a second thought. You don't want to know where his room is or what it looks like at all.

“Yeah, well, did San get her this drunk?”

“How was I supposed to know that she was at her almost black-out phase? She never drinks that much in front of me!” he complains again but you're already tugging Gyuri in, who mumbles something incoherent and then flips Wooyoung off “Na Gyuri if you puke on my bed I swear to God!”

If you didn't know Wooyoung so much, the whining and the attitude would probably make you think he didn't care for her at all. But he's brushing her hair out of her forehead, securing the blanket around her and moving to take her socks off when you reach the door.

“I'm guessing you're okay with her staying the night?”

“Of course you guys can stay the night, Y/N.” He says and he stumbles a little to get to you, so you smile and shake your head, about to let him know that you're not staying anywhere near his roommate when he continues “You can come over whenever you like. You know that, right?”

“I know, Woo.”

“I barely even see you these days, I… Oh! I forgot!” he points to the end of the hall, towards the kitchen “You guys don't really like each other so maybe don't come over when he's here because I don't want to see you sad!”

“Lower your voice,” you whisper to him, bringing a hand to his face and patting his cheek a few times to wake him up “Did the alcohol suddenly hit you or something?” you sigh for the umpteenth time “Anyways, you should lay down and I'll get going. I'll come pick her up tomorrow and—”

“That's such a great idea! Oh, I'm a genius.”

“You didn't come up with it, Wooyoung.”

“San!” he calls all of the sudden and you wish he was sober enough to read the panic on your features. He seems much, much sober when his best friend starts walking down the hall and stops right beside you “Take Y/N home, please, she's going to give you a bag that you must protect with your life.”

Said best friend looks at you, his eyebrow arched in a silent question “Gyuri’s stuff.”

“Ah.”

“Go, go. It's getting late, I'll just… I'll cuddle with my ex until you get home.”

And she has the nerve to say he doesn't want her back.

When the door to Wooyoung's room closes and you're left with San on the poorly lit hallway, you make a mental note to never step foot on this place or allow your friends to drink ever again.

You don't even look at the guy before practically running down the hallway and reaching for your bag. You make sure your phone is secured in your pocket as you slip your shoes on and soon you're grabbing the front door knob and twisting it.

Keys jingle next to you but, again, you don't spare San a glance.

“So—”

“I'll get out of your hair, you don't have to… walk me home or whatever he said.”

“Y/N, it's late.”

Turning to him, your smile is as fake as the ones you've been giving him the past couple of years “And I'm a grown up, San, I can walk myself home.”

“What about Gyuri’s stuff?”

“She can wear Wooyoung's clothes, it's not like they never shared before. Anyway… Thank you for having me, it was nice to see you. Goodnight.” Your response comes out fast and it sounds as planned out as it actually is, kinda robotic and devoid of actual emotion.

San can't see through you the way you see through him. It's okay, he won't mind it.

He probably won't mind that you close his own door on his face either.

If that door is what you hear when you're making your way down the stairs in order to make a fast escape, you choose to ignore it.

You have to stop mid-way to compose yourself. You don't know why you feel like crying or why your heart is beating so fast.

You knew going in that there was a possibility of seeing him tonight. You know how San affects you, so effortless and seemingly like no time has passed at all in between senior year and present day.

You know all of this already, it's an endless loop that will keep repeating until you either move away or decide to stop agreeing to Wooyoung's plans all together.

So why is your chest heaving with emotion? Why is nostalgia playing mind tricks with you? Why do you want to turn back and hug him and beg him to turn back time so you can do it all differently now that you know how to look like and what to say to make him love you back?

Ah, you're definitely not sleeping tonight. So you start distracting yourself while walking down the stairs again. You remind yourself to tell a much sober Wooyoung how proud you are of him. You think about Seonghwa, about his kind eyes and the way he grabbed your hand to dance with him just half an hour ago. You wonder how long it will take you to get home if you jog all the way there. You—

Why the fuck is San outside when you get there?

In a comedic way, you can see your attempt to distract your mind off of him slipping through your fingers and evaporating in the warm summer night breeze.

In a realistic way, you're fucking pissed at him for taking the opportunity of a good night sleep away from you.

You pass him and start jogging like you planned a minute ago. Footsteps follow you until his arm brushes yours and you take a step to the side to stop it from happening again.

“Go home, Choi San.”

“Stop fighting it, Y/N. I'm walking you home.”

“It's a twenty minute walk—”

“Drop it.”

You do. And for the first ten minutes, no one utters a word even if the tension feels electric and the street is so quiet so you can hear when his breath accelerates when he jogs to catch up to you whenever you try to leave him behind.

Isn't that ironic. He was the one who left you behind all those years ago.

“I didn't know that you danced.”

He breaks the uncomfortable but safe silence to say that?

“Well, you saw me dance so I clearly dance when I want to.”

“You never danced with me.”

“You never asked me to.”

He laughs “I'm pretty sure I did on several occasions, Y/N.”

“Well, you're wrong,” you're getting annoyed. How dare he think he remembers better than you? “It doesn't matter anyway, what's past is past and—”

“You also gave Hwa your number,” he interrupts, his long legs taking two strides to get in front of you, still walking, facing your direction with his hands on his pockets.

It's dangerous and stupid, even if the streets are practically empty and the sidewalk barely has any bumps.

You hope he falls on his pretty face.

“I did.*

“I don't have your number.”

“Well, I changed it and you never asked for it, so…”

“You could've called me or texted me to let me know you did it.”

He's getting on your nerves.

“San,” you start, taking in a deep breath you hope calms you down “We don't even text anymore, why would you want my number?”

“Do you like him?”

“Seonghwa?” you ask, frowning and he nods “Like… As a person?”

“As a potential love interest.” He clarifies matter-of-factly and you roll your eyes.

“I met him today, San. Why do you want my number?”

“Because we're friends?” he offers after a second, shifting so he's walking by your side again.

“Are we?” you ask, laughing bitterly at that “Because we haven't spoken a word to each other in years.”

“That's not true.”

“It is, San.”

“You… You don't speak to me anymore, so…”

“Well your girlfriend at the time told me she didn't feel comfortable with me speaking to you anymore,” you sigh “so I didn't and you didn't try to talk to me either.”

“Well, I want to talk to you now.”

“And is your new girlfriend aware of that? Is she comfortable with that? Because I don't want anyone telling me what to do anymore and—”

“Why wouldn't she be comfortable? We're friends, Y/N.”

“Are we?” you insist, petty, bitter and overall very, very hurt.

He looks offended at that “I assumed we were?”

He's getting on your fucking nerves.

“We stopped being friends the second Minseo asked me to stay away from you because she didn't like me, San.”

“She’s not in my life anymore—”

The words are coming out of your mouth without even thinking it through. His demeanor, the way he's somehow reproaching you for whatever he saw between you and his friend, the way he pretends nothing happened between you and him, thinking that you two are still friends.

“We stopped being friends when you pulled away from me, saw me do the same and did nothing to stop it from happening, San.”

He stops in his tracks at that. You don't, pushing forward and quickening your step even if your calves burn.

“Either way,” you speak up “Make sure you tell your girlfriend about wanting my number and then you can ask Seonghwa for it if you want—”

“She's not my girlfriend anymore!”

Now that stops you, just a few buildings down from yours, you turn around just to find San closer that you thought he'll be.

“O-oh. I… I didn't know that. I'm sorry.”

“You didn't do anything to be sorry for.”

“Still, it must suck so I'm sorry you're going through that.”

“We didn't want the same things and so we ended it. It is what it is.”

You nod.

He walks the few steps separating you and you have to raise your chin a little to look him in the eye for the first time since you left his apartment “I wanted to tell you.”

“That you broke up with your girlfriend?”

“Yeah, I don't know why. It happened when I broke up with Minseo too, I just… You're the first person that I thought of calling when it happened. I texted you, too, but the messages didn't go through.”

You hum at that.

Why would he even say that?

You resume your step, not really knowing what to say until you reach the stairs that lead to your building’s entrance.

“And you didn't ask Woo for my number?”

He follows you up.

“I don't think he would've given it to me if I asked.”

That sounds like an excuse, so you don't let it slide as you enter the code to your building and let yourself inside, San holding the door so he can get in as well “Why would he do that?”

“Because he…” San sighs, pressing the elevator button “Nevermind. He just wouldn't.”

Frowning, you turn to him “No, now you have to tell me.”

“It doesn't matter, really—”

“Tell me, San.”

He stares for a second and then looks away, like a child, vulnerable and you can't help but soften at that “He didn't like the way I treated you.”

Eating your words from before, you shake your head “You didn't treat me like anything.”

The elevator dings and you get inside.

San follows you.

“Exactly,” he says, resting his shoulder on the metal “Like you said I just did nothing and—”

“Well, sometimes that's just what happens,” you want to end this. You want to pack Gyuri’s bag, give it to him and never see him again.

This conversation hurts, it reopens barely closed wounds and it creates new ones you don't really need when it comes to whatever happened between you two.

There's only so much a person can handle and it really doesn't help that you're a fool for San. He takes advantage of it, of the fact you can't really push him away at this point and the fact that he wants to have this conversation now instead of four and half years ago?

Mean.

He's mean. He's evil. He's… He's staring at you with a spark in his eyes that you recognize too well.

Hope.

When you get to your floor, you try to wipe the image away while busying yourself with your keys. Your hands tremble a little but you're able to open the door of your apartment and get in without inviting him.

He gets in anyway. You take off your shoes as he closes the front door.

He stays silent as he follows you around the apartment and you don't worry about turning the lights on. You get into Gyuri’s room and start picking out a comfy hangover outfit for your friend. Some clean underwear, sweatpants, two shirts and socks.

When you drop to the floor, in front of the closet, to look for a bag to stash all of it in, San silently clutches beside you.

“It shouldn't have happened to us. Never us.”

You can't take it anymore.

“San, what is this? What are you doing? I mean, why are we—”

“I know.”

“It's been years…”

“I miss you.”

He's so mean. But the softness in his tone resembles the one he used all the way back in highschool, when he told you that not being friends with you didn't feel right and you want to cave in right there and then.

Your heart screams at you to do it, your reason warns you that you both have been through this before and it never ends right.

You simply can't stay friends with Choi San.

Your love for him must run too deep, your resentment claws at it and tries to hurt it but it's an immovable force that won't budge even if you try to bury it under the years that have passed, the things he has done.

Tears gather in your eyes and you try to blink them away as you stare at your best friend's clothes on your lap and try to come up with something to close this path up again, reconstruct the picket fence you built around it the second he broke your heart for the first time.

“Yeah,” you whisper back, letting the walls fall a little “I miss you too but I don't think I miss whatever version of you you are right now, San.”

“W-what?”

His shaky voice makes the walls crumble and crash.

Turning to him, your hand shakes as you place it on top of his “And you don't miss the version of me I am right now. You miss what I was back then, the comfort and the shoulder to cry on I offered you when Arin and you broke up. You miss my availability and the way I didn't press my feelings on you because it didn't matter if I liked you or not, you were my friend first and the guy that I had a crush second but—” you choke up, tears falling down your cheeks even if you don't want them to “I can't do it anymore. I'm not that girl anymore and I won't be there for you now that you and Kyungmi broke up because I can't handle it. I can't, I'm sorry.”

He doesn't deny any of it.

He stares at you, tears wetting his cheeks as well and it hurts even more this way. You wish you had the strength to hold it together, to treat him like you did on the street a few minutes ago, but you can't.

There's no way you could ever hate him like you want to.

“You know…” he starts in a whisper, letting out a humorless chuckle “That's what I used to tell myself too.”

“Hm?”

“That you were my friend first and the girl that I had a crush on second.”

How dare he mutter the words you always wanted to hear, the ones you picture being said in a different setting, the ones that haunted your every waking thought that period of time you doubted your friends, your mom, yourself for even believing Choi San could ever have a crush on you.

He doesn't get to say them. You want to tell him but the words die on your throat and form a lump that you can't swallow down.

You don't get to say that. You don't get to say that.

Your hand drops from his and you look away again only to grab the first bag you find on the closet floor and shove Gyuri’s stuff in it.

If the lack of response it's what prompts the hurt in his voice the next time he speaks, you don't want to think about it.

“I wish I didn't. Now it's too late to do something about it, huh?”

This time the rage comes back with a mask on. Feing settlement for all the what if’s covers you like a blanket on a really hot summer night: unwanted, unnecessary.

But you can't sleep without it, so you do nothing to push it away.

“I guess it is.”

You get up from the floor, leaving the room and wiping your face with bitterness coating your movements as you wait by the door for him to get out.

When he does and he steps in front of you, you extend the bag and he takes it without missing a beat.

Voice robotic and words premeditated, you open the front door for him “Thanks for walking me home and taking this back.”

He leans a little into your space and you don't move away. But just as he did in highschool, he takes in your hitched breath and does nothing more.

“Thanks for letting me talk to you.”

He didn't give you much of a choice there but it's okay. This is closure, this is the end of your story with Choi San and you convince yourself you're glad that it is.

“Sure,” you whisper back and he steps outside, turning around to watch you slowly close the door “goodnight, San.”

He doesn't say it back.

When the darkness of your apartment engulfs you, that's when you let yourself breakdown. Covering your mouth with your palm, you descend until your knees are against the wood on the floor and closing your eyes you make it a point to let it all out.

You'll let it all out, drink some water, text Wooyoung and Gyuri to let them know you're safe and go to bed.

And tomorrow you'll begin your day with the freedom of finally knowing what would've happened if you or San ever took the next step.

This is fine. This is moving on. This is—

The doorbell rings.

Opening the door again, you crease your eyebrows in a silent question that San doesn't care to answer, so you look around the floor in case he forgot something you're missing. You wipe your cheeks and under your eyes as you turn to him again “Did you—”

Time slows down when he makes it past the threshold and you can't move an inch, gaping at who you once thought was the love of your life “What are you doing, San?”

“Something about it.”

“What?”

“Forgive me,” he asks, breathless and in a murmur, fueling your confusion. And then he's closing the distance, dropping Gyuri’s bag and cupping your face so gently that it hurts “but I'm doing something about it.”

You stopped dreaming about the possibility of San kissing you that one time you two were on your bed and, another time, you told yourself that, if it ever happened, you wouldn't kiss him back.

It's too late to kiss him back.

But sparks fly when he crushes you against the wall and takes in a breath before slothing his mouth against yours like he's been waiting to do this every single day for the past nine years you've known each other.

There's nothing you can do to conceal the way yearning takes over you, pours out of you, making you breathe into his open mouth and kiss him back like you always wanted to.

You already know it is a mistake by the time you grab his shirt to keep him in place but does it really matter when this is all you ever wanted?

Feeling warmth leave your face, you notice the way he desperately crowds your space as his chest bumps into yours, leg claiming its place in between yours, the palm that leaves you pressing against the wall, next to your head.

The kiss is filled with emotion, with longing and desire and it steals the air out of your lungs tragically and beautifully at the same time. Before, you used to dream about his lips making everything feel right, making you fit in in a world you didn't feel like you belonged to.

But this kiss drops you into uncharted territory, drags you into the depths of something that should be buried by now, after all this time. It brings the flame back to life and it's dangerous.

The fact that it feels this way, both marvelous and catastrophic at the same time, makes you so sad.

Sorrow descends down your face until your mouth is picking it up and your tongue is mixing it with whatever emotion is cruising through San right now.

You have to know.

He spent your entire youth and early adulthood keeping it to himself, knowing when to show his true colors and when to hide them, choosing who to do it with and you realize the San that lives in your head is nothing but a figment of what you wanted him to be.

Because him holding to your waist like it's his only lifeline doesn't fit the San you remember, him telling you he liked you back then doesn't fit the guy who was just your best friend.

You need to know.

“San,” brokenly, you speak into his mouth and he pulls away just enough to see your face. Your eyes remain closed, your chest heaving and your lips trembling “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I want you, Y/N.”

You push him away, weakly, almost like you don't really mean it because deep down you don't but he steps away like you're asking to.

Because, of course, your mind scraps the bottom of your resentment to give his words a completely new meaning.

“You can find another girl to fuck and be your rebound, San,” more tears spill down and you wipe them away in anger but more threat to fall down so you cover your face with your hands and groan, desperate “I can't do this, especially not when I know that you know how bad I wanted you. Y-you know what you do to me San so stop—”

“I want you in my life. I don't— What? I don't want you like a rebound, I… Can we sit down and turn on a light so I can look at you when I say this?”

His words should be reassuring but they're not, the way you tend to feel unlovable around him coming up to the surface, preventing you from thinking clearly.

You can also feel his lips on yours still. It's dizzying but you manage to push yourself off the wall and pad around until you hit the switch of the warm light lamp near the couch and the apartment comes to life just like that.

He takes in the space he's never seen before, walking slowly towards the living room and looking over the bookshelf that screams your name all over it. He smiles a bit as he looks over the book titles and you look away before your heart starts acting up again.

You can't stay mad at him for long if he's looking through something so personal to you and smiling that fondly at it. It feels even more intimate than the kiss you two just shared.

Wiping your cheeks once more, you are sure you look a mess but he doesn't seem to mind it once he comes into your point of view, sitting down on the couch, in front of your standing form. He grabs you by your hands until you're sitting next to him, close to him, cologne intoxicating your senses.

“I told you I liked you when we were in highschool, right?”

You nod.

“You seemed surprised but it was dark so I'm not really sure. I thought you knew, everyone knew.”

Oh, he's a comedian.

“How would I have known, San? I… Yeri told me you liked me one time, in senior year, but I denied it. Then, my mom told me you seemed to want me in a non-platonic way and I dismissed her as well,” you take in a deep, shaky breath “For me, the thought of you liking me just didn't make sense. You loved Arin and she's… She doesn't look or act like I did back then at all, so how would I have known?”

You didn't need clues and puzzles and what if’s, you needed words and actions that weren't confusing. You needed him to tell you back then, because telling you right now and kissing you senseless after he broke up with a girl he supposedly was very in love with means nothing but pain.

“I didn't realize you liked me too,” you make a face, about to tell him off, but he interrupts “I didn't! I thought you liked Yeri and I thought you saw me as the annoying guy who wouldn't leave you alone. I only just realized it a couple years ago, because Woo told me.”

You raise your eyebrows and mutter under your breath “I'm murdering him tomorrow.”

The corner of his lips twitch before he shakes his head in dismissal of what you said “I liked you. I really, really liked you and never told a soul because… Well, it's scary when you fall in love, right?”

“San, you had no problem telling Arin, Minseo or Kyungmi that you liked them.”

He looks down to the floor, lost in thought and you want to open your mouth to take what you just said into a new direction, but you don't “Maybe that's because I didn't love them the way I love you.”

Oh.

Love you? As in… He loves you right now too?

No way.

“You didn't love me, San. You don't love me right now either, you… Maybe we both were in love with the idea of love? Maybe that's what happened and—”

“Quit telling me what I'm feeling, Y/N. You always do that, you always assume you know what I'm feeling but you don't!”

Raising your voice a little more, you try to get your point across in the worst way possible: by being stubborn “You don't know me! How can you possibly—”

“I knew you back then, Y/N! And I loved you back then, too!” He looks like wants to say something more but he doesn't, instead, he takes a calming breath and then leans into your space for the third time tonight “And I might not know you now but I want to. That's what I meant when I said that I want you. I want you in my life, I want to know the person you became when we stopped talking, I want to talk to you every single day and I want to hold you and kiss you and be by your side however you want me to, I just… I can't lose you again.”

His confession renders you speechless and you notice his chest is heaving, going up and down in sync with yours.

But the way he pulled away from you senior year still hurts, it paints a picture of what's going to happen if you accept this.

You can't believe his words.

He must feel lonely and confused, like he did when Arin broke up with him. He must be looking for a shelter you can't provide.

“And when you find another girl that's more to your liking? What then, San?”

“There's no one that I love more than you, Y/N and I'm sorry I was shit at proving it back then and I'm sorry that it took so many years for me to come to my senses.”

He's tearing up and your heart pangs absurdly loud at that.

“I saw you with Seonghwa earlier today, laughing and dancing and flirting and I thought: Oh, maybe if I didn't waste that much time pretending I'm someone I'm not, that would be me.”

You stare for a second, you watch a single tear drop down his cheek and then look away.

“Is that what you were doing? Is that why you pulled away?”

“Maybe?” he offers and you turn to him again. Is not enough and maybe he can see it in your expression, because he goes on “I mean, I… I thought I wanted Arin. I thought I wanted Minseo. I had people in my life who were really happy to see me with them and I just…”

“Wanted to keep them happy,” you nod, understanding. He doesn't have to say his mothers name for you to know he's referring to her and maybe his other highschool friends outside of Wooyoung “Were you pretending with me as well?”

“No,” he answers right away “You and Woo were the only ones who saw me for who I really was back then.”

“And why do you think you love me now, San?” you ask, deflating against the couch and ignoring the way your heart soars at his quick response.

“Because I never stopped,” he stammers out and then clears his throat “Because I looked for you in Minseo and Kyungmi and I wondered for years why they couldn't make me feel the same way. And I told myself I didn't need to feel the same way and that I deserved to wonder for the rest of my days but seeing you tonight? I can't.”

Straightening your spine, the pained look you sent in his direction is not intentional but it prompts him to lean closer and closer until he's cupping your cheek again.

“I can't keep wondering.” His voice is a sweet whisper, a siren song that draws you in until your forehead is resting against his.

All these years, you were so self-focused on changing to a better version of who he used to know, learning from your mistakes and closing off to the opportunity of letting him prove himself a better man, you forgot that time passed for him too. He’s telling you he changed, too.

Imagination is a safe space. Is where you hide, where desire can take its wings and fly high without hurting you too much. Make belief has rescued you before but this? The way his nose nuzzles softly into yours and your breaths tangle? This is very real. And reality is prone to hurt you.

But the want you feel is undeniable. The way your entire being wants to cave in and give him an opportunity is suffocating, it makes you choke out a sob that he follows with one of his own.

You kiss him, softly at the beginning, but his hands on you tighten and you let yourself get lost in the way they go down your neck and your arms, caressing you softly until they reach your waist and pull you into his lap.

Pulling away, you grab his chin with two fingers and force his teary eyes to snap open, searching for an answer on yours.

“If you hurt me,” you start, breathless “If you're mocking me, if you're using me to get over Kyungmi, if you are pulling me back in to break my heart again, Choi San, I swear to God I will kill you.”

“I won't do that to you ever again, Y/N,” he returns softly “I love you, I'm sorry if I ever hurt you but I love you.”

Others would argue that it is pathetic how quickly you forgive him. But then again, you could never be mad at San.

You were only mad at yourself for how everything turned out.

“I love you too, Sannie.”

Saying something never felt so freeing before.

“Oh, Y/N…” you can see the way relief washes his worries away “Y/N…” he starts to say but then leans in to kiss you again and never finishes his words.

You don't mind it.

Pouring out all the pent up affection you pretended to bury for years, you explore his mouth and carve into your memory the way he feels. The way he sighs into it when your tongue brushes his, the way he pulls you in closer when your fingers reach the nape of his neck and pull on his hair there, hands splayed on your back so he can keep you in place as he leans down and places you against the worn out couch.

He maps you out, hands going down your waist in a familiar feeling that brings back that memory of you two laying down on your bed. Only this time, he's actually touching you with a purpose. This time, you two have made up your minds and your limbs are tangled in a way you can feel all of him pressing up against you.

It starts to get stuffy, the space on the couch not nearly enough to have him the way you want to. Soon, you're both standing up, mouths still moving against each other and hands roaming everywhere until you're undoing the buttons on his shirt.

He pulls away to fully take it off, eyes never leaving yours, dropping the shirt to the ground, next to the couch and then he's on you again, making your back crash into the wall as he works the knots keeping your blouse together.

He walks you through the hall, stopping only to take your top off and then he's walking you to a room that has a familiar scent that doesn't belong to you.

“Wrong room, wrong room,” you say into his lips and he laughs, looking to your surroundings “Mine’s over there.” you point to the other end of the hall, taking his hand and pulling him towards it.

You don't make it far before he's yanking you towards him again. He looks down, taking your body in and you do the same, his firm and defined stomach a sight you never thought you would be able to see.

“You're so beautiful,” he whispers, backing you against the wall again and kissing your cheek “So, so beautiful.”

Turning your head to chase his mouth, he lets out a heavy sigh when his lips trail a path to your neck and murmurs against the skin there “I never told you how beautiful I found you before but you're so perfect, baby.”

“I always thought I wasn't your type, San,” you let out a noise when he grabs your hips and pulls you forward, crashing his into yours “Fuck.”

“And I always thought you were too much for me, too smart,” he kisses his way back up, focusing on your jaw and chin until he's kissing your cheek again “too pretty,” he moves to your ear, pecking right under it and you hold him closer “too good for me.”

It doesn't really matter that this is all new to you, the way he's speaking, the tenor of his voice, the things he's saying… It sparks something familiar in you. You're pulling his hair back to make him look at you, a moan slipping out of his lips at that.

You want to hear it again.

He's smiling at your reaction, hand tightening on his locks.

However, that smile drops when he seems to recognize the gleam in your eyes.

You gather up courage, feeling empowered by the way his hooded eyes darken but wait patiently for you to speak your mind.

“Maybe I'm too good for you now, too,” you lean in, your lips softly tracing his “Maybe you should prove to me that you deserve me, San.”

It's a dare. One that he seems to like a lot because his eyes sparkle with the same fire they used to back in the day.

“Oh, I'll prove it to you, alright.” He whispers, panting when you let go of his hair and he leans into you to kiss your lips briefly before pulling away again.

His hand tilts your head back and you rest it against the cold wall, his fingers touch your bottom lip before going down and down and down until they rest against the seam of your pants, unbuttoning them in one swift movement.

