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lexalith · 1 day ago

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FRIENDS || Choi Su-Bong (Thanos)

summary: after late-night sexting with your best friend, everything changes. the bond you thought was purely platonic starts to feel deeper. were these feelings always there, hidden beneath the surface? or did something just… click? is this the start of something real, or the beginning of a mistake that could ruin everything?

warnings: aged up female reader (they’re both in their late twenties) (MDNI), smut (masturbation, fingering, public sex, p in v, oral sex (f and m), sexting, edging, praising, unprotected sex (don’t be silly)) semi and minsu are victims of the reader’s and subong’s freakiness, angst (name calling, miscommunication, pushing, throwing things, lying, deception, fear of commitment, reader refuses to help him at some point, slapping, slutshame remarks), overuse of the words ‘fuck’ and ‘fucking’ (lmaoo), subong should be a warning himself, fwb dynamic, reader uses someone to forget subong, drug use and addiction.

a/n: i’ve never ever written anything here on tumblr before, so i don’t really know what i’m doing, help. also, english isn’t my first language, so mistakes should be present!! lowercase is intentional. this is an au with no games. text messages are in different colors (orange for the reader, purple for subong). the reader’s dialogue is in bold. mind you, this is LOOOONG (it’s a whole fic)

songs that inspired me to write this: friends — chase atlantic || back to friends — sombr || heartbeat — childish gambino || casual — chappell roan

this fic was also inspired by @jedisupernova ‘s writing, check out her page and fics!!! (they’re soooo good)

you’re still thinking about what that guy said. it wasn’t even a big deal, not really. just some random jerk at the club who’d had a few too many drinks and decided to share his unfiltered thoughts about your body. “you’re not really my type,” he’d said, like you’d asked. then he’d laughed and added, “not many guys would go for that.”

it shouldn’t bother you. you know it shouldn’t. but now, a few nights later, it’s stuck in your head, looping like a song you can’t turn off. so, lying in bed, scrolling aimlessly, you do what you always do when something’s bugging you—you text him. your best friend.

subong. are you awake?

yes ma’am. why?

i got a random question. but like, it’s not that deep

???

do you think i’m attractive?

you fire it off without overthinking, like it’s no big deal. it’s not weird to ask your best friend something like this. right?

it takes him a few minutes to reply.

what kind of question is that?

just answer

i’m too high for this shit, bro

you’re not high🙄 liar

i wish i were

omfg can you just say yes or no? please? but be honest, i promise i won’t get mad

yeah, i think u are

really?

sure thinggg, u’re hot mama

dude quit playing, i’m being serious over here

i’m not fucking playing

okay you think i’m attractive but like… what kind of attractive? cute attractive? like awwww. or i’d-fuck-you-raw attractive?

what are we even talking about

why can’t you just answer?😭

what is this for?

for my knowledge

tf is that supposed to mean?

you stare at the screen, mentally deciding whether you should tell him about what happened or not. you hadn’t told him before, not wanting to give it more attention. but this time, you decide to.

ugh, remember i went clubbing the other day? well this dude was being an asshole to me and he said some stuff and i can’t stop thinking about it so just be fucking honest and answer my question

some stuff? what stuff?

he said, and i quote ‘not many guys would go for that’. ‘that’ is me, btw💀

who tf is this dude?

bruh idk, some random guy, it doesn’t matter

it does?

are you gonna answer my question or no?

yeah. i think u r both kinds.

good, good, you think to yourself. his reply makes you relax a little, the knot in your stomach loosening. he thinks you’re attractive. of course he does—he’s your best friend, and best friends are supposed to hype you up.

for a moment, you stare at your phone, chewing on your bottom lip. you know you should leave it there, let it go. but something keeps tugging at you.

so, hypothetically, would you… yk, with me?

the second you hit send, panic sets in. your pulse skyrockets, and you almost want to throw your phone across the room. why did you do that? why couldn’t you just shut up? but you don’t have time to spiral, because the dots appear almost immediately.

are u serious?

and you freeze. your fingers hover over the screen, but you can’t bring yourself