Going back up, his nails softly dig into your skin and you preen, taking the soft sting of his ministrations like you two have done this a million times before.

His mouth is on yours again, his hands are pulling you off the wall and into your room until you two land on your mattress, a moan spilling out of your lips when he sloths his knee in between your legs and pulls them apart with expertise.

You don't have the mind to break down what that means.

Opening your eyes when he kisses down your neck again, you notice your room is barely lit by the street lights outside, curtains pulled open and windows closed but, this way, you can see the way San kisses between your breasts and your belly, catching his eyes when he looks up to measure your reaction.

You sigh, already feeling some sort of build up going on down there and he hasn't even touched you properly yet.

You don't even want to think about how wet you actually are.

He leans back, open palms going down your legs slowly until they reach your feet. It tickles and you can't help but let out a giggle that he joins short after, his gaze never losing the edge because of it, though.

“San…”

He guides your hips up so he can take off your pants and you sigh when his hands return, raising your leg up “I missed your laugh,” he says low, attaching his lips to your calf “I miss being the one making you laugh too.”

You feel like crying again but then he's letting your leg down and grabbing the other one to give it the same treatment, so your tears can wait.

This time, he moves upwards till his mouth nears your clothed center and your breath hitches.

Yeah, you can definitely cry later.

“You want me to prove to you how much I want you, Y/N?” he murmurs, his lips ghosting your mound now “How much I love you?”

“San, p-please…”

“Fuck, look at you.” He sounds like he's too lost in the heat of the moment and you're kind of grateful, because the moan you let out when his fingers hook on your underwear and pull them to the side to expose your pussy to his hungry eyes is loud.

When he kisses you right where you need him, you let out another moan. And when he parts your folds to lick a stripe up to your clit, you curse him under your breath until he's laughing against you softly, the vibrations accumulating heat on your belly.

He doesn't tease you much longer and you look down at him just to catch the moment his self control slips, eating you out like a man starved while his hand stays on your hip to hold you down and keep you underwear from interrupting his feast.

“This is like,” he dives in again for a few seconds and you grab the sheets beneath you “All my fantasies coming to life but better.”

He's so chatty during this and the only thing you can do is stammer a yeah? and pray for it to reach his ears.

“Mhm,” He circles your clit with the tip of his tongue and your legs shake “It tastes even better than what I dreamed, too.”

The heat of his mouth leaves you, lips spreading your wetness through your stomach until he fully reaches your face, your eyes closed and lips already waiting for him.

Tongue caressing yours, your hands trail down his torso and focus on getting his pants off. You're shaking with excitement so it proves to be more difficult than you imagined at first but he helps you in unbuckling his belt.

Once the piece of clothing is on the floor (or the bed, you're not really paying attention to where it lands), you don't waste time in feeling him up through his boxers.

The hiss you get in return makes you smile.

Bringing your lips to his neck, you suckle on this pulse point and gain another pleased noise before grazing your teeth against skin and moving to his collarbone next.

In a way, you get what he means. If he truly was pining over you the way you were pining over him, the thought of exploring his tan skin and making him moan feels like a dream.

So you kiss him again in order to make it all last longer.

The minutes pass between the both of you, softly making out and figuring out what gets both of you going, discarding your underwear in the process.

You realize your moans make San’s cock twitch against your leg and he seems to notice the way your hips buck up everytime his hands handle you more roughly.

After a few minutes of just this, you feel his hand making its way down again and the pads of his fingers circle your clit until you're grasping the sheets again. He gathers your arousal and then enters one finger slowly and when it slides in and out with ease, he enters the next one.

There's really not much prepping he needs to do, already soft and compliant under him, you relax into his comfortable touch before you're aching for something else. And your mouth is preoccupied with his, so you do something else to catch his attention.

Hands caressing his back, you let them drop to his ass with a soft smack that wins you a soft huff on amusement and then a whine when you move his hips towards yours.

“Condom?”

You shake your head “I'm clean and I have an implant.”

“Oh?” he smirks, about to tease you but you squeeze his butt again and he moans “Fuck. I'm clean too.”

“Good,” you whisper against his cheek, laughing as he arranges his position.

And he might've been touching you all this time, kissing you until your mind emptied and your lips are all swollen up, but the look on his eyes when he slowly enters you is what might drive you over the edge.

Grabbing your hands, he pins them on the side of your head as he moves, dropping his head down with a groan as you take him in, nose touching yours and moth whispering sweet things you can't quite pick up.

He feels so good.

This all feels way too good to be real.

In the cloud you're at, you allow yourself to dream a little more before the reality of what your confessions mean dawns on you.

For now, you allow San to make love to you. Sweetly, slowly and with a passion you never were lucky enough to encounter before.

Maybe it's because your previous lovers didn't have your heart the way San does.

He rams his hips into yours hard, closing his eyes and resting his warm cheek against yours, kissing your face inch by inch when you accompany his movements with your own.

When his pace picks up, you hug him close and secure your legs around his hips as you moan.

“Y-yes, fuck.”

“Like that?” he repeats the movement from before, pulling out and then in with such force it rocks the entire bed.

“Just like that, baby, fuck.”

“God, you sound so good,” you smile a little, forehead resting on his shoulder before your head falls down against your pillow again “I love you,” he repeats against your lips, letting your hands go to cup your face with both of his again “I love you so much.”

Teetering over the edge, you feel happy tears stinging in your eyes. Though closed, you can feel San’s stare on you, on your face, on the way you react to his sweet words and relentless pace.

You say it back in a whisper and he repeats it again and again and again until you're both coming and tears are spilling down your cheeks.

He kisses them away.

You wipe his with trembling fingers as you come down, having trouble breathing from everything that just happened.

You don't feel suffocated anymore, you feel like you've been freed. Like this was supposed to happen at some point and you two finally got around to it.

“I love you,” he says once more before slipping out of you with a parting kiss.

Holy shit.

When San gets up from the bed and you point him to the bathroom, down the hallway, you're left with a sticky mess in between your legs and a lot to think about but you settle on four things.

San just made love to you. There's no way that was just sex.

There's also no way you're coming back from this.

Gyuri is probably going to kill you.

And that, obviously, your feelings for San never left. You feel the familiar warmth of them spreading through your post-orgasmic state. They're there, mocking you, asking you who the fuck you thought you were for pushing them away.

He returns, toilet paper in his hands before leaning in and cleaning you up, lips immediately finding home on your skin as he does.

You both giggle at that.

You probably need to shower but you've been crying and there's no way you're leaving this bed tonight. He throws the paper away on your bedroom’s trashcan and then crashes into the bed next to you, still naked, still looking at you with so much love you're wondering what stopped you from seeing it was there before.

Taking his hand, you bring it to his lip and give his knuckles a peck “That was really good.”

“It was.”

“I can't believe we actually just did that…”

He smiles and what he says next shocks you even more than his confession “I want to take you out.”

“San… You just came inside me not even ten minutes ago.”

“And?” you laugh and he shakes his head, leaning into your space again “I spent many years doing everything wrong, let me do it the right way.”

“Making love to me one time and then taking me out on a date is not the right way, sir.”

He nuzzles your cheek with his nose and you let out a pleased sigh “Who said it was just one time, huh?” Attacking your neck with his lips again, you push him away with a laugh.

“Oh, come on!”

He laughs as well “Give me ten minutes and I'll make it two!”

San makes love to you two more times. And by four in the morning, you're snuggled into his arms and sleeping soundly.

When you wake up and find the space next to you empty, you think it was all a dream. Your naked form begs to differ and you quickly put the t-shirt you usually wear to bed on and your panties underneath it to go out and face the feelings of your actions fighting with the blender in the kitchen.

“How do you two live with this stupid thing?”

“We don't,” you answer, startling him “We don't use it. What are you trying to make?”

San’s shirtless, wearing his pants and his hair messy. Looking back at the living room clock, you see it's just five past ten.

Smiling as he approaches you, you forget you must look a mess too when he pecks your lips and barely pulls away “Good morning, beautiful.”

You pretend to cringe at that, pulling away “Oh, God. Morning, dumbass.”

“You like it, you're blushing,” he points out and the pink on your cheek deepens as he's going back to the blender “Does anything work here?”

“The microwave,” you shrug “And the stove. Were you trying to make yourself a…” you look over the ingredients he has pulled out of your fridge “Green juice?”

“I was trying to make both of us a green juice,” he corrects and your heart skips at the immediate domestic attitude he has with you “But now I can tell neither of you drink anything like it, hm? I'm buying you a blender.”

“Please don't.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think that one is broken?”

He hums, huffing out a laugh seconds later and you walk over to him, unsure on how to approach him even though what you did yesterday night and earlier this morning didn't allow your shyness to step in.

Now you're feeling it.

He can tell, because he stops fighting with the steel appliances to grab your waist and pull you close “I wanted to make you breakfast.”

“We can make breakfast together and I can order your green juice,” you compromise and he nods, but he doesn't let you go “And later we can go out on that date you promised me yesterday and we can go over what we're going to tell the two idiots.”

His smile drops.

“Oh, fuck.”

Grimacing, you nod “It was the second thing I thought about after waking up.”

“What was the first?”

“Oh, I was trying to remember if you ever asked me to dance before,” he nods with a smile “Guess what? You didn't.”

He fake gasps at that “I did!”

“No, you didn't!”

“Babe, yes I did,” he insists and you laugh, which prompts him to wrap his hands around you tighter when you try to get away from him “It was when—”

“Oh. My. God. I'm going to be sick again.”

Now when the fuck did Gyuri come back.

And why is Wooyoung with her too, jaw slack as he watches both of you pull away from each other and create a safe distance that doesn't help whatever your best friends just saw.

“It worked?” he asks and you can barely hear him until he hollers like a crazy person “Oh, it worked! I am a genius!”

“Wooyoung, hold me! I'm going to kill them!” Gyuri looks like she's about to launch towards you at any second now, so you close your eyes and accept your fate. But nothing happens “Wait— What worked?”

When you open them again, San is hiding behind you and Gyuri’s back is to both of you as she looks at Wooyoung with, what you assume, murderous intentions.

“Gyuri, let's talk about this,” the black haired guy puts his hands up “You were too drunk to discuss it so I made the choice of— Gyuri, no!”

You burst into laughter when she starts chasing him around the apartment and San giggles as well, only more nervous than delighted by their little cat and mouse game.

He's probably sensing he's next on her hit list.

As if you would let anything happen to him in the first place.

“Stop, stop! I'm sorry, please leave me alone!” you hear Wooyoung’s voice echoing through your hall and in a second he's entering the kitchen, rounding you and San “I'm so happy for you guys, really, this was meant to happ— Stop!” He cries when Gyur catches onto him and yanks his hair to stop him from running.

“Y/N,” she starts, chest heaving and you take a step back, crashing into San’s chest. He holds onto you only to push you a little and protect himself from the fury of your best friend “When I told you fuck him I didn't meant this!”

“I know.”

Wooyoung whines but he can't get away from her grasp so he just accepts it and pouts like a child.

“A-and you!” She points towards the guy resting his chin on your shoulder “How dare you! If this is something casual for you then—”

“I love her.” He defends himself quickly and your heart all but stops at that.

“You do?” Wooyoung coos, amazed at his best friend’s confession.

Gyuri's anger falters at that.

“You… You do?”

“And I love him,” you let out in a shy whisper, smiling a bit “But you already knew that.”

“Of course I already knew that, bitch, I am your other half,” she makes a point to stare at San as she says it, letting Wooyoung go and he massages the part of his scalp that was targeted by his ex “Don't forget that.”

“Y-yes ma'am.”

You laugh again and Woo joins the embrace, eyeing you both expectantly and rolling his eyes when neither of you say anything to him “Well, you are so welcome guys. What are we having for breakfast?”

You and San don't get to go out on that date.

But when you do, he asks you to be his girlfriend the next day.

And when you say yes he almost breaks down in excited tears.

Eventually, even Gyuri comes around and threatens him into treating you right, which means he earned her seal of approval.

You delete the document on your laptop when you find it a month into being his girlfriend and, instead, start drafting your new beginning on it, in first person this time because the story doesn't feel like it belongs to someone else now.

The first line read as it follows:

How did I ever think San and I could be just friends?

If you read all the way down here: THANK YOU SO MUCH. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated!

#ateez #ateez imagines #ateez x reader #ateez hard hours #ateez reactions #ateez smut #choi san #choi san x reader #choi san smut #san smut #san x reader #san #san imagines #ateez x you #ateez x y/n #san x you #san x y/n #fic; wcbf.

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fallenbratfiction · 2 months ago

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does your mother know - pedro pascal x f!reader

A/N: You knew it was coming, i mean come on!! Also added some tweaks as I've been non stop watching The White Lotus so it's sort of an AU. Both you and Pedro happen to be at the white lotus. AAAAAAAA!!!! Honestly this went on for longer than I had planned but I loved how it ended!

Post that inspired this fic

warnings: girthy age gap (reader is early 20's and he is around 50),, eating out (f! Receiving) protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!) use of word daddy and baby, alcohol consumption, if I missed any warnings let me know!

do not copy, translate or claim any of my work as your own.

🔞minors dni, I don’t take responsibility for what you choose to consume.

I hope you enjoy this just as much as I enjoyed writing for y’all!

🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊

The sun was just beginning its slow descent over the ocean, painting the sky in streaks of pink and gold. A warm breeze carried the scent of salt and sunscreen through the resort’s private beach, where guests lounged with cocktails in hand, the hum of music and laughter blending into the rolling waves.

The White Lotus was everything it promised—luxurious, indulgent, and filled with people who had far too much money and not enough problems. You were here with your mother who had little interest in where you went or who you were with, too preoccupied with spa treatments, resort gossip, and work. It made slipping away easy, effortless even.

And it made your latest interest all the more enticing.

Pedro.

He was here alone, lingering around the resort like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be enjoying it or just enduring it. He didn’t seem to belong, yet somehow, he did—like an outsider who had mastered the art of observing the privileged up close. And he intrigued you.

You spotted him now, stretched out under a white beach umbrella, aviator sunglasses perched on his nose, an unread book resting on his stomach. The drink beside him was sweating more than he was, untouched, while he lazily observed the crowd.

Sliding your sunglasses down the bridge of your nose, you approached with an effortless sway, your bare feet sinking into the warm sand. "This seat taken?" Your voice was smooth, just a hint of playfulness lacing the edges.

Pedro tilted his head, barely moving, but you felt his gaze shift to you. He smirked, that slow, lazy kind of smirk that made something flutter in your stomach. "Looks like it is now."

You eased onto the lounger beside him, close but not too close, stretching out your sun-kissed legs. After a moment, you reached into your beach bag, pulling out a bottle of sunscreen. With an exaggerated sigh, you turned to him, holding it out. "Would you mind? It's such a hassle doing my back alone."

Pedro raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Is that so?"

You tilted your head, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. "Oh, don’t act so surprised. I’m sure you've done this before." You twisted slightly, exposing the smooth expanse of your back. "Besides, it’s a shame to let a burn ruin such a nice vacation."

Pedro exhaled, shaking his head, but he took the bottle nonetheless. "You're trouble, aren’t you?"

"Only if you want me to be."

He chuckled, squeezing the lotion into his palm before pressing his hands to your shoulders. His touch was firm, warm, and just slow enough to make you shiver. You hummed in approval, tilting your head slightly. "You’re good at this. Almost suspiciously so."

"Don’t overthink it," he muttered, working the sunscreen over your soft skin. "Or do you flirt with every man who helps you avoid sunburn?"

You twisted your head to glance at him over your shoulder, eyes glinting. "Only the ones worth my time." You let a few beats of silence linger, pretending to focus on the waves, but you knew he was watching.

"You’ve been here all week," you said eventually, glancing at him over the rim of your sunglasses. "I would’ve thought someone like you would have been snatched up by now."

He chuckled, deep and warm, finally sitting up. "Someone like me? And what’s that supposed to mean?"

"Mature. Brooding. Handsome." You listed the words off as if they were obvious, twirling a finger idly through your hair. "But I suppose you already know that."

Pedro huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "You think flattery works on an old man like me?"

"Oh, I think it works very well." You tilted your head, eyes glinting. "I mean, you haven’t told me to leave yet."

He exhaled through his nose, amused, lifting his drink to take a slow sip. "How old are you?"

You pursed your lips, considering. "Old enough to know what I want."

His brows lifted just slightly, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "And what is it that you want?"

You reached for his sunglasses, slipping them off his face without permission. His eyes met yours—warm, dark, assessing. You hummed in approval.

"Wouldn’t you like to find out?" You leaned in slightly, watching the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Or are you afraid you might like it too much?"

Pedro let out a long breath, shaking his head as he leaned back again, arms stretching over the back of his chair. "Does your mother know you flirt like this?"

You laughed, a rich, melodic sound, tossing his sunglasses back onto his lap before standing. "I’ll tell you what," you mused, running a finger along the rim of his abandoned drink. "Why don’t you come find me later? I’ll buy you one that isn’t watered down."

You turned before he could respond, knowing full well that his eyes were following you as you walked back toward the bar, hips swaying just enough to tease.

And, just as you expected, when you reached the bar, you heard the scrape of his chair against the wood of the deck.

---------------------------

Later that night, the resort shimmered under the glow of hanging lanterns and tiki torches, the open-air bar humming with soft music and drunken laughter. You were leaning against the bar, stirring the ice in your drink with a slow, deliberate motion, when you felt the presence before you saw him.

"You owe me a drink, remember?" Pedro’s voice was smooth, teasing, as he slid onto the stool beside you.

You smirked, lifting your glass in mock salute. "I always pay my debts. What are you having?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Surprise me."

You flagged down the bartender, ordering something strong but smooth, something that lingered. When the drink arrived, Pedro took a sip, eyes flicking to you in silent approval.

"You really don’t scare easy, do you?" he mused, tilting his head.

"Should I?" You propped your elbow on the bar, resting your chin in your hand. "Are you dangerous?"

He scoffed, shaking his head. "Not to you."

You leaned in slightly, his cologne mixing with the salt air. "Shame. I like a little danger."

Pedro exhaled a laugh, watching you with something unreadable in his gaze. "You keep playing like this, and you might get more than you bargained for."

"I’m counting on it."

The music shifted, something slow and sultry, and you reached for his hand before he could protest. "Dance with me."

He hesitated, just for a second, before exhaling through his nose, amused and defeated all at once. "You’re relentless."

"You have no idea."

------------------

The next morning, the resort’s breakfast terrace was bustling with early risers and those nursing hangovers from the previous night. You sat at a shaded table overlooking the water, sipping fresh orange juice when you spotted him.

Pedro was at the coffee station, brows furrowed as he poured himself a strong black coffee, clearly not a morning person. You smiled to yourself before calling out, "You look like you need something to wake you up."

He glanced up, weary yet amused. "Not all of us have your energy first thing in the morning."

You tilted your head, watching him as he approached your table. "Maybe you just need the right kind of breakfast."

He scoffed, setting his coffee down as he slid into the seat opposite yours. "Yeah? And what’s the ‘right kind’?"

You lifted a forkful of food from your plate, eyes glinting with mischief. "Well, I always go for something... satisfying. Something that keeps me full for a long time."

Pedro’s gaze darkened slightly, his fingers tightening around his mug. "That so?"

You hummed, pretending to consider. "Mmm-hmm. Like a good, thick sausage."

His jaw clenched, and you had to bite back a smirk. "You—"

"What?" You popped the bite into your mouth, chewing slowly, letting the silence stretch. "I just like my breakfast hearty."

Pedro exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "You’re gonna kill me, aren’t you?"

You leaned forward, lowering your voice just enough to be suggestive. "Depends. Do you want to go out with a bang?"

Pedro groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "Jesus."

You simply grinned, sipping your juice like you hadn’t just wrecked his morning in the best way possible.

It wasn’t until later, when the sun had begun its slow descent and the air had turned thick with humidity, that he found you again. You were stepping into the elevator, still in your blue bikini from an afternoon at the pool, a thin cover-up doing little to conceal how the damp fabric clung to your skin.

Pedro hesitated for only a second before following you in.

The doors slid shut, trapping you in a space far too small and intimate for the heat simmering between the two of you. You glanced up at him, all bright eyes and knowing smirks, leaning against the railing as you tapped a manicured finger against your lip. "You look like a man with something on his mind."

He huffed out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "You’re gonna get me in trouble, aren’t you?"

You tilted your head, stepping closer. "Would that be such a bad thing?"

His hand flexed at his side, jaw tightening as you reached out, trailing a single finger down the front of his shirt. "I don’t think you realize what you’re doing."

"Oh, I do." You pressed in just enough that he could feel the heat of your body against his. "I just think you’re afraid to admit how much you like it."

The elevator dinged, doors sliding open to an empty hallway. You stepped back, offering a coy smile before walking ahead, your bare feet silent against the plush carpet. Pedro exhaled through his nose, shaking his head before following your lead.

When you reached his door, you turned to face him, waiting as he hesitated. His fingers hovered over the keycard reader, his resolve hanging by a thread. "Tell me to stop," he muttered, more to himself than to you.

You didn’t. Instead, you leaned in, close enough that your breath ghosted over his jaw. "Pedro," you murmured, lips just barely brushing his skin. "Are you really going to leave me standing out here?"

With a quiet curse, he slid the keycard through the reader. The lock clicked open, and you grinned, stepping past him into the dimly lit room. He followed, letting the door shut behind you before finally, finally closing the distance.

Before you could make another teasing comment, Pedro caged you against the wall with his arms, his hands pulling yours above your head as his mouth crushed against yours. Every doubt, every hesitation about what they were doing or the trouble it might bring him, burned away the second he tasted you. You whined against his lips, and the sound sent something primal rushing through him.

He deepened the kiss, swallowing every gasp, every teasing remark you might have thrown at him. His grip on your wrists tightened, holding you there as his other hand slid down, gripping the curve of your hip. "This is what you wanted, isn’t it?" he muttered against your mouth, his voice rough, strained.

You arched into him, breathless, your smirk barely visible between kisses. "Took you long enough."

Pedro groaned, dropping his forehead to yours for just a second before lifting you off the ground, carrying you the short distance to his bed. The last thing he saw before pressing you into the mattress was your wicked little grin—the one that told him you had him exactly where you wanted him to be.

Pedro didn’t waste time. His lips found your neck, trailing heat down to your collarbone, his fingers already working at the thin straps of your bikini top. You sighed, arching into him, your hands threading through his hair as he moved lower, tasting salt on your skin.

Your fingers trailed down his torso, slow and teasing, brushing over the waistband of his pants. He sucked in a sharp breath, pausing just enough to glance up at you with a warning look. "Eager much?"

You only smirked, pressing your palm flat against his stomach. "You’ve been making me wait all day. I think I’ve been patient enough."

His laugh was dark, a rough chuckle against your skin before he kissed down the curve of your waist. "You’re trouble, you know that?"

"Mmm," you hummed, tilting your head. "And yet, you haven’t stopped me."

Pedro groaned, his grip tightening on your hips before he pulled you fully beneath him, his mouth finding yours again.

His lips trail down all the way to your bikini bottom before undoing the laces that rest on your sides. He tosses it somewhere in the room and you watch him with amusement as he parts your legs, immersing himself in your cunt.

"Fuck" he curses at the sight of your bareness before diving in, hungrily kissing your cunt. Your hand traveled down to his hair, tugging as you felt his tongue graze your clit, drawing circles on it, lapping and teasing your entrance.

"Oh god yes!" You whined as he ate you out, his tongue making its way deeper, licking all over the place and suckling on your clit and kissing it, causing you to roll your eyes with pleasure.

He doesn't seem to get enough from you and truly he could just be there all day eating you out but his cock was threatening and pulsing inside his shorts. It urged him to get inside you that instant.

His face separated from your glistening cunt, his mustache and beard covered in your arousal, a scent that would follow him for the rest of the day or even longer.

You tugged at his shirt, pulling him to you so you could kiss his mouth, taste yourself in his tongue in a filthy kiss while your hands worked to pull his shirt off.

He removed his shorts and threw them across the room, took his shirt from your hands and threw it aside on the bed. The both of you were now completely bare. Your eyes traveled his body and you licked your mouth. This is exactly what you had been hoping for all week and finally it was now in front of you.

He stood on his knees, pulling your legs up and apart. He opened a condom with his teeth and wrapped up before he tapped his cock on your entrance and watched as it went all the way in stretching you out, he let out a groan feeling your tight walls around him and he let out another curse.

"Fuck me Daddy" you whimpered,

"What's that now? Say it again"

"Fuck me Daddy" you repeated but he remained still inside of you. You tried to move your hips but his hands gripped your hips stopping you from any movement.

"You young people and manners" He tsked playfully teasing.

"Please! Fuck me Daddy, please!" you begged, and finally he moved. His thrusts were intense and your hiccuped moans only cheered him to go harder.

"You're doing so well baby" He groaned hitting your cervix repeatedly with every thrust, balls slapping against your ass as he buried himself deeper. "Taking this so well, being so good for Daddy"

Soon your walls tightened even more around him and he cheekily smiled, looking at you who were lost in lust, whimpering and moaning with every movement and the tense feeling growing in your core.

"Are you gonna cum for me, hmm baby? Gonna make a mess for me?"

"Yes Daddy, I'm so close!"

You whined nodding your head looking at him. He smiled amused and his hand moved from your hip to your clit, adding pressure to your beaming bud as you tensed even more. He watched you as your voice became louder and his other hand moved to cover your mouth so no one would call about disturbance noises.

Pedro wanted this moment to last forever, and he tried for the longest time to think of anything that crossed his mind other than you, your face or your voice. However soon stilled himself inside you, just as you arched your back, a scream muffled by his hand as you both came at the same time.

Pedro groaned, his grip tightening on your hips before he pulled you fully beneath him, his mouth finding yours again.

He caught himself before falling on top of you, not wanting to crush you, and rolled off, his chest rising and falling as he recovered his breath. You, however, were already on for another round. Before he could react, you moved swiftly, straddling him, your hands roaming over his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. "You trying to kill me, baby?"

You only smirked, dragging your nails lightly down his torso. "What, too much for you?"

Pedro exhaled through his nose, gripping your thighs. "You’re insatiable. Didn’t I just fuck your brain out?"

You leaned down, lips ghosting over his ear. "And yet, you’re still hard. Interesting."

He groaned, tilting his head back against the pillow. "You're going to be the death of me."

The room was quiet except for the distant murmur of the ocean and the slow, steady rhythm of their breathing. You lay sprawled against him, your fingers tracing idle patterns along his chest, his skin still warm beneath your touch. Pedro had one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped lazily over your back, his fingers grazing your spine.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then you hummed, pressing a slow, teasing kiss to his jaw. "Took you long enough."

Pedro let out a breathy chuckle, his fingers tightening slightly on your hip. "I should’ve known you wouldn’t let that go."

You propped yourself up on one elbow, watching him. His usual brooding expression was softened, his lips parted, eyes half-lidded as he looked up at you. But there was something else there—something quieter, more thoughtful.

"No regrets?" you asked, tilting your head, though there was a playful lilt to your voice like you already knew the answer.

Pedro exhaled through his nose, smirking faintly. "If I did, I wouldn’t still be here."

You grinned, dragging your fingers down his chest. "Good answer."

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head, but you could feel the weight behind it—like maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t something he could just brush off. Maybe you had gotten under his skin more than he wanted to admit.

You didn’t press. Not yet. Instead, you rolled onto your back beside him, sighing dramatically. "Guess I’ll have to figure out how to keep myself entertained tomorrow."

Pedro turned his head to look at you, amusement flickering in his eyes. "That supposed to be a hint?"

You smirked, stretching your arms above your head. "Just saying… it’d be a shame if this was a one-time thing."

He didn’t respond right away, but when he did, his voice was quieter, rougher. "Yeah. It would."

You felt something settle in your chest at that—not a promise, but not nothing either. You turned to him, met his gaze, and for a second, the playful teasing between you two gave way to something heavier, something unspoken.

Then, just as quickly, you smirked, breaking the moment. "You’re staring, Pascal."

Pedro let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "Go to sleep, troublemaker."

You grinned, snuggling deeper into the sheets. "Only if you stay."

He didn’t answer, but the way his arm tightened around you was enough.

🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊

Hope you enjoyed your read! I'd love to hear what you think about it!

Reblogs, likes and comments help this story grow! ✨✨

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seaborgium-dazies · 2 months ago

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call me baby ♡ mdni

how mha boys praise you praise kink, established relationship, f!reader, dirty talk (puppy, princess, good girl), p in v, oral f!receiving 🌊: deku, bakugo, shoto, kirishima

deku:

I think it goes without saying that deku loves calling you puppy. He sprinkles a mix of darling, love and dear into his daily use of pet names as well. 'Puppy' is something very private to him; something meant just for him and you; something that lays both of you completely bare. And we all know how rambly deku gets when he's nervous or excited, you can bet your ass it's even more amplified when he's horny.

When deku came home after evening patrol completely spent you could practically feel the exhaustion dripping off of him and pooling on the floor around him. You hated seeing him like this and you knew you had to help him somehow. It didn't take long until you were on top of him bouncing and grinding to your hearts content. You made quick work of deku and soon enough he was trying his hardest to hold onto what was left of his sanity. "Puppy, you feel s'good" he slurs as your hips rock against his. He could barely keep his green eyes open and yet he couldn't stop praising you. "You're so so good to me puppy, taking me so well, ahh~". Even when his mind was wiped blank the love he held for you was so prominent that his tongue was doing somersaults, carefully stringing words of praise together "You're doing so good for me puppy. You feel haaah~ amazing. Keep going puppy, puppy-". His rambling came to a halt only as his muscles spasmed and his head fell back in a silent cry. But he was quick to pick up again after he came back to his senses, telling you how good you feel and how much he loves you <3

bakugo:

Bakugo may seem like a person who doesn't praise at all but in reality he's a sucker for it. In the beginning it would really require some emotional work from him though because admitting how much he cares for you and how important you are to him is incredibly hard for him. It's something he struggles with but after he gets used to being vulnerable with you he can't stop praising you. Especially when you're having sensual sex the words effortlessly fall from his lips.

You were going at it for what felt like hours and yet it was only your second round. Bakugos cock was pistoning in and out of you with speed that left you unable to speak. Your whines and moans fell like oil into the fire that is Katsuki Bakugos ego. "Yeah? You like that?" Katsuki asks breathlessly. Your reply made entirely of moans only earns a cocky chuckle. "You're taking me so well baby, just like that, yeah". He hungrily stares at the space where you two are connected, eager to get more moans out of you he starts circling your clit. "Just like that baby, just let loose for me princess". You couldn't help but throw your head back as he settled on the perfect pace. You couldn't help but wonder if someone had given him an instruction manual on how to make you cum with the way that he's working your buttons. "Eyes on me pretty princess" he says as he gently guides your face back "That's a good girl". And with one more flick of your clit your orgasm washes over you, bakugos voice still echoing through your head.

shoto:

At first shoto was very new to dirty talk but after you tried it out on him and he enjoyed it a lot he decided he wanted to be able to make you feel that way too. His gentle and kind nature translates to this aspect as well and and his dirty talk is very literal.

It took shoto mere seconds to figure out that something was bothering you. Although you tried to hide it as to not alarm or bother him, you weren't too surprised that he had you pegged so quickly. Shoto coaxed your troubles out of you, and as he heard that you couldn't help but feel undesirable and unattractive his brows furrowed. Luckily he knew exactly how to convince you of the opposite. His tongue was lapping at your folds and obscene slurping sounds filled the air. "Your pretty pussy tastes so good, mmmm". The vibration of shotos groan made you moan. He pulled away with a dopey smile and spoke with a voice so sweet it was practically dripping honey. "Look at you all splayed out for me, I've never seen anything more beautiful, you take my breath away baby". And just like that, as if he didn't just bring tears to your eyes with his words he ducked down and sucked on your clit like there was no tomorrow.

kirishima:

Kirishima is already kissing the ground you walk on in everyday life so it's no surprise that he's showering you with praise in the bedroom as well. Really it'd be a surprise if someone were to date him and NOT develop a praise kink. He maneuvers his way around words like a champion, alternating between sickly sweet and downright nasty.

all characters aged up

Kirishima considered it a miracle that the two of you had a day off work that actually lined up. He didn't remember the last time that had happened. He was up and dripping with sweat from his morning run as you were still sound asleep. A quick shower later he stepped out of the fogged up room to hear you humming in the kitchen. He saw you making yourself a cup of coffee, leaning against the kitchen counter in nothing but panties and an oversized shirt. He took a good thirty seconds to just watch your ass gently bounce as you were bobbing your head to the song from the radio, almost salivating at the way your flesh spilled out of your panties. You heard a soft "Baby you're killing me" from the hallway. You just had to chuckle when you saw kirishima, palming his boner. The effect you had on him was truly undeniable. You curled your finger, beckoning him to come and kirishima was on you in an instant. His tongue was working miracles on your neck and every time he stopped to breathe, he leaned in close and whispered something sinfully sweet into your ear. As if your mind wasn't hazy enough as you heard him "Such a good girl for me, so perfect". Your knees were about to give out as kirishima scooped you up in his arms and carried you to your bed. You couldn't deny that he was your demise as well as your salvation.

buy me a coffee? <3

©️ seaborgium-dazies 2025

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brawberryz · 3 months ago

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you look so pathetic...i want you

Batboys × Loser nerd! Reader

Note: English is not my first language, sorry if there is any translation error / M.list

Jason Todd

Richard had convinced him to go on a blind date, at first he refused

But apparently Richard didn't understand the meaning of the word 'No' and he kept insisting on it all fucking week

He decided to accept just because he had nothing to do (plus he could get rid of that idiot brother)

He thought he would meet the usual girls, most likely he would just talk to her for a while and then leave

He was very surprised when he saw you entering the restaurant agitated 20 minutes late

God, you are the human representation of the fucking nerd emoji, you looked like you came out of an 80s movie

You are literally the representation of the word loser and nerd

"Hi..."

You said embarrassed as you sat at the table in front of him, you adjusted your glasses nervously

Your clothes and hair were a mess as if you had run a marathon to

"Hi"

He waved back, god he didn't think it was going to be this awkward

You and him didn't say anything for the next 20 minutes

"So... you like fnaf?"

"What?"

Jason was surprised by your question, it wasn't the best way to break the ice but it did the trick

At some point he felt like laughing, it was the first date and all you did was talk about a game.

"Although if you don't like it I can also talk about undertale or minecraft"

It was almost funny how you spent the whole date talking about indie games, comics and movies.

He just looked at you with a small smile nodding briefly, you were too focused talking about whatever you were talking about.

But he liked the sparkle and excitement in your eyes every time you talked about one of your weird tastes.

you were a complete loser

You were clearly he type

Richard Grayson

He had met you a few weeks ago, you were the kind librarian who helped him every day when he went to get a book

If he was honest he didn't read any of the books he brought from the library he only went there to see your cute face

After several failed flirtations and denied dates you decided to give him a chance

You couldn't say no to those little puppy eyes he gave you

The date had gone wonderfully and you timidly invited him to your apartment

And it was an offer that Richard couldn't refuse

The night was great, they watched some movies and spent too much time with you since when he saw the time it was too late

He told you it was time to leave but you insisted that he stay arguing that it was too late and your neighborhood was very dangerous

So just to please you he decided to stay, he was Nightwing some small time criminals weren't going to even scratch him but he still stayed with you

When you went to get blankets and pillows so he could sleep more comfortably in the guest room he decided to follow you

His surprise was great when he saw your room full of posters, manga and anime figures and other series and games

You are a big fan of many things

You saw his surprised face when he saw your room and you thought he was about to make fun of you, it was not going to be the first time someone made fun of you

You were a complete nerd and loser you were the easy target for someone to make fun of

"Sorry for the mess and everything else..."

You said embarrassed as you handed him some blankets and pillows

He just nodded with a small smile on his face

"It doesn't matter, the truth is if I'm honest I think it's pretty cool"

Those words caused a small blush on your cheeks, it was the first time someone said something good about you

He said good night to you before leaving for the guest room

That night you could barely sleep since you spent it thinking In Richard's words

he thought your tastes were cool?

Those simple words triggered something in you that you couldn't even explain

Tim Drake

Tim was a nerd, it was quite obvious and it bothered him to admit it

But his new teammate surpassed what the word nerd and loser was

The first time Bruce introduced you to him so that Tim could team up with you he could see how you became a nervous wreck

He could swear that under your gloves your hands were completely sweaty

You were a little strange, you hardly spoke but it's not like it bothered him, besides you were pretty good at fighting and solving cases

But every time he spoke to you it seemed like your brain went into automatic mode and you responded in a robotic way

But he simply didn't pay much attention to it because it wasn't even his problem

Although he wouldn't lie, sometimes you could be quite strange

He was writing another case that you were working on, this one was much more difficult than all the others and he felt that you and him would stay up all night

There was a long silence between you two, not It was awkward but you could tell you wanted to talk but your words wouldn't come out of your mouth

"Sooooo, do you like Star Wars?"

You said suddenly looking at him, he could feel your nervous gaze piercing the back of his neck

"I saw it once with my brothers"

Tim really wasn't very interested in the conversation, although he was a little surprised since it was the first time you started a conversation with him yourself

"Oh, and you liked it?"

"I kind of didn't understand much of the plot"

That was the sign you apparently needed

During the entire time you were with him in the batcave you spent time explaining the story and interesting facts about the movie

He just nodded at your words, it was the first time he saw you so focused talking about a topic, most of the time you were quiet

Although he didn't complain, your voice was quite comforting to listen to

You were quite cute when you talked about something you liked, he could see the way your voice changed to a more enthusiastic one every time you mentioned something you liked

You were a complete nerd and loser and he liked that about you

It's my first time writing romance but I think it came out pretty well, I think

Well, I just wanted to let you know that my requests are open in case anyone has any requests 🗣

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multific · 21 days ago

Text

The One He Writes To

Johnny MacTavish x Reader

Summary: You were only meant to write one letter. A gesture of support. But when Soap writes back, it begins a chain of letters.

You never thought anyone would read it.

The paper felt too clean. The words are too stiff.

But you wrote it anyway, one letter, addressed “To any soldier who needs it”

You wrote about the sky that day. The rain on your window. You thanked them for their service. You told them, whoever they were, that you hoped they were safe. And then you signed it.

Sincerely,

Someone who still believes in letters.

You never expected a reply.

Until one arrived a month later.

Dear ‘Someone,’

Didn’t expect a letter like that, not gonna lie. Most mail we get is dull as shite, but yours made me laugh. Real rain-on-the-glass kind of stuff. I liked it. Made things feel a bit more real. Anyway. My name’s John, but everyone calls me Soap. No, I won’t explain why. That’s classified.

Write back? It’s quiet as hell out here when the bullets stop flying.

Yours (sorta),

Soap.

That was how it began.

One letter turned into two. Then three. Then dozens.

You never even saw his face, he never sent a photo, but his handwriting became something sacred. The sharp angles.

The occasional smudge from a dusty glove.

The way he always signed off: “Yours.” Sometimes “Yours, always.”

He was funny. Witty. Crude in places.

But sometimes, something deeper slipped through. Memories of home. Things he’d lost.

The way he’d describe the sky over foreign mountains like it was poetry, even if he claimed he was shit at writing.

And over time, you started writing about yourself too.

The real things. The ache of being alone. Your fears. Your dreams. Your secrets. And he listened, even through ink and distance.

And then… the letters stopped.

A week went by. Then two. Then five.

You checked the mailbox obsessively, fingers trembling every time it was empty.

You told yourself he was fine. That maybe the base moved. That maybe mail was delayed.

But there was a part of you that wondered if he’d died.

If your last letter, the one where you wrote “I think I might be falling for you” in shaky script, had never made it.

It had been two months.

You were on your porch one late afternoon, arms wrapped around yourself, rereading his last letter.

The sky was gray. Your chest felt empty.

And then you heard it.

Boots on gravel.

And there he was.

Soaked in rain. Hair shorter than you'd imagined. A duffel on his shoulder. Drenched, exhausted, and very much alive.

You dropped the letter.

He didn’t say a word at first.

You barely breathed. “J-John?”

A flicker of relief crossed his face. He nodded, once. “It’s me.”

You ran to him before he could say more, arms flying around his shoulders as he dropped the bag and caught you. You were crying. He was shaking.

“I thought y-you…” you choked.

“I didn’t,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’m here. I’m okay.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

To really see him. His eyes were tired but they lit up when he saw you.

“I got shot,” he said quietly. “So, I couldn’t write. Thought about it every day, about you.”

You touched his face, breathless. “I d-didn’t even know w-what you looked like.”

He gave you a soft, crooked smile. “Disappointed?”

You laughed through tears. “N-no. Never.”

His hand found your waist, gentle. “You said in your last letter that you were falling for me.”

You nodded, afraid to speak.

“I fell too,” he whispered. “Months ago.”

He kissed you before you could reply.

It was slow. Real. The kind of kiss you only give someone who knows your soul before your face.

When he pulled back, you were smiling.

He brushed your cheek with a calloused thumb. “Write me again?”

You took his hand and pressed it to your heart.

“Stay,” you said softly. “And I’ll say the words in person from now on.”

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

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tender-rosiey · 1 year ago

Note

What would happen if gojo has 2 babies? And they both start crying at the same time and poor gojo has to find a solution in this situation 🥲 his younger baby that is only months old starts crying which makes the older sibling that's 2 years older wake up and starts crying 😭

little voice — gojo satoru x f!reader

you’re on a girls’ vacation. it’s okay. it’s cool.

but it isn’t.

throughout his entire life of fighting curses, emotional trauma, technique training, and unending migraines, he has never felt so much stress like he does right now.

his two kids are truly angels: full of kindness, compassion and—as expected of a child of gojo satoru—full of mischief.

they also share the same amount of love he has for you and, of course, even more. so separate two kids who adore their mother and you get chaos.

satoru just found out that the one who keeps the balance in the house is you, and thinking back about it, it should’ve been obvious because everyone in this house listens to you.

for example, one time when you were out on a simple visit to nanami to take some of the sweet bread he has, you had strictly told satoru to put the two kids to sleep at 8:30 exactly.

he thought it’s too early, but then you explained to him that s/n sleeping gave him time and freedom to look after your baby daughter who was, admittedly, a handful that would not sleep unless she was carried.

so satoru obediently listened, or at least he tried to.

a shameful failed trial at that.

in his defense, what was he supposed to do when s/n gave him puppy eyes asked for a mere 10 minutes more, say no? of course not!

so, like the great father he is, he gave him a couple more minutes, and nothing will make satoru regret his decision since to him his son’s smile is worth the world.

…except maybe the chandelier that is now on the floor and his precious baby daughter who just took one the biggest poops he has known of and his son who is panicking about how to clean this mess before you come home.

and come home you did and to all this mess.

swiftly, you picked up your daughter and changed her diaper, even making her giggle and squeal in between.

then you hugged your son and cleaned up the shattered glass together and disposed of the chandelier. lastly, you stood in front of your husband with a big frown after you’ve put the kids to sleep.

satoru could swear that he couldn’t fall more in love with you. hell, he could even twirl you around and kiss you breathless, but he feels like that would just lead him to the couch.

so he works to butter you up first before trying anything, “hey my sweet cute honeypie—“

you simply quirk an eyebrow.

and he falls to his knees, “I am sorry! I just couldn’t resist his puppy eyes! you should’ve seen them; he looked so cute!”

“I saw them a million times before he was even born, ‘toru.”

your husband gasps, “how!?”

“our son is an exact copy of you, sweetie.”

so yeah that was one of too many times, and if it isn’t apparent that you are the mediator then satoru wants to let the world know that even his students listen to you.

like that one time at school when the first years were caught up fighting with each other, the second years were trying to pull them apart, and satoru was too busy cackling at them while holding d/n that no one noticed panda’s little tail being—god knows why—on fire, not even panda himself.

that was until your precious son tugged at your husband’s shirt and pointed at panda, saying a simple sentence (phrase), “papa, panda fire.”

satoru’s eyes zero on panda then they widen, before he gapes, “oh shit, you’re right!”

“bad word!”

“sorry!”

however, despite satoru almost bolting to put out the fire, panda was finally able to smell it and hummed, “something’s being cooked.” then he looked at his tail, “oh it’s me.”

hit the panic button.

“I am being cooked!” he screams and starts running around, “panda meat doesn’t taste good; I promise!”

the rest start running after him with the intention to help, but panda could only translate it into one thing as he screamed, “don’t eat me!!”

“no one is gonna eat you, dumbass!!” maki yelled but to no avail as no one could get to the panicked panda.

your husband is running as well, half taking photos and videos and half ensuring that d/n does not fall from his hands—considering how she keeps giggling, squealing, and wriggling her entire body.

ijichi took matters into his own hands and called the only person he knows will be able to solve this.

“hello?”

“panda is on fire, the kids are running after him, and gojo is just recording!” he wails, eyes frantically following said people then straying to a particularly small person, “also s/n is trying to eat the grass.”

“what?!”

and like lightning, you’re on the field. you lightly scold s/n and tell him to cover his ears.

you turn to the walking fire hazard and scream, “everyone stop! and panda get over here!”

“yes ma’am!”

he stands still in front of you, almost ignoring his ‘fiery’ tail. you effectively put it out and ruffle his fur until he calms down. the others take turns in greeting you and getting their daily dose of motherly hugs.

your son sprints to you and holds onto your leg, refusing to let go.

and they all make way for the star of the show: the all-mighty gojo satoru.

he beams, “wifey, yet again you save the day!”

he easily picks up s/n and pulls the four of you into one big hug. he rubs his cheek against yours, “have I told you how much I love you?”

“I was gone for 3 minutes.”

“I haven’t?!” he gasps, completely ignoring you, “I am a terrible husband!”

he sobs and starts slowly melting to the ground where he believes a ‘disrespectful, good-for-nothing husband who doesn’t tell his wife just how much he loves her’.

anyway, back to the present. the kids have been miraculously put to sleep—a process that satoru does not have the time nor the energy to describe.

when he stops ‘reminiscing ‘, he starts paling at the fact that all of these were mere examples of things going wrong without you, and you were in the freaking area.

now, you’re not 10 steps away, and satoru is feeling very threatened.

he is sprawled out on the couch, eye bags ever so prominent. he sighs and lets his head fall back, grateful for the silence that fills the house, but he hates it at the same time.

satoru was never fond of silence—the type that feels so heavy on the heart—even when he was a teenager. it gives space and time to think about all the things he is desperate to avoid.

he did eventually come to love silence but only the silence that accompanies the times he spends with you, but that’s a story for another time though.

opening his eyes, he looks around and his gaze lands on your recent family photo. his smile is almost instantaneous.

if there’s anything he will rub in suguru’s face when they meet is that he managed to score himself such a lovely wife and an adoring family, a real family. he mentally writes a plus one on the score chart between him and suguru then relaxes.

he would like to scurry to the bed where your scent still lingers, but his fatigue has simply chained him to the couch—he is overreacting you’re only gone for three days.

so, he decides, it’s time to rest and hope for a dream where he gets to hold you and live with his longing until he can feel your lips against his skin again.

the great gojo satoru closes his eyes and welcomes his slumber.

that is until, his little sweetheart decides to breakout into a wail, effectively causing her dad’s eyes to snap open.

he jumps to his feet and sprints to her room, “d/n, what’s wrong, honey?”

he softly cradles her in his—gigantic—arms and starts rocking her slowly. “it’s okay; papa’s here,” he murmurs in hopes of calming down, but his daughter doesn’t register his voice yet.

she can, however, feel his all too familiar chest against her cheek, so she grips at it tightly and continues crying.

satoru’s expression is full of distress, and his heart contracts painfully at how his daughter’s cries. then it’s almost like the entire world is against him right now because he also starts to hear small little sniffles from the door of the room.

your husband looks back to find his son dragging his teddy bear with him in one hand and in another, trying to wipe his tears as much as possible.

your husband quickly shifts d/n into one arm and leads s/n into him with the other. your son nuzzles into his dad’s chest and murmurs, “I want mama.”

almost like she understands the mention of you, she calms down a tiny bit and her hands start reaching for the air—reaching for you.

satoru slides down to the ground and pulls them both into his chest, and he starts rubbing s/n’s shoulder and kisses the top of his head and sighs, “me too, s/n, but, hey, we are strong and capable, so we have to hold on until she comes home, right?”

a little sniffle escapes s/n as he nods before saying a soft, “yeah.”

satoru smiles and ruffles his hair, “that’s my champ.”

s/n lets out a little smile and snuggles into his dad’s embrace.

so satoru shifts his attention to the sniffling baby in his arm, he frowns, “now what are we going to do with you, little missy?”

your son purses his lips for a moment, before placing the teddy bear in his hands into his little sister’s tiny arms. curiosity takes over for a moment, and she starts exploring the new item.

then s/n presses on the teddy bear’s chest and it plays a little voice message from you:

“hey sweetie! mama loves you, so don’t worry about those nightmares! I am always here.”

your daughter’s eyes shine and she hugs the teddy as much as possible and utters a small, “ma!”

satoru blinks owlishly then looks at s/n with smile, “so you had that all along?”

s/n nods slowly and holds into his father tighter, obviously getting tired and getting ready to sleep. satoru would love to say the same about his other angel but—oh she fell asleep.

looks like all it took was a little listen to your voice.

he will probably make you record a thousand voice messages when you come back and make you get him his own special build-a-bear as well cause what the hell? what about your husband?

he shakes the thought away, realizing that he can finally fall asleep, albeit on the floor.

with no blanket.

no pillow.

not even his favorite cushion.

but he wasn’t raised to be ungrateful, so he will take what he can get. he will simply make up for lost sleep when you’re back. it will feel better that way in any case.

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ramp-it-up · 9 months ago

Text

Mood

Call Me Captain When I…| Captain. My Captain

Summary: You and Steve were “special” friends. Until something that happens on one of your training missions puts Steve into a mood.

Word count: 2.7K

Pairing: Early CATWS era Captain Steve Rogers x SHEILD Reader

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Not Beta’d. Read at your own risk. S MUT! Early CATWS Steve, talk of hurt, ambush, implied assualt. Angsty, moody Steve, Steve with the urge to kill for you, possessive Steve, Steve pining for reader, idiots in love, Dom Steve, fuck buddies to relationship, fluff, Captain and Sir kink, dirty talk, edging (but not quite), begging, body worship, nipple play, raw p in v, female receiving oral, emotional sex.

A/N: This can be seen as adjacent to the fic Call Me Captain When I..., but can be read as a stand alone. I was in a mood when I wrote it, so here we are.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

NOTICE: I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

------

After you checked yourself out of the hospital against doctor’s orders, Steve Rogers steamed as he waited for you to get out of the shower. He wanted to be in there with you, but decided to give you some space, and give him some time to cool down.

The fact that you were standing at the visitor’s entrance, in your hospital gown and combat boots as he drove up to sit with you, was the latest thing to get him riled up.

When he saw you, he parked in the fire lane and got out of his car, hands on his hips as he questioned you.

“What the hell are you doing out here?”

He eyed the bandage on your forehead and the one on your cheek, fingers trembling as he brushed his thumb over your bruised face.

The rage had not subsided for him over the past three days.

Even after he and Sam beat the medivac to the scene and transported you to the best ER in the area.

Even after he was assured that you were ok by the doctors at the hospital.

Even after you protested that he was overreacting when he set up a security detail at your door headed by Sam.

Even after he’d found who did this to you and… well, seeing you bruised countenance again reignited his emotions.

He wondered how you got around Sam who was posted up. But then, your cunning and skill was a big part of how he felt about you. So was your kindness, intelligence, and beauty.

But you didn’t know exactly how Steve felt about you. And perhaps he didn’t either. Until you were ambushed on a routine training mission with your troops.

You lifted your chin and squared your shoulders as Steve shook his head.

“I’m fine, Captain. I want to go home. I’ve been in the hospital for four days. And on the training mission for 10 days before that. I was due to be discharged in the morning anyway.”

You looked up at Steve. He couldn’t resist those eyes.

“I want to rot on my couch, sleep in my own bed.”

Steve grunted his assent, although the thin line of his lips indicated his displeasure with you.

“How’s your head feel?”

You met his eyes and focused, if only to prove how healthy you were.

“I’m fine, Steve. I just want to go home.”

Steve stared at you, wanting to just take you into his arms, but not doing it. Then, he stared around the parking lot, scanning the perimeter for anyone watching.

“Get in.”

He moved next to you and picked up the plastic bag that had your belongings in it, and put his hand on your back to guide you toward the sportscar.

“But my ride...”

Steve looked down at you as his jaw clenched, the blue fire in his eyes threatening to burn you.

“Get in before I take you over to that bench and spank the hell out of you, Lieutenant.”

You swallowed a gasp and grew warm at the threat.

“Yes Sir.”

You climbed into the passenger seat and sat back as Steve buckled you in, then waved at Sam, who’d come running out of the hospital just as Steve drove away.

You were along for the ride of this mood of your superior, friend, and fuck buddy Captain America, Steve Rogers.

—-

You stood before Steve, wrapped up in your soft, fluffy white robe that he had put into the dryer to warm up and left on the hook on the door of the shower. It was such a sweet gesture that contrasted his cold, harsh demeanor on the way to your place.

You felt as if you were about to be punished, but you didn’t care. You were exhausted. And just a little bit spooked. But that last part was lessened, because Steve was with you here in your quarters. You looked at him, wanting to ask him to stay, but you didn’t.

Steve stalked toward you, and you noticed that he was barefoot, which seemed to indicate that he wasn’t going anywhere soon. You smiled as you dragged your weary eyes up to his face. You decided to go for it.

“Are you staying?”

Steve grunted at you again.

“Just try and get me to leave you alone.”

His deep bass rumbled through you, and you whimpered, despite the fact that he wasn’t even touching you. Something seemed off as he moved toward you, pulling you closer by the tie on your robe.

“I’ve been riding on the edge of insanity ever since that day.”

Steve’s hand was in your hair, gently massaging the exposed scalp between your braids as his eyes took careful stock of your face.

You were shook.

“I’m okay, Steve.”

“I’ve got to see for myself.”

All he wanted to do was to take inventory of you, his rough fingers moving over every inch of your naked body to make sure that every bit of you was okay. He’d almost lost you and was experiencing an almost feral urge to consume you. You could feel the guilt radiating off him.

“Steve. No one could have known. Shit, I’m head of intelligence and I didn’t know.…”

Steve put his finger to his lips, and then yours. He gently stroked your cheek as he kissed you tenderly, carefully.

“Why do you always taste so good? Like you smell. Like sweet coconut…”

He leaned in to kiss you again, groaning as every gentle stroke of his tongue was met with a bolder one of yours. The passion increased until he pulled away and leaned his forehead against yours. You could tell that he was holding back.

What was wrong with him?

“I know that no one could have known that the mission was a trap. But I feel like I should have.”

His hands moved from your neck, to your torso, down your belly, to the juncture of your thighs. He was sitting on your bed as you stood before him, warmed by the shower, but goosebumps raised on your flesh and your nipples formed into tight peaks as he examined you.

“I’ve never felt the urge to kill as much as I did when I tracked them down. It only took a day and a half to find them, and then a day and a half to get close enough to… “

Steve stopped short of revealing what happened to the people who hurt you and just looked into your eyes. The fury you saw as he looked up at you was chilling, yet arousing. You wanted to ask what he did to them, but you couldn’t. You just looked at his hands to find evidence that you knew wouldn’t be there because of his super soldier healing.

“Steve?”

He didn’t respond to you, just continued to stare at your most intimate parts.

“Captain-”

He looked up at you then.

“What I said at the hospital earlier. I-I have a serious desire to give you a good and proper spanking for almost losing your life, although it wasn’t your fault.”

You started to laugh, but he was serious. The look in his eyes was unlike anything you’d ever seen before.

“I can’t give you up. I can’t.”

You shook your head.

“Steve, I’m fine-”

He pulled you to him by your thighs, his large hands grabbing you, gently but firmly, and bringing your crotch close to his mouth. He looked back up at you.

“I know we’ve never talked about this, but…You are my anchor.”

You ran your hands through his hair as his breath tickled your clit.

“I had the barest control while Sam and I were flying to get you, and only a small bit more when I learned you were okay. And now I have to verify that you are ‘fine,’ as you say. I need to see it with my own eyes, feel it with my own hands, taste it ….”

The unspoken part of that statement caused you to shudder as he went back to examining you, His hands moving down your legs, while listening for any sounds of discomfort from you as his skin slid along yours with a gentle but firm pressure, then standing up and depositing you on the bed as he examined you to the soles of your feet.

He placed one of your feet on his pelvis, next to what you’d discovered was his rock hard cock housed in his jeans, and one foot in his hand, beginning to massage it. Steve knew how a sensual foot massage made you wet. He grunted in response to your whimpers, but only turned you over as he examined the back of you.

Steve palmed the globes of your ass and pulled them apart, and you could feel his eyes at the crease of you for a full minute. Then, his palms slid upwards to your spine, smoothing over each vertebrae as he moved up to the back of your neck.

He was on the bed now, between your legs, and pulled your hips up to meet him as he gently circled your neck with his fingers, bringing you up slightly as his other hand rolled and pinched your stiff nipples.

“How do you feel?”

His gruff whisper, full of need and at the shell of your ear elicited a groan and caused you to roll your hips on his rock-hard erection.

“Steve.. I… Please!”

You incoherently pleaded for more as you moved against the stiff fabric of his jeans, making a mess there. Steve looked down and rolled his eyes, his hand rubbing your ass as his palm itched to smack it.

“Mmmmmm. You have no idea how much I want to give you this cock. But you need rest.”

You reached back and slapped your own ass, pulling on your asscheek to enable him to push deeper between your legs to feel how wet you were.

“We also need to talk…”

Steve shuddered at the sensation of you rutting against him, and with every gasp and moan from you his control was dwindling.

“I need it Sir. Please, Captain…”

“Fuck. Maybe just one orgasm. Then you can rest.”

You leaned down to give him that arch and he licked his lips. His cock was in full control of him now.

“Best idea ever, Captain.”

His hand moved to your core, and his fingers were instantly soaked with your arousal.

“Jesus. Looks so good.”

Steve’s dick throbbed and he gritted his teeth against the wave of lust, yet he stood up and took off his own clothes. He watched your empty pussy clench around air and he had to taste it. The minute his lips were wrapped around your clit from behind was the moment you started keening for him.

“God, yes….right… fucking…right there!”

Steve carefully inserted a finger into your cunt as he suckled your clit, trying to be gentle. You bit your lip as he pulled off and started to withdraw his finger slowly.

“So soft for me. But so tight.”

He watched your face as he added another digit, causing your eyes to squeeze shut and your mouth to hinge open as you worked your hips on his hand for some relief.

Your eyes popped open and you blinked rapidly, but he didn’t speed up to the insistence of your hips. When he curved his fingers and found that bundle of nerves inside, pressing gently, you broke apart as he stroked over and over again.

"I–God. I'm going…"

You bowed your body, and Steve watched in awe while your pussy clamped around his fingers.

“Oh yeah. This was what I needed to see. Give it to me.”

Steve rolled his thumb over your clit to extend your orgasm. You open and completely out of control, with no thought of hurt or danger, was the sight that he loved.

And he wanted to make you do it again and again.

“Jesus, you are beautiful. I want to...”

He was fisting his cock and watching your wet, creamy folds as he squeezed your ass for a better view.

“Want more. Please!”

“Hmmph,” He grunted. “Don’t want to hurt you.”

You leaned over again and presented yourself to him, giving him a view of your fingers working your clit and sliding inside yourself.

“Fuck me, Captain. Please…”

Steve actually whimpered. His cock was drawn to you magnetically.

“Are you sure…?”

“Need it.”

Steve cupped your ass harder and guided his cock to your slick, heated cunt and groaned.

“Oh shit. You fucking own me.”

Your eyes widened in shock, and then you looked over your shoulder, locking onto his gaze. You relaxed, causing Steve to sink deeper inside you. You both hissed and Steve’s eyes closed.

“I’m never leaving. Could stay inside you forever. Wanna see that beautiful face.”

Steve grabbed your leg and shifted you down and around, maneuvering you onto your back. His eyes raked up and down your form as his hands found your hips and drew you closer to him and his cock deep inside you again. He leaned down and captured your lips in a heated kiss as you arched your chest against his.

You dug your nails into his shoulders, his name a chanted mantra between kisses. With each slide and retreat of his stiff cock in your slick channel, both of your groans got louder. Steve’s gaze occasionally dipped to where you were joined, watching his cock slide in and out of you. You arched your back again, and he dipped his head to draw one of your nipples into his mouth.

"I. Yes. Harder. Oh God. Oh my God."

Against your nipple he muttered, "Let me hear you. So good.”

But he didn’t fuck you harder like you asked. Your response was to tug on his hair, and Steve chuckled around the flesh of your breast.

“I love the sounds you make.”

You moaned loudly, very wet now and very frustrated. The sound of the slick squelching of your act was such sinful music. Steve groaned, his jaw ticked tight from holding back.

“Please!”

But Steve just continued at the same languid pace.

“Later, when you’ve rested, I have plans for these babies,” Steve flattened his tongue and licked around both areolas.

“Gonna lick, bite, kiss, fuck them. Be rough.”

You shuddered as he leaned up and blew on them, causing your nipples to draw up into hard peaks again and your pussy to shudder around him. Steve leaned up and stared at your breasts as they bounced with each thrust and he shook his head as his pace faltered. You clenched around him again and he spoke, his voice broken.

“I know you’re close. Feel so good around me.”

Steve looked into your eyes as he snapped his hips, and your mouth went wide again as he worked his hand between you and found your sensitive clit.

Your eyes crossed as your slick walls clamped around his cock and milked him.

"That's it. Cum for me. I'm so addicted to the sight."

With three more pumps, Steve was coming apart, his control falling away. Another orgasm rolled through you and you tightened around him once more, causing a groan from Steve as you rode out the wave.

“Holy fuck.”

He kissed you again, licking into your mouth as he continued to thumb your clit. Good Lord, it was impossible to think at all when he did that. You were a whimpering mess as you begged him again.

“Please Captain. Give me your cum, Sir. Cum inside me.”

Steve buried his head in your shoulder as he sped up incrementally, his cursing muffled against your skin. You rolled your hips to meet him, making him groan again. You turned your head to bite, then whisper in his ear.

“I’m gonna cum on your thick cock again. Just fuck me. A little harder. Just three more pumps and I’m there. Pretty please, Sir.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist as Steve finally let go and gave you three hard, deep pumps, but as you predicted, he could not stop there.

Steve cursed and fucked you hard, stroking at the devil’s pace for at least a dozen more times, roaring as you stiffened and clamped down on his cock as you came.

“G-g-g-geeez! Fuck!”

Steve was a drooling, practically sobbing mess as the forcefull spray of his cum shot against your cervix, so much so that it leaked out almost immediately. Steve stopped and watched the sight, gasping, mouth open. Then, he looked back up at you.

“Everything about you, about us is so damn perfect. Especially this. We almost lost it. I love you, Libby.”

Your heart surged with emotion, finally understanding what had gotten into him.

“I love you too, Steve.”

You smiled and wiped the tears that were forming at the corner of Steve’s eyes as he softened inside you.

“Shhhhh. Steve. It’s okay. I’m okay. Let’s take this one day at a time. Right now, we both need to sleep. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

Steve nodded and sank down into your arms as you held onto your super soldier and rocked both of you to sleep.

——

Read Captain. My Captain.

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satellite-evans · 2 months ago

Text

everything

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x reader

Summary: Charles and you face unexpected challenges on your journey to starting a family.

Word count: 12k+ ( She is long I'm sorry)

Warnings: angst, fluff, infertility struggles, mentions of medical procedures, emotional vulnerability, making out, mention of sex

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

It was a slow morning — a rarity in Charles' world of fast cars, roaring engines, and constant travel. Mostdays, life was a whirlwind of race weekends, media commitments, and training schedules. But today was quiet. Today was yours.

These mornings were your favorites. The ones where the sun poured in through the sheer curtains and you could pretend — even if only for a little while — that the outside world didn’t exist.

You were curled up beside him in bed, legs tangled together under the cozy sheets, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was a sound that always calmed you, grounding you when the world felt too loud.

Charles’ fingers traced slow, lazy circles along your arm, his skin warm and soft against yours. His other hand was tucked behind his head as he stared at the ceiling, as though lost in thought. You could feel his chest rising and falling under your cheek, steady and calm, but something about the way his fingers moved — a little slower, a little more absent — told you his mind was elsewhere.

You smiled softly to yourself, enjoying the rare stillness. These were the moments where you got to see this version of Charles — not the one behind a helmet, not the one the cameras followed, but your husband. The man who would quietly hum love songs when he thought you were asleep, who would stop to tie your shoelaces when he noticed you were too lazy, who loved so deeply it sometimes scared you.

And then, out of nowhere, he broke the comfortable silence — his voice soft and a little hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he should say what was on his mind.

"Do you ever think about it?"

You lifted your head slightly, resting your chin against his chest to look up at him, brows furrowing in curiosity at his sudden seriousness.

"Think about what?" you asked gently, searching his face for answers.

His green eyes — usually so full of playful mischief — looked softer now, more vulnerable. There was a flicker of nervousness in them, but also something else. Something tender.

He hesitated, his hand pausing mid-circle on your arm, before continuing, almost shyly.

"Us… having a baby."

The question hung in the air between you, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him, trying to process what he was saying.

"A baby?" you echoed, your voice quieter now, almost as if you were afraid saying it out loud would make it too real.

Charles gave a small nod, a shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Yeah... I mean, not now, now. But… I think about it, sometimes. You and me... with a little one running around."

You blinked, your heart doing a strange flip in your chest. "You do?"

He laughed softly, reaching up to push a stray piece of hair behind your ear. "Of course I do. I think you'd be the most amazing maman."

Warmth filled your chest at his words, and for a moment, you let yourself imagine it — a small hand in yours, a laugh that was half his, half yours.

"I..." You paused, suddenly feeling a bit overwhelmed by the weight of the conversation but also filled with a strange kind of excitement. "I think about it too, sometimes."

Charles' face lit up, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You do?"

You nodded, smiling now. "Yeah. I mean, maybe we’d be terrible at it—"

"—No way," he interrupted with a grin, leaning in to nuzzle his nose against yours. "We’d figure it out. Together."

You giggled, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer. "You’d spoil them rotten, and I’d have to be the strict one."

Charles laughed, the sound warm and soft against your skin. "Obviously. You’d be the scary one, and I’d be the one sneaking them candy when you’re not looking."

You laughed harder at that, imagining the scene — Charles sneaking sweets to a giggling toddler behind your back.

"But seriously," he murmured, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes, "If... if you want, we could start trying. Not now, if you’re not ready. But maybe soon?"

You swallowed, a mixture of emotions swirling inside you — excitement, nervousness, love.

"Yeah," you whispered, brushing your fingers through his messy hair. "Yeah, I’d like that."

Charles’ smile grew, and he leaned down to kiss you, slow and soft and full of promise.

"Okay," he whispered against your lips. "Whenever you’re ready, amour."

"Whenever we’re ready," you corrected gently, and he nodded.

From that day on, the dream became real. You started to imagine a future that wasn’t just the two of you. You caught Charles watching kids when you were out together — at the grocery store, at restaurants, during walks by the harbor. His gaze would soften when he saw a dad carrying a toddler on his shoulders or a mom holding a baby close to her chest.

Once, as you both sat at a café by the water, watching a little girl squeal in delight as her mom chased her, Charles reached over to take your hand.

"I can’t wait to see you with our child one day," he said quietly, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

You smiled, leaning into his side. "I can’t wait to see you."

"I think about them a lot," Charles admitted. "What they’d look like. If they’d have your smile."

"Or your eyes," you added, glancing up at him.

He chuckled. "Maybe they’ll be a little troublemaker like me."

"Great," you teased. "One Charles is already enough trouble."

He laughed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer.

"Maybe two would be perfect."

Your heart swelled with so much love for this man — this man who had seen every part of you and wanted to build a life, a family, together.

For the first time, you let yourself fully believe in that dream.

It started beautifully.

The day you and Charles decided to start trying for a baby felt like a secret only you two shared — a quiet, precious hope.

It was exciting.

You remembered the way Charles would smile at you when you caught his eye across the room, that look that said, "Maybe this is it. Maybe soon."

You both laughed about how it could happen at any moment.

"Imagine if you’re pregnant by the next Grand Prix," he joked one night as you laid in bed, tangled in the sheets, breathless and glowing from the closeness you shared.

You laughed, resting your head on his chest. "Or maybe before the summer break."

He ran his fingers through your hair, soft and slow. "Yeah... I can see it now. You, me, a little one watching the races together."

But month after month passed, and with each one, a tiny seed of doubt took root.

At first, you tried to shake it off.

"Maybe my body’s just figuring itself out," you said, trying to sound casual, as you sat at the kitchen counter, flipping through a cookbook you weren’t really reading.

Charles leaned on the other side, watching you with soft eyes. "There’s no rush, amour. It’ll happen when it’s meant to."

You wanted to believe that.

But when month four came and went, and you found yourself holding yet another negative pregnancy test, that calm confidence began to fade.

You stared at the single line, willing it to change, to turn into the double lines you had imagined in your dreams. But it didn’t.

You sat on the edge of the bathtub, wrapping your arms around yourself, tears welling up in your eyes.

Charles found you there, quietly slipping into the bathroom when he realized you were gone too long.

His heart broke the second he saw you sitting there, looking so small and defeated.

"Hey... hey, baby," he said softly, kneeling in front of you, gently brushing a tear from your cheek. "It’s okay."

You tried to smile, but your lips trembled. "I thought this might be it..."

"I know," he whispered, pulling you into his arms. "I know."

You buried your face into his shoulder, breathing in his scent — always so comforting, so safe. "What if something’s wrong with me, Charles?"

He pulled back to cup your face in his hands, forcing you to meet his eyes. "Nothing is wrong with you. Do you hear me? Nothing."

You nodded, but deep down, the fear stayed.

As time passed, those quiet moments of disappointment became harder to hide.

You found yourself tracking every tiny symptom — every cramp, every day you felt tired, every moment you felt nauseous. Every month, you’d let yourself hope, only to be crushed all over again.

Charles tried so hard to keep your spirits up.

He would cook for you when he noticed you were too lost in your head to eat.

He would pull you out onto the balcony when you needed air, wrapping his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

"Look how beautiful Monaco is," he would whisper, kissing your temple. "We’re going to be okay, bébé. No matter what."

You wanted to believe him.

But six months in, when another negative test stared back at you, something shifted between you and Charles — not distance, but weight. A heavy sadness neither of you wanted to speak out loud.

The night you got that result, you sat quietly on the couch, staring out the window at the city lights. Charles sat beside you, his hand resting on your knee.

He finally broke the silence.

"Maybe... maybe we should talk to someone?" he offered carefully.

You turned to him, searching his face. "A doctor?"

He nodded. "Just to make sure everything’s okay. For both of us."

You bit your lip, considering it. The idea made your chest tighten — what if they told you what you were beginning to fear?

But then Charles reached for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours.

"We’re in this together, right?" he whispered. "Whatever happens?"

You swallowed the lump in your throat, squeezing his hand back.

"Together," you echoed softly.

And with that, you agreed to take the next step.

The waiting room was colder than you expected.

You sat there next to Charles, his hand wrapped tightly around yours, like he could protect you from whatever was coming.

It had taken you both weeks to gather the courage to sit in this office. Weeks of telling each other it was probably nothing — that some people just took longer. But deep down, the growing silence every month, the weight of each negative test had become too loud to ignore.

Charles’s thumb rubbed soft circles on the back of your hand as he stared ahead, jaw tight. You could tell he was trying to be strong for you, but his eyes gave him away.

When the doctor finally called you in, your heart felt like it was trying to beat its way out of your chest.

Charles stayed close, always a step behind, like he was trying to shoulder some of the anxiety pressing down on you.

You sat side by side in the small office, fingers still laced, waiting for answers neither of you were ready to hear.

The doctor looked kind — a woman, gentle eyes, soft voice. But as soon as she began speaking, you could sense where the conversation was headed.

"Based on the tests we’ve run, it appears that conceiving naturally may be difficult," she said carefully, watching your reaction.

The words hit you like a punch to the stomach. You blinked, feeling your throat tighten, suddenly unable to breathe properly.

"Difficult?" you echoed, your voice barely a whisper.

The doctor hesitated. "You have a condition that impacts your fertility. It doesn’t mean impossible, but it does mean that it may take longer, and you may need medical assistance to conceive."

You felt Charles shift beside you, his hand squeezing yours tighter, but you couldn’t look at him. You couldn’t look at anyone. You stared at the floor, trying to process the words.

"I… I don’t understand," you said finally, your voice breaking. "Why? Why me?"

The doctor gave you a sympathetic smile. "There are many reasons these things happen. It’s not your fault. But if you want to try fertility treatments, there are options."

You didn’t hear much of what she said after that. The room seemed to close in on you, the air too thick, the walls too white, too sharp.

When you finally left the office, you couldn’t speak. Charles led you out gently, his hand at the small of your back, guiding you like you were fragile glass.

The moment the car doors closed around you, the tears came.

Sobs tore out of your chest, shaking your whole body.

Charles pulled you into his arms without a word, holding you so tightly it felt like he was trying to hold you together, as if you might break into pieces if he let go.

"Shh, baby, I’ve got you," he whispered, kissing the top of your head, his voice thick with emotion. "I’m right here."

"I’m broken, Charles," you cried into his chest. "I’m broken."

"Hey, no, no," he said quickly, pulling back to hold your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him. His eyes were filled with unshed tears. "You are not broken. Don’t you ever say that. You’re perfect to me. You always have been."

"But I can’t… I can’t give you what you want."

He shook his head firmly. "What I want is you. Always you. I don’t care how we get there, I don’t care what we have to do. I just want you by my side."

Still, the ache didn’t leave you.

The days that followed were a blur. You went to more appointments. You listened to doctors talk about options — hormone treatments, IVF, injections that terrified you.

And you did it all.

Because you wanted this — wanted it so badly it hurt.

You followed every diet they suggested, cut out caffeine and sugar even though it made you miserable. You started exercising because they told you it might help. You faced needles even though they made your hands shake and your stomach twist with fear.

Charles was with you for every single one.

He held your hand as you cried after your first hormone shot. He wiped away your tears and told you how proud he was of you.

"You’re the bravest woman I know," he whispered into your hair as you sat on the couch, curled up against him, exhausted from the meds wreaking havoc on your body.

But even as he praised you, he could see what it was doing to you.

You weren’t the same woman who used to laugh easily at his teasing, who danced with him in the kitchen late at night.

You were quieter now, distant.

Some days, he would catch you staring out the window, eyes glassy, like you were somewhere far away.

When he asked you what you were thinking, you’d force a smile and say, "Nothing."

But he knew better.

It was eating you alive — the pressure, the hope, the constant cycle of waiting and disappointment.

And though Charles tried to be strong for you, it was killing him to watch the woman he loved slipping away, piece by piece.

One night, as you stood in the bathroom, staring at yet another negative pregnancy test, something inside you broke.

You dropped to your knees on the cold floor, sobs wracking your body, your hands shaking uncontrollably.

Charles burst into the room moments later, his face pale when he saw you on the floor.

"Bébé," he breathed, dropping to his knees beside you. "No, no, come here."

You shook your head, tears streaming down your cheeks. "It’s never going to happen, Charles. I’m never going to be enough."

His heart shattered right there, seeing you like this.

He pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly, rocking you gently as you cried.

"Stop," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Stop saying that. You are everything to me. You hear me? Everything."

"But the baby—"

"I don’t care about the baby if it means losing you," he said firmly, pulling back to look into your eyes, his own brimming with tears. "I need you. You are my wife. I would rather have just you than any child if it means you’re safe, if it means I don’t lose the woman I love."

You stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in, breaking through the fog of pain.

"Charles..."

"No more, bébé. No more hurting yourself like this." His hands cupped your face so gently, like he was afraid you would crumble. "We’ll stop. We’ll stop trying. Please, I need you to be okay. I need you."

For the first time in months, you let yourself collapse fully into him, holding on as though he was the only thing keeping you upright.

And in that moment, you both knew: it was time to let go — to stop chasing something that was breaking you.

Even if it broke both of your hearts.

But maybe, just maybe, it was what you needed to find each other again.

It wasn’t easy to stop trying.

Even after you and Charles had that tearful conversation, even after he begged you to stop hurting yourself, it took time to really let go.

You still woke up some mornings and instinctively counted the days of your cycle, a part of you still wired to hope, still waiting for a sign.

But Charles… Charles made sure you didn’t have to carry it alone.

For months, the intimacy between you had been burdened with unspoken pressure — every touch, every kiss shadowed by what it was supposed to lead to. Love had turned into a goal, and neither of you could breathe under the weight of it.

But now, as the two of you tried to find your way back to each other, Charles was determined to remind you that love — real love — wasn’t about charts and dates.

It was about you.

And he took his time showing you that.

It started with little things — soft smiles over morning coffee, his hand on the small of your back when you walked past him in the kitchen, a kiss to your temple for no reason at all.

It was in the way he’d show up at home after his training days, arms full of your favorite flowers, just because.

"These made me think of you," he’d say casually, though the way he looked at you said it was so much more than that — like you were his whole world.

But it wasn’t long before those little things built into something more.

It was in the way he would wake you on slow mornings, when the light was barely creeping through the windows, his fingers trailing over your bare shoulder, brushing your hair back to kiss the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

"Good morning, mon amour," he would murmur against your skin, his voice low and husky, warm breath sending a shiver straight down your spine.

The way his lips lingered, brushing a little too close to where your pulse raced, was not lost on you. Neither was the way his hand would slide from your shoulder down, tracing a slow, deliberate line over your waist, fingers splaying possessively at your hip like he was grounding himself — and you.

"Charles…" you whispered, but it wasn’t a protest.

He chuckled softly, hearing the way his name fell from your lips, and pressed a kiss to your jaw, then lower, teasing along your throat. "I miss this… I miss you," he confessed quietly, his voice thick with something darker, heavier — desire, yes, but also love.

"You’re my wife," he said against your skin, lips grazing the hollow of your throat, hands sliding around to your back to pull you closer. "Not just the woman I wanted to have a baby with. You."

His words sank deep, and when his hand slid under the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing the soft skin of your stomach, you didn’t tense — for the first time in a long time, you melted into him.

He noticed, of course he did, and his lips curved against your collarbone in a smile that was all satisfaction and relief.

"There she is," he whispered, his voice a little rough now, kissing just below your ear, one hand moving to cradle your cheek as he brought your face up to meet his. "Mon cœur… I’ve missed seeing you like this."

When he kissed you — properly kissed you — it wasn’t rushed. His mouth moved against yours like he had all the time in the world, like he wanted to taste every inch of you again, to remind you of what it felt like to be wanted, adored.

And God, you felt it.

His hands, roaming and firm, pulled you into his body without effort, making you gasp as your bodies pressed together, his fingers sliding under your thigh to lift it over his.

"Charles—" you breathed, breaking the kiss only to draw in a shaky breath, but he only smirked, eyes dark and glinting with something that made heat curl low in your stomach.

"Let me take care of you," he whispered, voice thick and rough, as his hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks. "No pressure. No expectations. Just you and me, like it’s supposed to be."

His words were a balm, but the way his mouth found yours again — hungry now, like he couldn’t get enough — set every nerve in your body on fire.

"Let me make you feel good again," he murmured against your lips, before trailing kisses down your neck, his hands firm on your hips, moving you against him in a way that left no doubt about what he wanted — who he wanted.

You felt a spark of something you hadn’t let yourself feel in so long — desire, raw and overwhelming, crashing over you with every brush of his hands, every heated kiss.

And for the first time, you allowed yourself to lean into it, to let him remind you what it was like to want and be wanted, to be loved — for no other reason than because you were his, and he was yours.

Later, as you lay tangled together, his fingers trailing lazy patterns on your skin, he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder and whispered, "I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care if it never happens. I just want you, always."

And in his arms, you believed it.

Because for once, it wasn’t about what your bodies could give.

It was about what your hearts already shared — a love that was fierce, unbreakable, and yours.

You hadn’t laughed in so long, but he was determined to change that.

One night, as you sat on the couch, still wrapped in that quiet sadness, Charles appeared with a bag of groceries and a mischievous grin.

"What's all that?" you asked, watching as he unloaded ingredients.

He shot you a look over his shoulder, eyes sparkling. "We are making pizza, chef style. And no, you don’t get to say no."

You blinked at him. "Charles, I—"

He cut you off, gently, but firmly. "I don’t want to hear it. Just us. You and me."

Something about the way he said it made you tear up, but you nodded, and when he handed you a chunk of dough and demanded you try to toss it like a real chef — which ended up splattering on the floor — you found yourself laughing so hard, you cried.

It felt good to cry for something other than heartbreak.

"See?" he grinned, wiping sauce off your cheek with a thumb. "There’s my girl."

You were still fragile — and Charles knew it.

He was patient when you had bad days.

When he’d find you in bed long after the sun had risen, curled into yourself, he wouldn’t push. He’d just crawl in behind you, wrapping himself around you like a shield.

"We don’t have to do anything today," he’d whisper, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder. "Let’s just stay right here."

And sometimes you would.

Just you and Charles, holding each other like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Other days, when you felt a little stronger, he’d take you out — walks along the water, late dinners in tucked-away restaurants where no one bothered you, quiet drives with music low in the background as he held your hand across the center console.

It was during one of those drives that you finally broke the silence that had been lingering between you.

"Do you really mean it?" you asked softly, staring out the window at the sea of lights.

Charles glanced at you, confused. "Mean what, bébé?"

"That you’re okay if… if we never have a baby?"

He pulled over, putting the car in park before turning fully to face you.

"I didn’t say that to make you feel better," he said quietly. "I said it because it’s true."

You looked down at your hands, twisting your fingers together. "But… you want to be a dad."

He reached over, gently uncurling your fingers so he could hold your hand.

"I want you more." His voice was steady, but his eyes were filled with love and a hint of sadness. "If I had to choose between having a child and having you whole and happy… I would choose you. Every time."

Tears filled your eyes again — but not from sadness. From love. From the overwhelming realization that even if everything else was broken, Charles never would be.

"I don’t want to lose you," he whispered, brushing his thumb over the back of your hand. "I don’t care how much I want to be a father — I can’t watch you destroy yourself for it. I’d rather have a lifetime with just you than risk not having you at all."

You finally let out a sob you’d been holding in for months, leaning over to bury your face in his chest.

Charles held you tight, kissing your hair, rubbing soothing circles on your back.

"We’ll figure out what our life looks like, okay?" he whispered. "Even if it’s not what we thought. As long as I have you, I’m happy."

And slowly, you began to believe him.

It wasn’t perfect. There were still days you mourned the dream that seemed to slip further and further away.

But there were also days when you and Charles laughed until your stomachs hurt, danced in the kitchen to music only you could hear, and rediscovered the love that brought you together in the first place.

The love that didn’t depend on anything but the two of you.

It was healing.

Little by little, you came back to life.

The heat in Monaco that day was brutal.

You sat in the paddock, Charles’s number 16 cap shading your face, a bottle of cold water resting against the back of your neck. The atmosphere was exciting, at least for you. You didn't realize how much you missed it until you heard the fans screaming and the paddock filling with people you haven't seen in so long.

You really had missed this. The thrill, the pride of watching Charles do what he loved.

For the first time in a long time, you felt light.

No doctors. No needles. No calculations.

Just you, watching your husband race, your heart swelling every time you saw his car flash past.

It had been months since you had stopped trying.

Months since you’d let go of the suffocating pressure that had nearly broken you.

And while a small ache remained—a whisper of a dream you had buried—life had slowly started to feel normal again.

But still… something felt off.

At first, it was subtle. A slight dizziness when you stood too quickly. A strange wave of nausea when the smell of burnt rubber wafted through the air.

You chalked it up to the heat.

But as the race continued, the dizziness turned into something stronger. Your vision blurred slightly as you tried to focus on the screens, and your hands felt clammy despite the sweat already sticking to your skin.

You shook your head, forcing yourself to take deep breaths.

Just a little longer. The race was almost over.

But then, the world tilted.

The last thing you heard before everything went black was someone shouting your name.

When you woke, you were in a medical room — the soft beeping of machines somewhere nearby, the sterile smell of antiseptic in the air.

Charles was sitting right next to you, holding your hand like a lifeline, his eyes red and puffy, like he hadn’t stopped crying since you collapsed.

"Bébé?" he whispered the second he saw your eyes flutter open. "Oh mon dieu… You’re awake."

His voice broke, and you blinked, trying to focus.

"Charles?" you croaked, your throat dry.

"I’m here, baby. I’m right here." He pressed a kiss to your knuckles, then leaned his forehead against your hand, breathing you in like he couldn’t believe you were okay.

"What… what happened?" you whispered.

"You fainted." His voice was tight with emotion. "Scared the hell out of me."

You tried to sit up, but he gently urged you back down.

"Take it slow, amour. Doctor said to rest."

As if summoned, a doctor appeared, offering a kind smile.

"Feeling better?"

You nodded weakly.

"Good. We’ve run some tests to make sure you’re alright. You’re a little dehydrated, and the heat didn’t help. But…" the doctor paused, glancing between you and Charles.

"There’s something else we found."

Your heart stuttered.

The doctor smiled gently. "You’re pregnant."

The words didn’t make sense at first.

Pregnant?

Your eyes darted to Charles, wide and disbelieving. His grip on your hand tightened.

"I… I’m what?" you whispered, sure you had heard wrong.

"You’re pregnant," the doctor confirmed with a soft nod. "About eight weeks along, from what we can tell. Which explains the fainting — your body is working overtime right now."

Silence fell over the room.

Charles was frozen, his eyes locked on you, as if he was afraid to breathe, afraid it was a dream.

And then suddenly — a tear slipped down your cheek.

"You’re pregnant, bébé," Charles whispered, voice cracking. "You… we…"

His face crumpled as he leaned in, pulling you gently into his arms, careful not to squeeze too tightly.

"I can’t believe it," you sobbed into his neck, shaking. "Charles, I thought—"

"I know," he whispered, voice thick. "I know, baby. I didn’t think it would happen either."

You could feel him shaking too, arms wrapped around you, both of you crying now — but for the first time in so long, they were tears of joy.

"I was so scared," you admitted, pulling back just enough to look at him, your hand resting on your stomach like you couldn’t believe it was real. "I thought I’d never—"

Charles cupped your face, pressing his forehead to yours.

"You are everything I will ever need," he said fiercely. "But this—this is a miracle, bébé."

You nodded, breathless. "A miracle."

He let out a small laugh, one that was half a sob. "Our miracle."

The doctors gave you time to rest, but Charles didn’t leave your side for a second.

At one point, he sat in the chair beside the bed, just watching you, his hand resting protectively over yours.

When you woke again, he was still there, looking at you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

"How are you feeling?" he asked softly.

You gave a small smile. "Better. Still in shock, I think."

Charles leaned in and kissed your forehead, lingering there for a moment.

"I love you," he whispered against your skin. "More than anything. More than everything."

"I love you too, Charles."

He pulled back, brushing his fingers gently through your hair. "We’re going to be okay, bébé. You, me, and this baby. I promise."

And for the first time in a long time, you believed him.

You were going to be okay.

You were going to be a family.

You would think that after everything — after the months of heartbreak, of devastating phone calls and negative tests, of doctors' appointments that ended in tears — finding out you were finally pregnant would bring nothing but unfiltered joy.

And in many ways, it did.

Charles had held you for what felt like hours, both of you crying, laughing, kissing, unable to believe it was real.

But beneath all that happiness, beneath the tears and whispered "finally" against his chest, there was something else. Something sharp and quiet and relentless.

Fear.

Because now that you finally had the one thing you wanted more than anything in the world, you were terrified of losing it.

Every little cramp made your heart stop. Every time you didn’t feel nauseous for a few hours, a new wave of panic crept in. Every moment of silence from your body felt like a warning, like a reminder that good things didn’t come easy for you.

Charles knew. Of course he knew.

He saw it in the way you always rested a protective hand on your belly, like shielding your baby from a world that had already given you so much pain. He saw it in the way your smiles didn’t quite reach your eyes when people congratulated you, how you nodded along but kept your arms folded protectively over yourself, as if holding everything together.

And he especially saw it at night, when you thought he was asleep, and you would roll over quietly to press a hand to your belly, tears slipping silently down your cheeks as you whispered promises to the tiny life growing inside you.

"I love you already… please stay with me."

Charles never said anything then — he didn’t want to make you feel like you had to be strong for him too — but he would shift closer, wrap an arm around you, and hold you as tightly as he could.

It broke him to see you like that.

So, he made it his purpose to be your anchor, to remind you every second of every day that you were not alone in this, that it would be different, that you were not going to lose the baby.

Whenever he found you lost in thought, staring blankly at nothing, he would pull you into his arms. "Talk to me, bébé, please. don't shut me out again. I’m here. Always."

And every night, without fail, no matter how exhausted he was — whether he had just gotten home from training, meetings, or even long days at the factory — Charles would kneel in front of you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like this was his way of staying grounded, too.

He would settle on his knees in front of you, his hands gently resting on either side of your bump, thumbs caressing your belly like he was memorizing every curve, every change. His eyes would soften, all the tension melting away from his face the second he touched you.

Then he would lean in, pressing a gentle kiss to your stomach — sometimes whispering a soft, "Hi, bébé," like he was waiting to hear a reply.

"Hey, little one… It’s papa." His voice always dropped to that quiet, reverent tone that made your heart clench. "I hope you’re comfortable in there because we love you so much already."

Sometimes his words would crack just a little, betraying that deep vulnerability he didn’t always let you see. The fear that still lived in both of you, even if neither of you wanted to give it life.

"You keep growing strong for maman, okay?" he would murmur, resting his cheek against your bump, closing his eyes like he could feel them from the outside. "I know… I know she’s scared. I’m scared too, but we’re fighting, you know? For you. Because you are so, so loved. And we want you so badly, mon ange."

His hand would slide over your skin, fingers spreading wide, protective and tender all at once.

"Don’t worry — maman and I, we’ve got you. Always."

And sometimes, when he thought you had already fallen asleep, he would keep talking. You would watch him through heavy eyes, heart breaking and swelling all at once, as he poured all his love and hope into those quiet moments.

"I can’t wait to meet you. I can’t wait to show you everything — to take you to your first race, to sit on the beach with you like mama and I used to do, to show you the stars. Did you know your mama loves the stars? She used to tell me about them when I was sad… she’s amazing. You’re going to love her. And I’m going to be here, always. Watching over you both."

Then he would look up at you, catching your gaze if you were awake, and smile softly. The kind of smile that held all the love in the world, even when his eyes were glassy with emotion.

"See? We’re already a team, the three of us."

And as much as you had felt alone in your mind sometimes — battling fears you were too scared to voice — in those moments, when Charles spoke to the baby like they were already here, like he was already the father he had dreamed of being, you felt a flicker of hope again.

Because no matter what happened, you knew one thing for certain: You and the baby were so loved.

And Charles? He was ready to move mountains for both of you.

The day of your first ultrasound was one you both had dreamed of, but when the morning finally came, you woke up shaking.

You could hardly get dressed, your fingers fumbling over the buttons of your blouse as Charles gently took over, helping you without a word, pressing soft kisses to your temple.

The drive to the clinic felt like the longest one of your life. Charles reached over and laced his fingers with yours, squeezing so tight it almost hurt, but neither of you let go.

When you finally arrived and sat in the waiting room, Charles kept holding your hand, his thumb tracing slow circles over your skin.

"Whatever happens, I’m here," he said softly, leaning close so only you could hear. "You don’t have to be strong for me, okay? Be strong for yourself, I'm here. I'll be strong for the both of you."

You just nodded, throat too tight to speak.

When they finally called your name, you felt like you could hardly move. Your legs were weak, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break your ribs.

Charles was by your side instantly, wrapping an arm around you and guiding you gently to the room.

The technician was kind, explaining everything as she set up, but you could barely hear her over the pounding in your ears.

And then —

There it was.

A tiny little bean on the screen. So small. So fragile. And then — a flicker.

The heartbeat.

Steady and strong.

Your breath caught in your throat, a sob breaking free before you could stop it.

"That’s…" you whispered, voice trembling.

"Your baby," the technician said warmly, turning the screen so you could both see better. "Right there."

You turned your head to look at Charles, and what you saw undid you completely.

Tears streamed down his face, his eyes wide in awe, his lips trembling as he stared at the screen like it was the most miraculous thing he had ever seen.

"That’s… our baby," he choked out, voice rough with emotion, as though he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

You reached for his hand, gripping it tightly, tears pouring down your cheeks now too.

"Our baby," you whispered back, finally letting yourself smile through the tears.

It was real.

For the first time, it wasn’t a dream or a distant hope — it was happening.

Your baby was here, alive, heartbeat flickering steadily on the screen.

You let out a shaky laugh, covering your mouth with your hand, overwhelmed with the kind of joy that left you breathless.

Charles leaned over, pressing a kiss to your forehead, one hand still gripping yours, the other reaching to gently, reverently touch the image on the screen.

"I love you," he whispered to you and to the baby. "So much. I can’t believe… I just… I love you."

And in that room, in that moment — surrounded by the sound of your baby’s heartbeat — something inside you shifted.

For the first time, you let yourself believe it.

You were really going to be a mom.

And with Charles beside you, holding your hand and your heart, you knew — no matter what, you would face it all together.

From the moment the doctor told that you were pregnant, Charles became a man on a mission.

It wasn’t just that he wanted to be involved — no, he needed to be involved. He had never been more determined in his life. He read every pregnancy book he could find, his eyes scanning the pages late into the night, even when his eyelids were heavy and the words started blurring. He listened to every pregnancy podcast, taking notes on topics ranging from fetal development to baby names (because, despite the fact that you two hadn’t even picked a name yet, Charles was already convinced that he had the perfect one).

He even downloaded multiple pregnancy apps, religiously checking the weekly updates so he could compare the size of your baby to fruit, vegetables, and other random objects. When the app told him the baby was the size of a blueberry, a walnut, a papaya — whatever it was that week — Charles couldn’t wait to update you. It became a little game, one that was just between the two of you.

Every morning, the moment he opened his eyes, Charles would turn toward you with a grin, as if greeting you and your baby had become the most natural thing in the world.

"Bonjour, mon amour… and bonjour, little one," he’d whisper, his lips pressing against your belly.

You’d laugh softly, brushing a hand through his messy morning hair. "Charles, they’re the size of a lime right now. You’re getting ahead of yourself."

"I don’t care," he would reply with a grin so wide it made your heart skip. "I’m still saying hello."

You’d smile, shaking your head, but in your heart, you were overwhelmed by how much he cared. He wasn’t just excited about the pregnancy — he was fully in it with you. From the very first moment, he was present in a way that made you feel cherished and loved, and even now, as the weeks passed, that feeling only deepened.

And when the hormonal rollercoaster kicked in, making you nauseous, moody, or crying over something trivial (like how cute a puppy in a commercial was), Charles was always there. He was like a rock — steady, patient, and never, not once, complaining.

"I’ll go get whatever you want, baby. Strawberries at midnight? I’m on it. Ice cream and pickles? Weird, but okay."

And when you’d cry over something small, like dropping a spoon or a Grey's Anatomy episode, Charles wouldn’t laugh or try to cheer you up with silly jokes. Instead, he would pull you into his arms, offering silent comfort. He would rub your back, his warmth surrounding you like a shield, and let you cry until you were all out of tears.

"You’re doing so good, mon cœur," he would whisper, his voice low and steady. "So, so good."

It was these moments, these quiet reassurances, that made you feel like you could handle everything. With him by your side, you knew you weren’t alone in this — in any of it.

And then, it came.

The baby bump.

You had been waiting — praying — for it. For any sign that the tiny life inside you was in fact real and growing how it was supposed to. The days had stretched on endlessly, filled with anxious glances in the mirror, gentle touches to your belly hoping to see something, and constant reassurances from Charles that "it will happen, amour, give it time."

But time was all you had — and with every week that passed without a visible sign, the fear clawed deeper into your chest.

Doctors kept telling you it was normal. "Sometimes it takes longer for first pregnancies, especially with everything your body has been through. With some pregnancies, there isn't even a proper baby bump. This is completely normal." But when you’re holding your breath every day, waiting for proof that your baby is safe and growing, “normal” doesn’t always bring comfort.

But then, one quiet morning — when the sun was barely peeking through the windows and the Monaco streets were still asleep — it was there.

You had gotten out of bed quietly, not wanting to wake Charles, and shuffled to the bathroom, rubbing your tired eyes. You pulled up your loose shirt as you always did, out of habit, expecting to see the same soft, stomach you'd seen every day before. But this time… this time, there was something different.

A baby bump. Subtle, but undeniably there.

You turned to the side, holding your breath, eyes wide as your hands slowly reached down to trace the gentle swell.

Your heart started pounding — a mix of disbelief and pure, overwhelming joy.

"Charles!" you called out suddenly, your voice shaking, breathless with a mixture of shock and excitement. "Charles! Come here — now!"

You heard the way he stumbled out of bed, feet hitting the floor with urgency, a note of panic threading his voice.

"Baby, what? What’s wrong?" he said, rushing into the doorway, still in his boxers and sleep-tousled hair, eyes scanning you like he was ready to fix whatever had happened.

But when he saw you standing there in front of the mirror, hands frozen mid-air, pointing to your belly, something shifted in him.

"Look…" you whispered, tears already gathering in your eyes. "Charles, look."

For a moment, he didn’t move, like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing — like he was afraid to believe it was real.

But then his eyes locked onto that small, perfect curve, and everything else seemed to fall away.

His face crumbled — all the tension he had been holding in his shoulders for months melted into something soft, something raw. His eyes glistened, lips parting as though he couldn’t quite find the words.

"Oh… bébé…" he breathed, and there was a reverence in his voice, like he was standing in front of something holy.

He took slow steps toward you, like if he moved too fast, the moment might break.

Dropping to his knees in front of you, his hands trembled as they reached out, resting gently — so, so gently — on either side of your bump. Like he was afraid if he pressed too hard, it would vanish.

"Mon amour…" His voice cracked. "Look at you… look at you."

You let out a watery laugh, tears sliding down your cheeks as you ran your fingers through his soft curls. "It’s really there," you whispered, like you needed him to confirm it. "Charles, it’s real."

He looked up at you then, his beautiful brown eyes glassy but filled with something you hadn’t seen in a long time — hope. Pure, unfiltered hope.

"Yeah, baby… it's real," he whispered, and when he said it, you believed him.

He turned his gaze back to your belly, leaning in to press a tender kiss to the curve. Then another. And another. Like he was trying to pour all the love and fear and longing he'd been carrying for months into that single touch.

"Look how big you’re getting already, little one," he murmured, voice thick with emotion, his thumbs brushing slow, loving circles on your skin. "You keep growing strong for maman, okay? We’re waiting for you, mon ange. We love you so much already."

You felt a fresh wave of tears spill over, and before you could say anything, Charles stood up and gathered you into his arms. He held you close, one hand protectively around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head like you were something fragile and precious.

He kissed your temple, lips lingering there as though he never wanted to let you go.

"I love you," he whispered into your hair, voice steady but full of quiet emotion. "I love you so much. Both of you."

You buried your face into his chest, holding onto him like a lifeline, and for the first time in what felt like forever, your heart wasn’t heavy with fear — it was full. Full of love. Full of hope.

As the weeks turned into months, Charles’s protectiveness only grew stronger. He was still the same sweet, thoughtful man you had fallen in love with, but now, it was like he had taken on a new role — one that involved constantly making sure you were safe, comfortable, and happy.

He wouldn’t let you carry anything heavy. If you needed something from another room, Charles would jump up from wherever he was and get it for you — even if it was just a glass of water.

He hovered whenever you were walking on uneven ground, his hand always within reach to steady you just in case. When you were out in public, if anyone even so much as bumped into you, he’d be there in an instant, fixing them with a sharp glare and muttering something in French under his breath.

"She’s perfect, thank you," he’d say, a protective tone in his voice that made your heart flutter.

At home, it was a different story.

He was still over-the-top sweet, but he also had a knack for making you laugh. He would sit beside you on the couch, his hand resting gently on your growing belly, and read stories aloud to your baby.

Or he’d sing to your belly, and, while his singing voice might not have been the best, he did it with such enthusiasm and love that it made you laugh every time.

"Charles," you giggled one evening as he sang a very dramatic version of a lullaby, his tone completely off-key, "I don’t think the baby cares about the key you’re singing in."

He grinned, not at all phased by your teasing.

"Maybe not," he shrugged, continuing his performance, "but if they inherit my charm, they’ll appreciate the effort."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was bursting with love.

You loved him.

You loved the way he threw himself into every part of this journey — not just as the future father of your child, but as your partner, your rock, and the love of your life.

This wasn’t just about becoming parents. It was about building a family — a team. And Charles was all in.

And so were you.

One evening, you found yourself curled up on the couch, your head resting gently in Charles’s lap. The room was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of leaves outside and the sound of the air conditioner keeping the warmth at bay.

Charles’s hand, warm and steady, rested on your growing belly. His fingers traced lazy, rhythmic patterns over the fabric of your shirt, a quiet hum escaping his lips. You couldn’t help but smile at how he seemed so at ease, as though this was exactly where he was meant to be — here, with you, in this moment.

For a while, neither of you said anything. The world outside the four walls of your living room seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of you — tangled up in each other’s presence.

"Do you ever think about what they’ll look like?" you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

You turned your head just enough so you could look up at Charles. His eyes were focused on your belly, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You saw the love in his gaze, that quiet kind of adoration that made your heart flutter.

Charles didn’t answer immediately, his fingers still tracing those gentle patterns over your stomach, the warmth of his touch radiating through the fabric. He seemed lost in thought for a moment, as if considering the question carefully, as if trying to picture the tiny person growing inside you.

Finally, he looked down at you, his smile softening, and brushed a stray lock of hair from your face. "All the time," he admitted, his voice full of a tenderness that made your chest tighten. "I hope they have your eyes."

You felt a surge of emotion at his words, the simple yet profound way he spoke about your baby, as if they were already part of both of you — as if they already belonged. "And your smile," he added, his eyes glimmering with that familiar warmth. "You have the most beautiful smile."

You swallowed, feeling the lump form in your throat. It was hard to speak, hard to even breathe with the rush of emotions that hit you. The overwhelming love you felt for Charles, for the tiny baby inside you, for the future you were building together. It all made your heart ache, but in the most wonderful way.

"And I hope they’re kind, like you," you whispered, your voice barely audible now, thick with emotion. You couldn’t stop the tears that welled up in your eyes, the overwhelming flood of love that filled your chest. "Gentle. Patient."

Charles’s eyes softened even more, and without a word, he leaned down, his lips meeting yours in a slow, tender kiss. It was the kind of kiss that wasn’t about passion or urgency, but about connection — about the deep, unspoken bond between the two of you.

"They’ll be perfect," he murmured against your lips, his voice full of a quiet certainty that made your heart swell. "Because they’ll be ours."

You closed your eyes as you pulled him in for another kiss, this time lingering longer, as if you both knew this moment was precious — as if you were sealing that promise in a way that words never could.

As you pulled away, you rested your head back on his lap, your hand instinctively finding his on your belly. You could feel the warmth of his palm against you, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest as he sat beside you.

You weren’t alone anymore.

You had Charles.

You had your baby.

And you had a heart that, finally, after all the waiting, all the pain, all the uncertainty — was finally, beautifully full again.

You squeezed Charles’s hand gently, feeling the comfort of his touch and the weight of that realization settle over you.

"We’re going to be okay," you whispered to him, your voice calm, yet full of emotion.

Charles’s hand tightened on yours, and he leaned down to kiss your forehead. His lips brushed against your skin, soft and reassuring. "I know, bébé. I know."

With each passing day, you and Charles were building something incredible together. A family. A future.

And nothing — nothing in the world — could take that away.

The days had grown warmer, and Monaco was slowly transforming before your eyes. Spring had arrived, bringing with it an explosion of color. The sky was that perfect shade of blue, the sun bright and inviting.

But, for you, the season’s beauty was secondary to the changes happening within your own little world.

You were huge now — or at least, that’s what you kept joking every time you tried to get up from the couch, your body round and heavy with the life you carried. There were days when getting out of bed felt like a monumental task, your limbs stiff and your back sore from the added weight of your growing belly. But Charles was always there, always hovering. You had gotten so used to it that it almost felt like a comforting presence.

"Charles, I’m pregnant, not broken," you’d laugh, swatting at his hands as they reached out to help you up from the couch.

His response was always the same — a grin that lit up his face, followed by him crouching down in front of you anyway, eyes full of love and concern. "I know," he would say, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "But you’re carrying our baby, so I’m allowed to take care of you." His voice was so gentle, so sincere, that it melted your heart every time.

Truth be told, you didn’t mind at all. In fact, you loved it. Loved how he looked at you as if you were the most precious thing in his life, how he made you feel like the most important person in the world. You knew how much this pregnancy meant to him — to both of you. The way he cared for you, the way he looked after every little detail, was proof of how deeply he wanted to be a father, how deeply he wanted this family.

Some days, when you were feeling particularly uncomfortable or exhausted, you’d just lean into him and let him help you. You knew that no matter how many times you swatted his hands away, he would always be there, ready to care for you. It was his love language, his way of showing that he was in this — all in — with you.

The nursery was finally finished.

You had spent weeks planning and preparing, choosing colors and patterns, imagining what it would look like. Charles had been just as involved, though in his own way. His focus had been on the practicality of everything — the crib, the changing table, the storage solutions for all the baby clothes. Every piece of furniture had been chosen with care, ensuring it would be perfect for the baby who would soon fill it.

The room itself was a sanctuary of peace, painted in soft neutral tones that radiated warmth and calm. There were gentle hints of blush pink and pale green scattered throughout, giving the space a subtle, almost ethereal feel. Since the gender of the baby wasn't known until the birth, the both of you decided on soft neutral colors. The crib was made of light wood, sturdy and timeless, with a soft mattress and sheets that were as soft as clouds. The shelves above the crib were lined with stuffed animals — a bear, a rabbit, a fox — each chosen with the same love and attention Charles had put into every detail of the room.

Charles had insisted on assembling the crib himself, a project he had taken very seriously, much to your amusement. You had offered to help, but he’d shooed you away, determined to get it right. Of course, halfway through, he had ended up calling Arthur to ask for help with the instructions. “I swear, I can read in French, but these instructions are written in a language all their own,” he had said, his voice tinged with exasperation and laughter.

You smiled just thinking about it now. Even in the chaos, even when he was frustrated with a seemingly simple task, he had always kept his eyes on the end goal — creating a safe, loving space for your baby.

In the corner of the room stood a rocking chair, the most perfect addition to the nursery, and, in time, it had become your favorite place to sit. Every evening, as the sun began to dip below the horizon and the room grew soft with twilight, you would curl into the chair, settling against Charles’s side. His arm would naturally wrap around your shoulders, pulling you close, and you’d lean your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

As the days passed, and the reality of becoming parents settled in, the two of you would talk about everything — the future, your hopes and dreams, the tiny person who would soon fill your lives. Sometimes, Charles would talk about what kind of father he wanted to be. His words were always filled with such certainty and warmth.

"I want to be the kind of father who makes our baby laugh every day," he had said one night, his eyes reflecting the gentle love that had taken root in his heart. "The kind who is always there when they need me — whether it’s for a scraped knee or a broken heart. I want them to know they can always count on me."

His words resonated deep within you. You had no doubt that Charles would be an incredible father. His love, patience, and tenderness were already evident in everything he did, and you knew that would only grow once your baby was here.

Every night, as you curled into his side in that chair, your head resting against his chest, you could feel the anticipation building. Every little kick or shift of the baby inside you reminded you that your lives were about to change forever. The days of waiting were almost over, and you couldn’t wait to meet the little one who had been growing inside you for so long.

Soon.

The thought sent a wave of emotion through you, and you blinked back tears as you turned your head up to look at Charles. He was smiling at you, his expression soft with love and affection.

"Can you believe it?" you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "Our baby is coming soon."

Charles’s hand gently rested on your belly, his fingers tracing slow, soothing circles. His eyes met yours, and in them, you saw everything — the excitement, the love, the anticipation. "I can’t wait, bébé," he murmured, his voice quiet but full of promise. "Soon, we’ll be holding them in our arms. Our baby."

And in that moment, as you sat there together, in the warmth of the nursery you had so carefully created, you realized that all the waiting, all the planning, all the months of anticipation had led to this. You were ready. Both of you were ready.

The nursery was ready. Your hearts were ready. And soon, the little one who had filled your dreams would be there, completing your family, and filling your home with a love you couldn’t yet fully comprehend.

Soon.

It was a quiet morning when everything changed.

The soft light of dawn filtered through the blinds, casting delicate shadows across the room. The world outside seemed still, as if holding its breath. But inside, your body was stirring in a way it never had before.

You woke up to a sharp cramp low in your belly, a sensation that made you pause, your breath hitching in surprise. It wasn’t overly painful, but it was different — an unmistakable sign that something was happening. You winced slightly, pressing your hand to your stomach, wondering if it was the beginning of something.

Still, it wasn’t too intense at first. So, you laid there for a moment, trying to calm your racing heart. You closed your eyes again, hoping to drift back to sleep, but then, another cramp came — sharper this time, and accompanied by an uncomfortable pressure. You couldn’t ignore it any longer.

"Charles…" you murmured, your voice still heavy with sleep but carrying an edge of worry. "I think something’s happening."

The moment the words left your mouth, Charles stirred beside you, instantly alert. It was as if your words had cracked the stillness of the room, and with a suddenness that made your heart leap, he shot upright, eyes wide and full of panic.

"What?!" His voice was filled with urgency, his hand already reaching for his phone. "Is it time? Do I call the doctor? The hospital? Your mom? Should I —"

You let out a soft laugh, though it came out breathless and strained as another cramp hit you. You winced, but it wasn’t too painful. "Breathe, love," you said, your voice soft but steady. "Let me check before you call half of Monaco."

But Charles was already in motion, his long fingers fumbling to grab your pre-packed hospital bag from the corner, even though it had been ready for weeks. He threw it onto the bed beside you, pacing the room like a caged lion, running his hand through his messy hair in distress.

You couldn’t help but laugh again, even as you clutched your stomach, trying to steady yourself. It was such a familiar sight — Charles, always moving a mile a minute when it came to taking care of you. Even now, in this moment of uncertainty, he was already trying to anticipate every possible thing that could go wrong.

Finally, after a few more contractions, you confirmed with your doctor, who reassured you that it was likely just the beginning of labor. Your contractions were becoming more regular, though not yet unbearably painful.

But Charles, ever the perfectionist, could hardly sit still. "Are you okay?" you asked softly as he drove toward the hospital, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, his eyes darting between the road and you.

His lips parted to speak, but it was only then that you saw the tears — soft, glistening tears in the corner of his eyes. They took you by surprise, a silent admission of his fears. "I’m terrified," he whispered, his voice breaking slightly. "I’m terrified something will happen to you."

The words hung in the air, and your heart cracked a little. You reached over, your hand finding his, and you squeezed it tightly. You didn’t even care that you could barely feel your fingers due to the tight grip he had on the wheel. You just needed to reassure him, needed to remind him that you were in this together.

"I’m going to be okay," you whispered, voice thick with emotion. "We’re both going to be okay."

He nodded, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. You could tell that, no matter how many times you reassured him, this was still a moment of immense fear for him. The fear of losing you, of something going wrong, was something neither of you could avoid.

Labor was... intense.

It felt as though time stretched and bent around you, every hour becoming an eternity. You weren’t sure how long you had been in the hospital now — minutes, hours, days? But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the overwhelming pain, the exhaustion, and the beautiful chaos of this moment that would soon lead to your baby being in your arms.

Charles had been your rock through it all. He never left your side, holding your hand with such fierce tenderness that it almost grounded you to this earth.

Every contraction was like a wave crashing over you, each one more intense than the last. You gripped his hand, squeezing tightly, and Charles never once wavered. He wiped the sweat from your brow, kissed your forehead, and whispered words of encouragement with a steadiness that made you believe you could do anything.

"I’m so proud of you," he whispered against your temple during one of the breaks, his voice low and filled with love. "You’re incredible."

You could feel the tears building in your eyes, but you couldn’t summon the strength to speak. His words cut through the pain and gave you a sense of peace you hadn’t thought possible in the middle of this madness. His belief in you, in your strength, made you want to keep going — no matter how hard it got.

And then, finally — the moment you had dreamed of, fought for, ached for.

The sound of a baby’s first cry filled the room — sharp, loud, and so full of life that it felt like the whole world stopped spinning for a moment. Your breath caught in your throat, and everything around you seemed to blur, like the edges of the room had melted away until there was nothing but that sound.

In that moment, you weren’t just a woman in labor anymore. You were a mother. Her mother.

The nurse, with the gentlest smile, approached and softly said, "It's a girl."

A girl.

Your heart twisted in the most beautiful way as tears welled up in your eyes. A girl. Your girl.

The tiny bundle was placed delicately on your chest, and when you looked down, it felt like the entire universe shifted into place. She was so impossibly small, her little hands curled into fists against her chest, her skin soft and pink, and her face — oh, her face — was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

You let out a shaky breath, tears sliding freely down your cheeks as you reached up to cup her tiny head. "Hi, baby," you whispered, your voice breaking, "Hi, my love."

Your eyes found Charles then — and the sight of him completely unraveled you. He was standing at your side, frozen at first, his green eyes wide with disbelief, tears already spilling down his cheeks. His hand covered his mouth like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Slowly, like he was afraid to break the moment, he leaned down and pressed a trembling kiss to your forehead. His hands cupped your face, his thumb wiping away your tears as his own kept falling.

Then, he turned his attention to the baby, to her, and a soft, awed sound left his throat — something between a laugh and a sob.

"We did it," Charles whispered, his voice thick, cracking under the weight of his emotions. "Mon amour… we did it."

You could only nod, your throat too tight to speak. The tears kept coming, but for the first time in so long, they were tears of joy, of overwhelming love.

"Meet her," you finally managed, breathless, staring down at the little miracle on your chest. "Meet our daughter."

Charles reached out with shaking fingers, carefully stroking her soft cheek as though she might break under his touch. His smile was pure wonder, his eyes never leaving her face.

"She’s… she’s perfect," he whispered in awe. "She’s so perfect, bébé."

He leaned in and kissed the top of her tiny head with so much tenderness it broke your heart all over again.

"I love you so much," he murmured, his lips still pressed to her soft skin. "I love you both more than anything in this world."

You closed your eyes for a second, trying to gather yourself, but nothing could prepare you for this kind of love — raw, overwhelming, all-consuming. You had fought so hard, gone through so much heartbreak, fear, and pain — and now here she was. The living proof that hope was real.

You ran a hand gently over her head, glancing up at Charles again, and he met your gaze with a soft smile — one that said, we made it.

"Her name?" you whispered softly, the question hanging in the air, though you both already knew.

Charles smiled, eyes brimming with tears as he whispered, "Sofia. Sofia Pascale Leclerc."

Sofia. It felt perfect — strong and soft, like her.

"Hi, Sofia," you whispered to her, running a trembling finger over her tiny hand. "Hi, baby girl."

The first night in the hospital was a blur of feedings, diaper changes, and nurses checking in, but there were moments that would be forever etched in your heart — like the way Charles never wanted to put her down, holding her close like she was the most precious thing in the world.

You woke in the middle of the night to see him by the window, gently swaying with her in his arms. He had taken off his shirt so she could feel his warmth, and he was humming softly — a song you couldn’t quite recognize, but it sounded like love.

The lights of Monaco glittered in the distance, but Charles' world was small now, narrowed down to just you and Sofia.

"Look at her, mon cœur," Charles whispered when he noticed you watching him. His voice was thick with emotion, still in awe, like he couldn’t believe she was real. "So small. So perfect."

You smiled, propped up in the bed, still feeling weak but fuller than you’d ever been.

"She is perfect," you said softly, wiping another tear from your cheek.

He looked down at Sofia, brushing a kiss to her forehead, and then, without looking away from her, he added, "Just like her maman."

Your chest tightened at his words, but you smiled through it.

"Think she’ll like racing?" you joked quietly, needing to lighten the moment before you drowned in tears again.

Charles let out a soft laugh, though his eyes never left her. "Maybe… but she’ll always be faster than me — she’s already stolen my heart."

You watched him for a long moment, your heart swelling in your chest, so full it felt like it might burst.

This — this — was what you had fought for.

You had fought through heartbreak that had left you breathless, through pain that had nearly broken you in two, through nights when all you could do was cry in Charles’ arms, unsure if this dream would ever come true. You had battled fear, uncertainty, and the endless ache of waiting. And now, as you stood there, watching him cradle Sofia like she was the most precious thing in the world, you realized — this was everything you had ever dreamed of.

Your family.

The family you had fought for with every ounce of strength you had left.

Weeks later, when life had finally started to settle into a rhythm, and the haze of the first sleepless nights had softened, you walked into the living room and stopped dead in your tracks.

Charles was asleep on the couch, head tilted back, his soft brown hair a mess from running his fingers through it one too many times. But it wasn’t just him.

Sofia was curled up on his chest, her tiny body rising and falling with each of his breaths. One of his arms cradled her protectively, while his other hand rested lightly on her back, like even in sleep, he couldn’t stop holding her close.

They looked so peaceful, so safe — wrapped in a world where nothing could touch them.

Tears pricked your eyes as you stood there, one hand covering your mouth as the weight of it all washed over you.

The man who had stood beside you through every storm, who had wiped every tear, held you through every loss, whispered hope into your ears when you had none left — this man was now holding your daughter like she was the only thing that mattered in the world.

He had loved you through it all — even when you couldn’t love yourself, even when you had pushed him away in the depths of your grief. He had never let go.

And now, here he was — the father of your child.

You walked toward them softly, careful not to wake either of them, and slowly eased yourself onto the couch beside him. Curling into his side, you rested your head on his shoulder, your hand gently brushing over Sofia’s tiny back.

Charles stirred slightly, shifting in his sleep at your touch, and after a moment, he cracked one eye open, his gaze landing on you.

A sleepy, soft smile tugged at his lips as he looked at you like you were still the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

"Hey, maman," he whispered, his voice hoarse from sleep, but full of so much love it made your heart ache.

You smiled through the tears gathering in your eyes, brushing a kiss against his shoulder as you whispered back, "Hey, papa."

He leaned his head against yours, letting out a quiet sigh, as though even now, weeks later, he still couldn’t believe she was real.

Your eyes drifted down to Sofia, her tiny face peaceful, her lips slightly parted as she breathed in soft little huffs. One tiny hand was fisted against Charles' chest like she never wanted to let go of her papa.

You reached out, gently tracing a fingertip over her soft cheek, and felt Charles’ arm tighten around both of you, pulling you closer.

"I don’t think I’ll ever get over this," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

Charles turned to press a kiss to your temple, lingering there. "Me neither," he murmured against your skin. "She’s everything, isn’t she?"

You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat.

For the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt right.

There were no needles, no hospital walls, no sterile doctors' offices — just you, Charles, and Sofia, safe and whole in your little home.

You had your family.

You had love — a love that had been tested and forged in fire, but had only grown stronger.

And you had a future — one brighter, fuller, and more beautiful than anything you had ever dared to imagine.

Together, you were everything.

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wondrluv · 4 months ago

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୨୧ protective, not possessive ; pb5

➪ summary: another win for the huskies means another night out at a bar celebrating. but when your trip to the bathroom takes a little longer than your girlfriend thinks it should, she's balancing on the edge of protectiveness and possessiveness.

➪ warnings: a brief unwanted touch, too much use of look, gaze, stare, and any other synonym for those

➪ word count: 1.7k

➪ emma's notes: i've had this in my drive for a month now and i'm finally able to post it ! i think i like it, idk guys it's past midnight rn. anyway, i wanted to say thank you again for 1k, i'm positively over the moon with the amount of love you've given me. i hope you guys enjoy the fic !

After dating Paige for a few months now, you had grown accustomed to going out after wins and celebrating with her and the team. Even though going out and getting semi-dressed up was not your thing, you would do it for her every time she asked.

Tonight was no different, your jacket was discarded due to the heat of the packed bar, the slightly revealing shirt you had picked out earlier in the day on display, and jeans hugging your thighs in just the right way that made everyone’s heads turn towards you.

You sat next to Paige, her arm wrapped loosely around your waist as she twisted her glass in her other hand, talking to KK and Azzi. The situation was familiar, something you had done millions of times, jokes you had heard before, but for whatever reason, tonight felt off.

Maybe it was the test you took today, a new weight off your shoulders you hadn’t felt in so long, or maybe it was the fact that you knew your room was in a messy state and you knew that that was what you had to go back to after this. Whatever it was, it left an uneasy feeling, a growing pit in your stomach.

Snapping out of your thoughts, you looked over at your girlfriend, watching her laugh at something one of the others had said. You didn’t want to worry her, you just needed a moment to compose yourself. So you reached for her t-shirt, tugging slightly to get her attention, sucking in a breath as her gaze met yours.

Her smile was still present when she looked over at you but her eyebrows were furrowed in confusion at the sight of your distressed expression, something that only she was able to detect. She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a murmur, “You okay, ma?”

You nodded, letting your fake bubbly presence consume you, “Yep, totally fine. Just need to pee, I’ll be back.”

She nodded, watching you carefully as you slipped out of her hold, pushing your way through the crowd of bodies toward the back of the bar where the restrooms were. She let herself focus back on the conversation at hand, easily falling back into the rhythm of it.

She was almost too far into it to notice that you had been gone for more than 10 minutes, but when she reached for your hand to play with the rings on your fingers she remembered where you had gone. She scanned the bar for any sign of you but was left with a frown when she couldn’t find you.

She excused herself from the table, stuffing her hands in her pockets as she followed the path you had taken earlier to the bathroom. And if she hadn’t been staring down every single person in that building like they had done something to hurt you, she wouldn’t have found you against the wall, talking animatedly about something to a guy who stood in front of you.

Her eyes narrowed, taking a step toward the two of you but was cut off by an eager woman who was holding a pen and a napkin in her hand. Paige tried her best to give her a kind smile, keeping the protectiveness pushed down as she talked, “Hi.”

“Hi, I’m so sorry to interrupt but my niece absolutely adores you, and I was just wondering if I could have your autograph so I could give it to her.”

She let her smile turn genuine as she heard her explanation, nodding and taking the items from the woman’s hand, scribbling her signature across the white napkin before passing it back to her. She sighed softly when she finally left her alone, redirecting her eyes to where you were standing and she swore you had upped the wattage of your smile even more than when she saw you before.

This time, she avoided any more interruptions as she made her way to the two of you, stopping just to the side of you, hands back in her pockets.

Neither of you noticed at first, your mouth still moving faster than your brain could comprehend. He had a small look of fondness in his eyes as he looked at you, nodding along to each word you said.

You on the other hand, despite talking so happily, had thought you had made it clear that you were the furthest from interested in him.

You bumped into him on your way out of the bathroom, in the small corridor that split between the men’s and women’s doors. You had caught wind of something he had been saying to his friend, something that you instantly recognized as one of your many hyperfixations and you wasted no time launching into a conversation with him, your tendency to ramble on and on overtook you in seconds.

You barely registered his hand reaching out to place on your hip, but the soft brush of his fingers against your exposed skin caused you to jump, excitement washing off your expression.

Paige’s protective instincts kicked in, reaching to intercept his second attempt of grabbing you, wrapping her arm around your waist, and glaring at the guy.

She looked down at you, finally tearing her heated stare from him. She softened immediately, squeezing your hip and giving you a lazy smile to make you more comfortable, “Everything okay, ma?”

You were getting a wave of deja vu as she asked the question, the feeling you had earlier coming back. You gave her a hesitant nod, glancing over at the guy who stood there, slightly awe-struck at the sight of you two together.

He gulped nervously when the fire returned to Paige, “You two are dating?”

The blond nodded, pushing you slightly behind her, not wanting you to be in his direct line of sight anymore. However the guy didn’t want to push his luck, between the look on your girlfriend’s face and the weight of eyes from the table across the bar where the team sat, it was enough to have him muttering an apology and practically running off towards another group of girls.

She waited until he was far enough away from the small corner you were in to turn and look at you, studying your face intently. Despite the scrutiny she had you under, you couldn’t help but smile and relax, peering up at her with what she could call your signature doe eyes, ones that made her want to drop everything and kiss you, bottom lip between her teeth.

“Did he say something before that? Make you uncomfortable?”

You shook your head, still having yet to say a word to her since you left for the bathroom nearing 20 minutes ago at this point. It irked her in the slightest, usually, you were talking her ear off - just like you were doing earlier with that guy - about some new TV show you started watching or a new recipe you found on TikTok, but now she could barely get a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ out of you.

“Babe you sure he didn’t do anything, because you know I’ll-”

“Paige,” you interrupted, voice soft but firm enough that she shut her mouth as soon as she heard it.

You rose on your tiptoes, kissing her cheek, “I’m fine. I promise, we were just talking and the touch caught me off guard, it was harmless.”

“Didn’t look harmless. Looked like you were gonna crap your pants.” She grumbled, dropping her hands to her side.

A laugh bubbled out of you and she finally cracked a smile, little but noticeable. She loved making you laugh, it was the easiest thing for her to do but every time she did she felt like she had won the championship, as cheesy as it was.

“I did not look like that.”

“Sure you didn’t. I’m positive you would’ve ruined this perfectly good pair of jeans if he said one more thing about- what were you even talking about?”

You turned sheepish as you mumbled out your hyper-fixation to her, causing her to roll her eyes in return.

“Alright, if that conversation continued, I probably would’ve punched him for making you have to get rid of my favorite pair of jeans on you.”

“Paige, stop. I didn’t look like that.” Your protest was whiney and your lips formed a pout as you continued to stare up at her.

The tiny smile she had widened into a grin as she reached a hand towards your hair, moving it over your shoulder and letting her fingers rest against the back of your neck, thumb grazing your jawline steadily, “You’re right. You looked gorgeous just standing there, baby. You get that glow around you when you ramble.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks and you knew it had nothing to do with the growing crowd on the dance floor a few feet away from you. The new pink tint to your cheeks only caused Paige to smirk more. She didn’t say anything though, using her other hand to your hip and bringing you impossibly close, your foreheads resting against each other.

If you were aware of any looks on you before, you weren’t now, every noise and blur of color fading into the background as your eyes bore into hers.

And the two of you stayed like that for at most 30 seconds but to you two, it felt like hours. You closed your eyes as she let her thumb brush across your cheek, letting whatever stress and uneasiness that lingered go away, a distant memory of the past.

“I’m always going to be there to protect you, you know that right?”

You hadn’t heard her voice that unsure in a long time, and maybe you were imagining it but when you opened your eyes again, you saw the unmistakable uncertainty on her face. You frowned, “‘course I know that. Would never doubt your possessive nature.”

She scoffed, “I wasn’t being possessive. Just cautious.”

“Oh is that what we’re calling it now?”

The two of you started to make your way back to the table, her hand intertwining with yours, swinging your arms back and forth.

“Next time,” she spoke after a beat, voice teasing. “I’m going to the bathroom with you.”

“Not possessive my ass.” You muttered, but you should’ve known better than to think she wouldn’t hear it because soon her hand did meet your ass, another grin on her face.

꒰ UCONN HUSKIES TAGLIST ꒱

@fantillisgirl

PB5 MASTERLIST ; WBB MASTERLIST

TAGLIST ; NAVIGATION

#*｡✩ ꒰ wondrluv's writing ꒱#⋆·˚ ༘ * ꒰ fics ꒱#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #uconn #uconn wbb #⋆·˚ ༘ * ꒰ paige bueckers ꒱

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luvt0kki · 1 year ago

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training wheels | k.h.j

pairing : Professor!Hongjoong x innocent!reader ft!Wooyoung

♡₊˚( wrote this listening to ‘training wheels’ by Melanie Martinez)

summary: Too innocent for your own good, your professor's little hidden crush only grows the more he could spend time with you. You were so pure before his eyes. A sweet young woman who deserves the sweetest kind of love but still had trouble in paradise with her boyfriend…but he’ll be there for you. After all, he only wants what’s best for you and to protect you.

wc: 10.7k

cw: University AU, smut, coquette-ish fem!innocent reader, virgin reader, slightly older Hongjoong, manipulation, obsessive stalker-ish behavior, yandere behavior, corruption kink, cheating , frat boy behavior from Maknae line, oral!male receiving, there'll be more spice in the next part

REMINDER : my works do not represent the irl members in any way, this is purely a work of FICTION.

a/n: hello so it’s been awhile and this has been cooling in my drafts for so long. Special thanks to @songmingisthighs for helping me whenever I’m stuck with writing and for being one of my favourite persons on this app 😭i wanted to write something that isn’t apart of the Sway With Me universe just for a change and a breather ( I hope you guys don’t mind that). I just wanted to write.

- this is will be a two part series!

READ CONTENT WARNING BEFORE READING!

DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, PLAGIARISE, OR OTHERWISE REPURPOSE ANY OF MY WORK HERE. I DO NOT NOR WILL ALLOW IT.

Note: Hongjoong is a couple years older but he’s still young for a professor. Maknae Line is in their last year of Uni and is part of the University’s Varsity baseball team.Y /N is innocent ( smh). Kinda coquettish vibes but yuh, sweet girl.

The rain storming outside made anxiety bubble in your chest as you clutched your laptop bag and books tight. You glanced at your phone, the bright red bar of the little battery icon glaring at you. That just made your situation even worse and it didn’t help that the last message you saw was the reason you were stranded here in the first place.

“I’m so sorry sweetheart. The team meeting is going overtime tonight. Get home safe. Please message me when you’re home.”

You waited for him. You should be angry at him but instead, you were only heartbroken and sad that he didn’t keep his word. You were frustrated that you couldn’t even hate him the slightest bit for forgetting to pick you up and the sudden downpour was just the cherry on top.

“Ms. L/N, is that you?”

That voice. That familiar tone that you heard every Monday and Wednesday from 8 am til 10 am. The voice that made your Art Appreciation lecture so interesting that you’re excited to come early every morning to learn sounded from behind you.

You turned around and quickly bowed your head in his direction out of respect.

“Mr.Kim.”

The young professor frowned at your presence.

“It is you. What are you still doing here?” He asked, extending his arm a bit to glance at his silver watch. “It’s almost 11 pm.”

“I-It started raining…” was all you could say. You couldn’t nor want to admit to your university professor the real reason why you were stranded on campus.

“Indeed…,” he gently grasped your arm and pulled you into the covered shade of the hall. “Do you need a ride home, Ms. L/N? I was just about to leave and go home but I can drop you off at the nearest bus stop or if you’d like, your home.”

His offer made your heart melt. Mr. Kim Hongjoong has always been so kind and sweet to his students. He has always shown such care and patience to their studies and well-being, and as the many girls in your classroom would whisper amongst each other, he was also very handsome. Which was a fact everyone in the whole campus knew.

“I don’t want to be of a hassle to you, Sir. I can wait for the rain to stop.” You tried to kindly turn down his offer, not wanting to bother him but also you felt it was inappropriate for a student to be in any proximity to a professor alone.

“Ms. L/N, it’s late and the rain doesn’t look like it’s going to stop anytime soon. I assure you it is not a bother to take you home. I’ll be worried if I just left you here.”

He was right. Both about the rain and the time, and you’re never out this late. Well at least not alone and it made you antsy. Mr. Kim looked at you with so much care in dark brown eyes that it felt impossible to say no to his kind offer.

“O-okay.”

And that’s how you found yourself in the passenger seat of your professor's fancy car.

You looked around subtly observing the luxurious interior of the vehicle. It smelled like new leather and Mr. Kim’s cologne. Your phone buzzed breaking your little observation as Mr. Kim typed in the location of your apartment into his phone GPS.

“Baby? Are you home? Please let me know.” The text message notification shone brightly.

You let out a little sigh.

Hongjoong couldn’t help but notice your rather wilted demeanor. He looked over you in the corner of his eye as he started the car. Little did you know, he was admiring your look today. You didn’t have class with him on Fridays so seeing today was rather…refreshing. Baby pink always looked so pretty on you, he thought to himself. Your blouse almost had a ballet-like aesthetic to it, it wrapped around your torso so elegantly and gently accentuated your curves. It was matched with a very pretty flowy white skirt that wasn’t too short nor too long, and there was a thin pink ribbon in your hair, the finishing touch to your very sweet ensemble. You always dressed so cute.

“Are you okay, Ms. L/N?” He asked his voice so calm and gentle that it calmed your silent frustration.

“Not really…” you muttered your gaze down at the hem of your skirt, your books, and your laptop sleeve on your lap.

The defeated expression you wore made the older man’s heartache for you. He didn’t like to see you like this. You were like a ray of gentle sunshine whenever you entered his classroom, a doe in a beautiful blooming field of flowers that radiated warmth that made anyone and everyone around you comfortable and calm. It was odd to see you like this.

“If you want to talk about it I’m all ears,” he offered with a smile, reaching behind the head of your passenger seat and glancing behind as he reversed up his car from the parking lot.

Your heart raced at the gesture. You didn’t know what about it was making you feel all flustered and small. His kind words and warm tone made it hard to keep your emotions in. Maybe you can just tell him…a little bit.

“I waited for my boyfriend to pick me up…but he didn’t come.” You murmured, heart aching as you said those words.

Hongjoong’s heart dropped, and he raised a brow at what you just said. Your boyfriend didn’t show up?

“I know I shouldn’t be so upset…it’s just he promised. I understand he has obligations to his team…I just feel like he forgot about me.”

Your sweet voice was so small. Hongjoong wanted nothing more than to soothe you and reassure you. Underneath all of that, he was bubbling with irritation. He kept a softened and caring expression on his face as he listened to you, gripping the stirring wheel to hide his annoyance.

“I-I’m sorry to hear that,” he said so sympathetically. “You’re such a sweet girl to be so understanding of your boyfriend. If I remember correctly your boyfriend is…”

“Wooyoung.” You whispered his name, your lips between your teeth as you tried to hold back your disappointed tears and hurt.

Hongjoong’s jaw tightened.

Right.

Jung Wooyoung.

“Ah…yes. The university’s baseball star.” He was also a student in one of his classes. A heartthrob along with his best friend and Baseball Vice Captain, Choi San.

“I’ll feel better when I get home and sleep it off.” You didn’t want to talk about him forgetting to pick you up any longer.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Ms. L/N, how long have you been together?” He asked, hoping his question was not so out of the blue as he continued to drive.

“Almost three months now, Mr. Kim.” You replied, the idea of being with Wooyoung for so long making you a little happy despite tonight’s disappointment.

Lucky bastard. “Oh, that’s very recent.”

“I know…but he’s very sweet to me. He takes care of me and he really makes me happy.” You listed the good things that always made your heart flutter. Your sweet loving boyfriend who had pursued you and never pushed for anything you weren’t ready for. If you were to describe your relationship with Wooyoung, it was like the love you see in the movies.

“That’s good to hear. You’re one of my sweetest students and I’d be worried if you weren’t happy,” Hongjoong smiled, earning the reaction he wanted and expected from someone as innocent as you.

Your pretty eyes widened at his words and you looked even shyer. He wondered if that’s why your boyfriend was attracted to you.

You didn’t know what to say but there was a small smile on your face when he called you one of his sweetest students.

“Thank you, sir.”

Sir.

Hongjoong’s night was getting better than he could ever imagine. First, the surprise of seeing you still on campus alone as he left, then you accepting his offer to drive you home, and now, Sir? For a long time, he loved how that name slipped from your pretty glossed lips.

“I’m sure your boyfriend feels really guilty about not having shown up. Sometimes these things happen.” Hongjoong tried to reassure you, not really wanting to defend the University senior you were seeing but he needed to say what you wanted or needed to hear.

You take his words as it is. He was older than you so he knew about these things more than you. He was wiser. He was right, these things do happen. Wooyoung did apologize too. So maybe it’s not as bad as you were making it out to be.

Hongjoong noticed how you sat up a little, no longer sulking so cutely in the passenger seat. He smirked a little to himself, his eyes on the road. Did you trust his words that much? Was that how much power he had over you?

You were too innocent it concerned him.

You were truly a doe in a field of flowers. So pretty and so completely oblivious to the wolves hiding in the tall grass. He was sure your boyfriend was one of them and that he too had a deep dark desire for your innocence.

“Is this your place?” He pulled up outside an apartment complex, people passing by in the street as he looked up at the building observing it.

“Yes, it is!” You chirped, happy that you were able to get home safely and it was all thanks to your kind and sweet professor. “Thank you so much, Mr. Kim. I really appreciate it. I really cannot thank you enough…and talking to you made me feel better. I’m really lucky that you were here tonight.”

Hongjoong smiled, holding back from reaching over to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. He didn’t want to scare you away.

“If you ever find yourself in any kind of trouble, Ms. L/N, you can come to me okay? Here,” he reached into his pocket, getting his card but writing down his personal phone number in the back of it before holding it your way.

Like he expected you didn’t think much of it, what a sweet girl.

“Mr. Kim you’re so kind.” You took the pretty name card with his phone number in the back. “I don’t get into trouble but I appreciate this. Thank you.”

“Let me help you get inside, okay?” He got out of his car with an umbrella, going over to your side to open the passenger seat door and to hold the umbrella over you and him so that he could escort you to your apartment lobby.

You stepped out of the car and blushed when you felt his arm wrap around your shoulders to gently guide you to the sidewalk and your apartment lobby. He made sure you were dry and safe and also took note of how an access card is needed to get in. He was glad you lived somewhere so safe.

You thanked him again, unable to look him in the eyes because the warm smile on his face was making your heart flutter.

“Now I can go home without worrying if you got back safe,” he lightheartedly teased, making you giggle. He was such a kind person. “Take care of yourself, Ms. L/N. I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Enjoy your weekend, Sir.” You bowed your head respectfully, appreciating how handsome he was in his coat and suit. It made him look like a character from the dramas you see on television.

Monday rolled around quicker than you thought while Hongjoong found the weekend went by agonizingly slow. As he set up his laptop in the lecture hall as other students filed in, he couldn’t help but anticipate your arrival. He kindly smiled and greeted the students who had the energy to wish him a good morning, he even kept glancing at your seat that was still empty.

Were you not well? Did you catch a cold over the weekend from the rain on Friday night?

“You really didn’t have to walk me, Woo.”

Your gentle soft voice made the professor perk up and his heart race a little. Subtly, he glanced at the door, more students entering but behind them in the hall was you.

“Hey, I still feel guilty about not having picked you up on Friday. I’m gonna make it up to you.” Wooyoung placed his hand on your waist, feeling the soft fabric of your skirt. “You’re too nice if you’re just gonna let me off the hook. I’m gonna be extra attentive, okay baby?”

Hongjoong narrowed his eyes at the young dark-haired boy, his varsity jacket telling everyone that passed who he was and the status he had in the university. He zeroed in on the hand on your waist, Wooyoung’s thumb caressing you gently and his fingers even playing with the cute ribbons on your skirt.

“O-okay,” you blushed, trying to fight back the giddy smile that was forming on your face.

Wooyoung grinned at your response and glanced left and right before pulling you closer til you were pressed against him. Your wide eyes looked up at him in surprise and you got your body tingling when both his hands rested on your waist.

Your fluster only made your handsome boyfriend grin even more with that twinkle in his eyes that always made you feel special.

“You have a nice day, okay?” He whispered and before you could respond, without a care in the world and with no shame if any other student passing would see, he leaned down and kissed your glossed lips.

Heat bloomed in your cheeks. This was different from the soft pecks and quick kisses he’d give, these were the kisses you liked from him. The deep ones that made your head feel all hazy. The one that made heat pool in your lower belly.

Wooyoung pulled back and pressed another kiss on your forehead. “I’ll see you for lunch.”

“O-okay.” You murmured, feeling everyone’s curious eyes on both of you and wanting to remain hidden by Wooyoung’s form.

Wooyoung smiled and then licked his lips. “Oh? Strawberry?”

The mention of your flavored lip gloss made you look up at him, a cheeky smile plastered on his face.

“You’re gonna have me craving you all morning, baby.” He dramatically placed a hand over his chest. “How will I ever survive? One more.” He tried to go for another kiss and you squealed as he pulled you back.

“Woo, I have class!”

“But strawberry!” He pouted as he kept you in his embrace, some students rolling their eyes at the two of you and some finding the two of you cute and amusing. Wooyoung’s teammates from down the hall caught wind of the two of you and hooted.

“Sorry to interrupt but I’ll be starting my lecture soon.”

The voice of Mr. Kim made your eyes widen as embarrassment made you want to hide from his gaze.

“Oh, Mr. Kim,” Wooyoung spoke his professor's name with no shame of getting caught being affectionate with his girlfriend. “Morning!”

Hongjoong could only manage a nod to his greeting before turning to you, still in your boyfriend’s hold and unable to look him in the eyes.

“Ms. L/N, class starts in five minutes.” He spoke sternly, his tone making your lips form a small pout.

The way you reacted to him made the older man before you swoon. God, you were too cute.

“Yes, sir.”

There it was again. The way you said ‘sir’ all defeated and cute.

“Sorry, Mr. Kim.” Wooyoung apologized. “My bad.” He removed his varsity jacket and draped it over your shoulders before kissing your cheek. “I’ll see you at lunch, baby.”

Then Wooyoung sauntered away with a swing in his step and his bag over one shoulder, on his way to his respective class.

“Sorry, Mr. Kim.” You murmured, keeping your gaze down and hugging your books to your chest as you went inside the room along with the last few students who arrived.

Hongjoong watched as you made your way to your seat. Your pretty skirt swayed with each step and he wondered if skirts made up most of your wardrobe. It must be such a delight for your boyfriend.

Loosening the grip he had on his pen as he watched the whole interaction between you and Wooyoung, he smiled at his students. What mattered the most to him was you were safe. You were here and you were safe and well. Never mind the fact that you and your boyfriend easily made up from Friday night’s incident.

You were here.

The lecture was an enjoyable one not only for the students but him as well. As he discussed the significance of art during the Roman Empire, his students were all hooked in with his explanations and discussions, and even he got carried away excitedly with every question and topic.

“Mr. Kim is so hot.” A classmate beside you, Jennie, whispered to her friend, the two of them giggling as your professor shared his knowledge with the class.

“And he’s so nice too. You think he’s a virgin?” Minsol whispered back and you felt your heart grow hot listening to them.

You fidgeted in your seat and tried to block them out, focusing on Professor Kim.

“He’s so young to be a professor. Maybe he spent all that time studying to the max, you know! Maybe he is!”

“He’s so cute.” Minsol chuckled. “But then he’s so sexy when he pushes his hair back.”

And almost as if on cue, Mr. Kim ran his fingers through his dark brown locks, pushing them back as he smiled at his students in awe at the discussion.

He was handsome. You admitted that a long time ago. Attractive? Yes. But he was your professor. It was wrong to think of him the way Jennie and Minsol were.

Til now, their voices couldn’t be blocked out completely.

“I’d gladly blow him for a good grade,” Jennie whispered, her eyes looking Hongjoong up and down.

“Jennie!” Minsol playfully smacked her friend, her voice still hushed.

“What? Just think of it. Goody two shoes Mr.Kim so kind and worried that your grades are slipping, and then you tell him you’d do anything to raise your grade.” Jennie described the scenario so vividly. “No one needs to know what goes on behind closed doors.”

Your heart was racing in your chest as you listened to the fantasy. It didn’t help that Mr. Kim was right there before your eyes as Jennie’s voice whispered discreetly to her friend such a scandalous scenario.

“But it won’t stop there.”

That piqued your interest and you felt ashamed to have been so curious.

“He has a nice car too. Imagine fucking in the backseat of that luxury car way past campus hours in secret.”

Your heart thumped strongly at the mention of his car. You had been in his car and the dirty thought of Mr. Kim being all over your body and kissing you in the spacious backseat crossed your mind.

You couldn’t help but rub your thighs together.

Hongjoong’s eyes scanned all his students, happy that they were enjoying the class but paused when he saw you. Your body was swallowed by your boyfriend’s big varsity jacket and you looked flustered, even biting your glossed lips, fidgeting in your seat.

Then he saw the two girls next to you giggling and gossiping. What were they talking about that was making you blush so much? Briefly, your eyes moved from your notebook and locked with his but you immediately looked down when you saw that he had been looking your way.

Hongjoong could only assume they were talking about him. In what way? He wasn’t sure but it was a way that was making you look even shyer and could he dare say, hot and bothered?

Then the bell rang.

“Alright, we’ll continue the discussion on Wednesday and I’ll hand you all your Renaissance art period essays that I already graded then. Have a nice day.” Hongjoong’s elegant and calm voice echoed in the lecture hall, as he made his way behind his desk, sitting out the papers.

A chorus of thanks was sent his way as the students little by little exited the lecture hall. He looked your way, watching as you packed your things and gathered your books.

“Hey, Y/N!” Jennie turned to you. “How are you and your stud of a boyfriend?”

“Oh, m-me and Woo?” Your lashes fluttered so prettily as Hongjoong pretended he couldn’t hear you and the girls.

“Yeah! We saw you two being all cute and kissy out in the hall.” Minsol chuckled as she touched up her makeup with powder.

“We’re great.” You couldn’t stop the happy smile on your face as you thought of your boyfriend.

“He’s your first boyfriend, right? Have you two…you know….”

Your brows furrowed. “Have we what?”

Hongjoong fought his sigh at how oblivious you were.

Minsol’s eyes widened as she snapped her compact closed and leaned over. “You guys haven’t?”

“What are you two talking about?” You tilted your head like a puppy.

The two girls exchanged looks of shock.

“Y/N…” Jennie leaned closer, lowering her voice even further but Hongjoong’s ears were sharp. “Are you a virgin?”

Immediately, your face was burning as you hugged your books to your chest, wanting to cover your face with Wooyoung’s jacket.

“Holy shit!” Minsol exclaimed then realized she had been loud. She looked towards the whiteboard and saw Mr. Kim looking at the three of you questioningly. “Uh…sorry Mr. Kim!”

Hongjoong only smiled and he shook his head, returning to his papers and was glad that he was sitting behind his desk as the idea of you never being touched morphed from shock and into desire. He kind of guessed you were…but dating the star athlete and heartthrob of the campus made him second guess that you were.

“Girl, you need to come with us!” Jennie hooked her arm with yours and Minsol on the other as the two of you made your way out of the lecture hall.

“Bye, Mr. Kim!” They chimed as they dragged you out with them.

“B-bye, sir.” Your little voice reached his ears as the three of you finally left him alone in the empty hall.

Hongjoong hunched over, crossing his arms on his desk as he groaned.

You were driving him insane.

What’s worse was that you didn’t even intend to do so.

He wanted you.

He needed you.

As the afternoon passed, Hongjoong made his way to his office. The hall was empty as students were in their classes or their club activities. It was peaceful til he heard hushed whispers ahead from an empty classroom, the door only slightly ajar.

The professor frowned. Were there students doing another weed deal on campus? Before concluding, through the very small gap of the wooden double doors, he took a peek.

“S-someone could walk in.”

Was that his sweet Y/N’s voice? Hongjoong’s heart began to race.

“Baby, I promise no one is. This room is always vacant at this hour.” Wooyoung reassured you, kissing your neck as his hands roamed your body, specifically caressing your thighs that were parted as he stood between them.

Hongjoong swallowed the lump in his throat.

Perched on the large mahogany desk, was you. Your skirt was hiked up higher as your boyfriend pressed against you, his paws all over your soft body, feeling you through your clothes.

“You look so sexy in my jacket,” Wooyoung whispered in your ear, his hand moving lower til they were under your skirt. “I couldn’t stop thinking of how good you looked during lunch.”

You softly yelped when his fingers pressed against your core through your cotton panties. “W-woo!”

“Awe, baby, are you getting wet? All for me?”

“W-woo,” you whimpered when he traced his fingers along your slit, embarrassed at the dirty talk.

“Fuck, you’re soaking through your panties, baby. Tell me you want me to touch you. Ask me and I’ll make you feel good, baby.”

You wanted him to keep touching you but you felt a little guilty. You had started to feel hot way earlier than your boyfriend knew. Jennie and Minsol’s hushed whispering from class about Mr. Kim…ashamedly had made you ache.

“M-make me feel good, Woo.”

Your boyfriend groaned against your neck, rubbing you through your panties. “My pretty baby. You deserve so much.”

Your back arched when he applied more pressure to your clit.

“I’ll make you feel good, baby. I promise…. but I won’t make your first time here in a classroom.” He kissed your neck messily, licking your skin.

“But Youngie…” you didn’t want him to stop touching you. He has touched you like this many times before when he came over but it never went past that. He didn’t want to force you into something you weren’t ready for but as time passed and the more you fell for him, you’ve been wanting to go all the way with him.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll make you cum. I’ll be a good boyfriend and let my pretty girlfriend cum.” He kissed your forehead, slipping his hand under your panties to truly feel you. “You’re so wet, baby.” He moaned, collecting your slick and spreading it all over your pussy.

“Youngie,” you whimpered, gripping his shirt as your thighs trembled at the delicious friction.

“I love it when you call me that,” he sighed, repressing the urge that he indeed in fact wanted to ruin his pretty untouched girlfriend. He loved you and he wanted to treat you right as best as he could. You weren’t like the other girls he’s been with. He liked how you looked at him with stars in your eyes.

Your thighs squeezed at his sides unable to close as he continued to play with your pussy, touching you heavily and the way you liked. You couldn’t help but softly moan and pant at the intoxicating pleasure.

Hongjoong was burning with jealousy. A part of him wanted to disrupt the two of you and scold the two of you for misconduct as he had every right as a professor to do so. But…you looked so pretty falling apart for your boyfriend. Brows furrowed as your lips part and sigh, the setting sun hitting your skin in such a way that the lewd imagery before him was like a movie. He could feel his desire straining in his trousers. He wanted to watch.

“Youngie,” you whimpered so prettily.

Hongjoong took note of how your back arched when Wooyoung nibbled and kissed at a spot on your neck. You must be extra sensitive there. He also imagined how soft your breasts would be if he was the one cupping them through your cute blouse.

“You close baby?” Wooyoung rasped against your ear, rubbing your clit faster, making you lean your head forward to rest on his chest.

“Nuh-uh,” Wooyoung clicked his tongue, his right hand leaving your breast to grab you by the chin, making you look at him. “Let me see your pretty face, baby.” He swiped his thumb over your lower lip and bit his lip when you suddenly took his digit into your mouth, softly sucking on it. Where the fuck did you learn to do that? “C’mon, baby. Cum. Cum for me.”

You released his thumb with a soft pop, your lips even glossier from your gloss and saliva. You were panting and moaning so cutely, Wooyoung felt he was going to cum in his pants just at the sight of you getting off his fingers. He massaged your clit faster, watching the way your lids began to droop as you blinked up at him hazily and your lips part in a cute little ‘o’.

“Youngie!” You cried out, back arching and thighs trembling as you reached your high, your pussy dripping more arousal all over your boyfriend’s fingers.

“That’s it, baby. Such a pretty baby.” Wooyoung cooed, enjoying your fucked out expression. It was addicting really. His sweet innocent girlfriend falling apart for him. If you were this fucked out by just fingers, he can’t imagine how fucking delectable you looked when he finally fucked you.

Hongjoong bit his lip as he watched you come down from your high. How your arms wrapped around your boyfriend as he slowed his circles on your clit. He wished he could see how your pussy looked, how wet it was, and how sweet the nectar it produced.

Wooyoung took his hand from your panties and brought his fingers to his lips, your eyes widening. His hand left its grip on your face.

“W-woo!”

That didn’t stop him from letting his tongue dart out to lick his digits. “You taste so sweet, baby. Maybe I’ll come up tonight once I drop you off and really have a good taste of you.”

You blushed at his words and felt heat spark in your lower belly at what he hinted. Did he mean that he was going to kiss and taste you down there? With his tongue? The idea made your cheeks grow hot but that only made your boyfriend grin.

“Oh? You’re not opposed to it?” He teased, enjoying the way you only huffed and pouted your pretty lips. “Here, baby. Taste yourself.”

Hongjoong watched as you wearily, so curiously, poked out your cute tongue to lick your boyfriend’s fingers. How did you taste? Did you like it? You batted your lashes up at your boyfriend who awaited your verdict.

“So? How do you taste?” He took your hand in his other one, just relishing the moment you two had in the orange sunset-lit classroom.

“G-good.”

“Atta, girl.” Wooyoung grinned, taking you into his embrace and kissing you again.

Hongjoong felt his head pound from how hard he was in his pants. He wanted a taste. He needed a taste.

How was he going to get close to you when you and your boyfriend were all fine and dandy again?

“What do you say, baby? Friday night? I’ll come over and we’ll watch a movie. I’ll bring your favorite strawberries coated in chocolate. Then maybe…” he caressed your cheek. “We could go all the way?”

“W-won’t it hurt?”

Wooyoung and Hongjoong’s hearts ached at your sweetness.

“Well, when Friday rolls around, and you’re not up for it. It’s okay. We’ll just have a cozy little date and make out. I’ll wait for you when you’re ready. Okay?”

His gentle voice along with his care for you made your stomach flutter. “O-okay.” You leaned your cheek into his palm. “I love you, Woo.”

“I love you too, baby.”

While you and Wooyoung basked in the moment you two found yourselves in, Hongjoong made a beeline to his office and locked the door. He glanced down and saw the bulge of his cock poking through his tailored trousers. He threw his head back, slamming it against the door as he groaned.

He was going to have to take care of it himself cause it wasn’t going to go away til he did.

He didn’t know when the stalking— okay, in his defense, following and keeping an eye on you, started.

All Hongjoong knew was, he needed to get to know you. He needed to get closer somehow, be a friend. Someone you could turn to and cry to. Plus, you lived alone, away from your parents. You needed someone to protect you.

From all the wolves that surrounded you, including that boyfriend of yours.

As he passed the baseball field from where he parked his car, he couldn’t help but overhear a group of young wolf pups gathered and talking beneath the morning sun. They all wore the same varsity jacket, making Hongjoong’s pack of wolves analogy even truer.

“So? Did you and Y/N go all the way yet?” The Vice Captain of the team asked, the young and handsome Mr. Choi.

The rest of the boys began to nudge and tease their Captain who had been tossing the baseball in his hand nonchalantly.

“Yeah, have you and little Miss all prim and proper done more than just second base?” The tallest of them, Song Mingi, joined in the teasing, the boys all grinning and tossing oo’s and ah’s. “Your girl has a nice ass.”

“Hey,” Wooyoung harshly hissed at his teammate. “Yeah, and that’s my girl you’re talking about.”

“Can’t blame Mingi. You’re with the campus’s dream girl.” Jongho added, running his fingers through his brown hair.

“Dream girl?” Wooyoung’s brows furrowed.

“Yeah! Sure she’s lowkey and literally the nicest person on campus. Hell, she even helped me with calculus. I even thought of asking her out on a date.” San chirped. “But you got to her first. Anyway, that’s beside the point, did you guys finally do it? Friday night?”

Hongjoong remained hidden behind the shadows of the bleachers, needing to know the answer to San’s question.

“We didn’t. She got nervous and you know, I have to be a good boyfriend and wait. I don’t want to pressure her. She’s a nice girl.” Wooyoung finally responded, his answer earning a groan from his friends.

Mingi stared at him for a moment. “You should be a saint. That amount of self-control is crazy.”

“Well, good things come to those who wait, Mingi.” Wooyoung grinned. “I’m a hundred percent sure my girl is worth the wait and more.”

“You’re really down bad for her, huh?” Jongho laughed softly, actually admiring the fact that Wooyoung was becoming a better guy with you.

“Y-yeah…she is. I really love her.”

“I just can’t believe she fell for you. After all the girls you slept with in the past and the parties. She still fell for Jung Wooyoung. Anyways,” Jongho clapped Wooyoung on the back. “I hope you get some soon.”

San wouldn’t relent though.

“Has she at least been…you know….giving? I know you worship the fuck out of her in different ways but has the pretty princess given back?”

Hongjoong should head back to his office before he’s caught but…he needed to know the details.

“San, she doesn’t know how.”

Wooyoung’s response made San groan and Hongjoong fought back his own.

“She’s a fucking angel your girlfriend.” San huffed his crush on you not concerning Wooyoung as he knew San would never cross the line.

“Dude, when you get to teach her, it’s gonna be so fucking hot.” Mingi sighed, thinking of who to contact for his next hookup. He needed to fuck.

Hongjoong couldn’t help but agree. To teach someone as beautiful and pretty as you, how to use your cute mouth and delicate hands…the fantasy of you between his legs while he sits on his office couch…guiding you while you look up at him for him to lead you…the young pups have a point.

“Okay, can you guys chill and not talk about my girlfriend like that?” Wooyoung lightly scolded his friends. “Anyways, you guys better be on your best behavior for tonight’s practice. I'm driving Y/N home for our date and I really don’t want to have to bail again because Coach isn’t happy with our performance.”

“We’ll do our best,” San spoke for them, sending a pointed glare to Mingi and Jongho, they’re bickering always getting their Coach to overtime their practices. “But coach hasn’t been in a good mood as far as I know.”

Wooyoung swore under his breath, worry bubbling in his chest when he imagined your disappointment and the way your eyes become glassy as you fight back tears. He really didn’t want to make you feel like he didn’t care about you again…he knew you understood his obligations to his team. He just hoped he wouldn’t forget to update you this time and keep you waiting for him.

Hongjoong didn’t stay long after that. He went off his merry way back to his office, wondering if tonight would be another chance to have some time with you again. Be your knight in shining armor if your boyfriend doesn’t pick you up again.

All he needed to do was stay in your good graces.

After all, he just wanted to take care of you…

It began with longer conversations after class, asking how you were doing and if you understood the lecture or not. Then when midterms started to round the corner he would casually stay past campus hours just so that he could ‘by chance’ be finishing up late at the same time you were finished up studying in the library.

But this time, when he found you, the sun was beginning to set and you were in one of the library aisles, in the sections students don’t frequent, on the floor hugging your knees to your chest. Your back was against the tall wooden bookshelf and you were by the window, your head below the window pane as you softly sniffled.

Hongjoong felt his stomach twist. What did your boyfriend do?

“Ms. L/N?” As softly as he could, he called out to you and he saw you visibly stiffen.

“M-Mr. Kim?” You kept your head down, too embarrassed to look up at him because he would see the tears and puffiness in your eyes.

“Are you okay, Ms. L/N?” He slowly approached, observing your body language if you would shrink away from him. He kneeled before you. “Did something happen? Why are you crying?”

You bit your lip, fighting back the way it quivered as you wanted to tell him exactly what happened but you were crying over something so silly.

A gentle warm hand softly patted your head, your heart stopping at the touch. Maybe you could tell him everything. Besides…he has been so kind to you and only ever wanted to make sure you were okay. When the two of you spent time together and talked, you would sometimes forget he was your professor and not just a friend.

And yet, your heart couldn’t help but want to be in the palm of his hand, knowing he’d be gentle with it.

When you lifted your head to look at him, the tears in your eyes had Hongjoong almost falling to his knees and wanting to embrace you right then and there. “I’ll take you to my office okay?” He offered, taking out his handkerchief and putting it in your trembling hands.

“O-okay.” You murmured.

With a guiding arm around your shoulders and making sure no wandering eyes would see the two of you, the likelihood being low since it was past class hours, the varsity teams were training and it was a Friday, he led you to his office.

You stood awkwardly in the middle of his office, clutching his handkerchief in your hand, a part of your brain contemplating the idea of being vulnerable in your professor's office. It was highly inappropriate. Should anyone find out—

You were torn from your thoughts when a pair of warm arms wrapped around you so gently. You blinked a couple of times unable to process what was happening and the beating of your heart. Hongjoong cradled the back of your head as he held you close to him, your cheek brushing against his neck.

“It hurts to see you cry.” He whispered, unable to hold himself back from soothing you then he pulled away and led you to the leather couch in his office.

You sat on one end while he was on the other, the gap between you reminding you of the intrusive thought of the distance you and Wooyoung might have soon…

“What’s wrong, darling? You can tell me, you know. I’m always here to lend an ear. Whatever it is I won’t judge you, especially when it hurts you this deeply.”

Hongjoong tried to meet your eyes that were cast down on your fingers on your lap, fiddling with his handkerchief. Was it your boyfriend? He swore if it was Jung Wooyoung he was going to teach that boy a lesson.

Hesitantly, you allowed yourself to speak freely to him.

A moment of weakness?

“I-I overheard Youngie’s friends when I was in the library…they were about to leave for practice and…” you felt that lump in your throat creep up higher, making you want to sob again as you remembered what they said. “They said that they felt b-bad for him.”

Bad for him?

“It’s a bit…tmi…sir. I’m sorry it’s hard to speak about it.” You stared at the edge of your skirt, feeling the shame and embarrassment you had felt earlier crawling on your skin.

“Ah? TMI.” Hongjoong crossed his arms over his chest, trying to play it off as if it’s nothing to make it comfortable for you to tell him. “Well, Ms. L/N, we are two adults, aren’t we not? Plus, it’s after university hours. I’m here for you right now as a friend and I’d like to help soothe your troubles if you would let me.”

It was almost too easy the way you caved into his words. Jung Wooyoung did not deserve a sweet girl like you.

“Youngie’s teammates…said they feel bad for him because I haven’t…” you paused, heat blooming in your tear-stained cheeks. “I haven’t slept with him.” Then you felt that ache in your heart return. “I don’t want to lose him, Mr. Kim. I love him so much. I-I want to be a good girlfriend.”

Hongjoong’s heart broke. His beautiful wilted rose. How dare those dumb boys speak so ill of you?

“You’re a good girlfriend I’m sure, Ms. L/N.” He reassured you with such calmness, his words made you perk up a little. “You didn’t hear these words from Wooyoung himself right?”

You nodded.

“But even though…I still want to make him feel good. He always makes me feel…” you trailed off, realizing that you were talking about the intimate things you and your boyfriend do. “It’s not that I don’t want to be with Wooyoung like that…I just…I don’t want to disappoint him.”

“Disappoint him how?”

“Wooyoung has been with girls…with experience. He’s my first boyfriend and he’s the first man to ever touch m-me…kiss me…”

Hongjoong was fighting back the attraction grew the more you spoke about your lack of experience. He couldn’t believe those boys had you questioning your worth all because you were scared to go all the way with your boyfriend.

“I-I even tried watching…videos…on how I can do things for Wooyoung…but I just am too scared to initiate it. What if I do something wrong and it goes horribly?”

“You shouldn’t need to worry about that. I’m sure your…” Hongjoong held himself back from saying what he said with jealousy. “…boyfriend would be more than happy to teach you. Has he offered to?”

You shook your head.

“Ah…I see.” Hongjoong sat back, trying to think of what to say next. “I’m pretty sure what you lack is practice…” he trod carefully, gauging your expression with each word he was choosing. “You’ll never know til you give it a try. With everything in life, you learn as you go.”

He watched as you took each word seriously, a rather sweet pensive look on your face as you nodded at his advice. Hongjoong hoped he didn’t cross the line by saying that and made things awkward between the two of you.

“If I may speak as another human being helping another,” Hongjoong continued, hoping to calm your stormy mind. “I just hope you don’t feel pressured to do anything with your boyfriend or anyone. It’s very sweet of you to want to do something this intimate with someone you desire but I’d rather you won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

You fiddled with the hem of your skirt, going over all the caring and sweet affirmations Mr. Kim was giving you. How was it you felt so safe with him? He was too kind to you…yet you enjoyed the company he gave.

When Wooyoung wasn’t able to take you home from extended practices and last minute cancellations and texts, Professor Kim was always there to somehow salvage the day. To stop the breaking of your heart with his warm smile and effort to get to know you and make conversation.

“M-Mr. Kim…”

You finally spoke. Hongjoong smiled warmly at the call of his name. He observed how your cheeks began to flush. Your teeth sink into your lower lip as you hesitate to continue. You suck in a shaky breath, forcing yourself to be brave and look him in the eye.

“Could you guide me?”

Nothing but your voice rang in his ears at this moment. Hongjoong was shocked by the question. Was it a question? With the way your eyes were bleary and glossy, how your lips were trembling, and how flustered you appeared. It was a plea.

“Ms.L/N….” He tried to resist as much as he could, knowing that if he were to cross the line, he wouldn’t be able to go back. You were his forbidden desire. If he were to take a bite, he would want nothing more than to consume you.

You knew what you asked was silly and inappropriate, and a part of you regretted asking but if you were to leave this room right now, all you would be able to think about was how Wooyoung’s friends talked about you and wonder how much Wooyoung shared to his friends about yours and his relationship.

Mr.Kim looked speechless and flustered from what you asked of him. Maybe you shouldn’t have asked.

“Mr.Kim, I-I’m so sorry,” you quickly blurted out, trying to salvage the odd atmosphere. “Please forget everything I said. Thank you so much for comforting me—

"Are you sure you want me to help, Ms. L/N?” Hongjoong stopped your rambling, taking your hand that you hadn’t realized was trembling from nerves but the moment he spoke and he touched you, your body found a sense of calm. “I just don’t want to make you do anything you’ll regret.”

Oh, he wanted to help.

“I-I wouldn’t have asked anyone else but you...I feel safe with you.” You mumbled shyly, staring at his pretty hand holding yours, his thumb rubbing soothingly over your knuckles.

“Your trust in me is something I shall cherish and I wouldn’t dare break it.” He looked you in the eyes as he said that, the warmth and intensity of them made your heart flutter. “I promise I’ll keep it strictly professional and I’ll make sure to put your comfort first.”

Your heart fluttered again. “O-okay.”

“How would you like this to go?”

“I-I’m not sure…Wooyoung usually takes the lead whenever we do anything more than kissing…” you were speaking so softly, it was pulling at Hongjoong’s heartstrings. You were so precious. “I wouldn’t mind you taking the lead…teach me how to make Wooyoung feel good.” You squeezed his hand nervously and he kept his soft smile on his face, hiding his excitement.

You’ll let him take the lead?

“Okay, sweetheart. I promise I won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with okay?” He caressed your cheek fondly, forcing himself to not brush your lips with his thumb. “Tell me to stop when it gets too much.”

“Thank you, sir.” You whispered, feeling all tense as he got closer.

Sir? Were you trying to kill him? He scooted closer, your knees touching his own. “Do I have permission to touch you, darling?”

The pet name made you feel just a little bit more hotter. The way he said it, his voice a low purr, made you feel things you thought you’d only feel with Wooyoung.

“Y-yes, sir.”

Experimentally, he slowly glided his hand up the side of your thigh, the sweet gasp falling from your lips making him smirk against your neck. He brushed his lips against your neck, before whispering in your ear. “You’ve watched videos as research, correct?”

You stuttered out your response, feeling your body grow warm with the way his hand smoothed up and down your thigh, never going higher than where your skirt stopped. “I did…” Was it wrong that you wanted his hand to move higher?

Hongjoong held back from kissing your neck, testing the waters of what exactly he could do to you. His hand moved to your waist now, caressing the curve of your side then stopping so that his thumb was just below the underside of your bra covered chest.

“Why don’t you show me what you learned, hm? Then I’ll guide you along the way.” He suggested, his tone going just a little lower than usual.

And that’s how you found yourself on your knees, between your professor's trousered thighs, your eyes looking at him with such uncertainty and the willingness to learn.

“Don’t be shy. I’m sure you won't disappoint,” Hongjoong reassured you, petting your head lovingly while his thoughts were going wild at the mere sight of you all cute and demure between his legs.

“O-okay.”

As you had watched and observed, you placed your hands on his thighs. They trembled a little. What if you messed up here too? You shook the thought away. Professor Kim was going to guide you. You’ll be okay and then you’ll be able to make Wooyoung feel good too.

All of this was for Wooyoung.

You slowly slid your hands up his thighs feeling the smooth fabric of his trousers as you recounted the videos you had seen. You remembered how the woman in the video would trace her fingers over the man’s groin…but was Hongjoong even…turned on?

You remember how stiff Wooyoung would get when you were on his lap as you two made out, his hands running up and down your sides then over the curve of your ass, squeezing it.

Do you need to kiss Mr. Kim too?

Before asking, you experimentally softly placed your palm against his groin, blushing to find that he was hot and rather stiff through his pants. A shaky breath escaped him and you retracted your hand.

“W-was that not okay?”

“It was fine,” he managed a smile for you, getting hard at just how shy and sweet you were. “You’re doing fine.”

“O-okay,” you swallowed the lump in your throat, gliding your palm over his clothed groin before sliding higher, your other hand joining to unbuckle his belt.

Each gentle and inexperienced touch or ghost of your fingers over his crotch was making his cock twitch to life. It was so easy for him to be turned on…well…because it was you. It was endearing how focused yet nervous you were and once you tugged his briefs down low enough for his cock to spring up, your eyes stared at his length.

From his reclined position on the couch, his legs spread to accommodate you, he was able to notice the way your thighs squeezed to tether at the sight of him.

Your face was hot as your eyes took in the sight of his cock. It was way more intimidating to see one in person than on a screen…was it odd for you to think it was rather pretty? The head was a soft pink and it glistened with something that made your tongue somehow itch to want to try and wrap your mouth around him. Would he fit in your mouth? Would he fit in— you stopped yourself from thinking that. You can’t go all the way with Mr. Kim, you were going to do that with Wooyoung.

Feeling his warm gaze on you, you gently wrapped your hand around his length. The feeling of him hot and heavy in your palm, the girth of him, made your core pulse.

Hongjoong bit his lip at the gentle touch, the smoothness of your palm, and the dainty way you held him making him sensitive to whatever you were doing. He knew it wasn’t on purpose that you were prolonging any sort of movement, you weren’t sure what to do next.

“Tell me what you learned,” he managed to speak calmly. “Or what you observed.”

Squeezing your thighs together and inching closer to get into a comfortable position, you thought of what to answer. “In the videos…the girls take their partner in their mouth…and some just move their hand…I'm not sure what to do next, I’m sorry.” You looked away, embarrassed.

This was exactly why you never initiated it with Wooyoung. If you did and you messed up or did not even follow through, he would’ve mentioned it to his friends somehow in their talks.

Hongjoong saw how nervous you were and tried to suppress the desire to command you what to do and how you should do it, he placed his hand over yours that was softly holding his cock. He couldn’t be mean to you…as much as he wanted to completely control you and make you feel pleasure that would have you falling apart for him, he wanted to be gentle with you.

“I’ll guide you, okay?” His other hand petted the top of your head, making the nerves yo I had been feeling dwindle. You nodded.

“You have to spit on it first, sweetheart.”

His words made your eyes widen. The dirty notion was embellished with a sweet term of endearment. Hearing it from him, from the mouth where only kindness, care and knowledge was all you heard come out of it, made you feel warm.

“Spit on it?”

“I know it sounds odd but it’ll help. I’ll guide you on how to use your hand first. Don’t be shy, darling.”

His encouragement only made you want to do as he says. You told yourself it only feels weird because you’ve never done it before and Mr. Kim was kind enough to help you be more confident when the time comes for you to do it with your boyfriend.

Leaning over, you collected your saliva and spat softly. Hongjoong bit back any sound that dared escape him at the moment not ready to break the promise of being professional for your sake but the warmth of your spit and how shyly you did it turned him on even more.

“Now,” he guided your hand. “Spread it around with my precum like this.” He loosely moved your hand, letting your dainty fingers be covered by the mix of your spit and his precum. “It’ll be easier to move your hand this way, it’ll feel good.”

You nodded, feeling the slickness against your palm and how it now easily glided along his length with his hand still over yours.

“You have to hold it just a little tighter.” He closed his hand over yours a little tighter but not too tight but just enough to tell you how much pressure you should be applying.

“L-like this?” You adjusted your grip and slowly while your hand moved in slow up and down motions, he removed his hand and a deep sigh of bliss left him.

“Just like that, sweetheart…just like that.” His voice dipped lower and his head rolled back a little, giving you the perfect view of his sharp jawline and pink lips.

Your eyes kept shifting from his face and to his cock in your hand, entranced somehow by the idea of how he was feeling good by just your hand. Watching a video was completely different from actually doing it. You recalled the way a girl in a video would twist her hand as she glided her hand up and down, and you decided to try the motion.

Hongjoong hissed out a curse at the new movement. “That feels good.” His hips bucked up a little, pushing his cock up in your hand.

Feeling a little braver, you leaned forward to press your lips on the head of his cock, kissing it and feeling heat surge to your core at how warm the tip was against your lips.

Hongjoong lifted his head from its thrown back position to look at you, the sudden sensation of your soft lips on his cock turning him on further.

“You want to try that already?” He asked, his hand gripping the armrest of the couch when your doe eyes looked up at him so innocently, your lips wrapped around the head of his cock, and nodded, it was driving him crazy. It was getting harder and harder to retain any sense of composure. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Show me what you learned. You’re already doing so well. You look so cute like this too.”

His words of praise and compliments made both your heart and core throb. It made you try even harder to please him. You wondered if it was okay that you were getting wet. You could feel your slick sticking to the gusset of your panties and against the lips of your pussy.

Hongjoong moaned softly when he felt your hot tongue swirling around his cock head. He twitched within your hand continued their rhythmic twisting and up and down rhythm. He watched as you tasted him. He could see the way your brows furrowed at the taste and when he felt you take more of him in your mouth and suckle at the sensitive tip of his cock, you were making it harder for him to not buck his hips up into your pretty mouth.

“You doing okay?” He asked, gently placing his hand behind the back of your head, caressing you.

You nodded, humming, the vibrations of your sound adding some extra pleasure to the way you were giving him head.

“F-fuck, you’re doing so good, sweetheart. Such a good girl.”

The way he said that made your pussy clench. Why did that have some effect on you? It sounded so hot coming from him and it made you want to please him even more.

Eventually, you took what you could of him in your mouth, fighting back your gag reflex and bobbing your head shallowly along his cock. Your hand continued to jerk what you couldn’t fit of his length in your little mouth. You were aching so bad, you couldn’t help but let your free hand slide between your thighs to find your pussy, surprised at how wet you were. It was easy to spread your arousal all over your cunt and begin massaging your clit the way you liked, settling for the friction of your fingers.

Hongjoong noticed your dainty hand between your legs. The sight of you suckling and bobbing your cute head up and down along his cock, and touching yourself was sending him to the edge. Plus your lips tinted with pink gloss were mixing with your saliva as you continued to suck him off. You were so fucking cute.

“I’m close darling. You’re doing so well. You had nothing to be so nervous about. F-fuck.” He shuddered when he felt the head of his cock hit the back of your throat and you squeaked so adorably, the sound muffled. What a cute little slut you were touching yourself as you stuffed your little mouth with his cock. Though he was saying such sweet praises, deep down he wanted to fuck his cock into your mouth and watch you cry from taking him. He was betting you’d look up at him with wide pleading eyes with tears as you let him use you as his personal cock sleeve.

The mere thought of that sent him over the edge and without warning, he came. A small squeak left you as sudden hot spurts of cum spilled into your mouth. You latched off of him in surprise, your hand still pumping him as he came. His moans and the way his head was thrown back, made you stop touching yourself so you could focus fully on the way he climaxed all over your face.

“Fuck!” He groaned as his hand that was cradling your head gripped your hair and his hips bucked up into your hand, riding out his high. You whimpered as he tugged at your hair, the sensation making your clit throb. Why did that feel good? Why did having his release on your cheeks and in your mouth, turned you on?

“Open up, darling. Let me see.” Hongjoong tugged your hair back almost forcibly, his gaze almost predatory, it scared you a bit. You’ve never seen such a dark, menacing yet charming expression on your sweet and kind professor.

You parted your lips and he smirked.

He wondered if you knew just how cute and ruined your look right now. Pink gloss smeared over your lips and your cheeks flushed and stained with his white sticky cum, and the best of all, his seed was on your tongue.

He wished he could take a picture.

You didn’t realize you were breathing slowly as your heart was racing and he stared down at you with a glint in his eye that you couldn’t quite place.

“You look so pretty like this, darling.” His grip on your hair loosened and his hand moved to cup your cheek, his thumb dipping into your mouth as you still obediently kept your lips parted for him. He smeared more of his cum all over your lips and chin, finding the idea of him on your skin so hot…it’s like he marked you. “Such a good girl.” He cooed and you didn’t know why you did what you did but you swallowed his salty release, and his reaction made it all worth it. “What a perfect girl you are.”

His praise only made your heart flutter, his words only feeding that part of you that wanted to please him…to please Wooyoung.

“D-do you think Woo will like it?” You asked, your voice a little hoarse as you sat there on your knees, looking up at him so sweetly.

Hongjoong held back from rolling his eyes at the mention of the boy who didn’t deserve you. He masked his annoyance with a smile. “He’ll like it, darling. You did really well. I mean it.” He took his handkerchief and began to clean you up, gently dabbing your cheek.

Despite the ache between your thighs, you couldn’t stop the way a smile grew on your face at the approval from your most trusted mentor.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Kim—

“Hongjoong.” He cut you off with a gentle smile, looking at you lovingly.

“What?” You stuttered that same feeling you felt earlier, the confusion of the same way he made your heart flutter like Wooyoung does.

“You can call me Hongjoong when it’s just the two of us, darling. I think with how close we’ve gotten…I’d like you to call me by my name. Don’t you think we’re rather close?”

There was something about his eyes that captivated you. It was so magnetic it was hard to not be completely wonderstruck and in control of that powerful gaze.

All you could do was nod.

“That’s a good girl…” he cooed, smiling warmly. “Perhaps, you need more guidance. You want to be a good girlfriend for your Wooyoung right?”

You did, you wanted to be the best girlfriend for him.

“I do…”

“Sometimes what you see online is not entirely reliable. I’m offering you…private lessons…doesn’t that sound good for you?”

You nodded, letting him pull you up on and onto his lap, gasping when your core pressed against his thigh.

“I’ll teach you all there is to know. I want what's best for you and for you to know exactly what you’re getting into.” He ran his hand up and down your thigh, slowly. “You don’t want to disappoint Wooyoung, right?”

“I don’t Sir…” you said so quickly.

So innocent. So naive. So dumb. So perfect for him to ruin.

He never thought he’d get to this point.

All this time, he has only ever admired you and desired you from afar. He kept his reputation as a well-loved and kind professor so that no one and you, especially you, would ever question his motives.

“Now, I think we should try this again. You did really well but I can teach you a little extra something that will make your boyfriend so, so, so happy.”

feel free to scream in my askbox about the fic I will gladly fangirl with you and I love feedback. It keeps me writing.

special tags : @khjcs @skteezcursed @caityelise99

#hongjoong x reader #hongjoong smut #wooyoung x reader #wooyoung smut #ateez au #ateez x reader #ateez scenarios #ateez fanfic #ateez smut

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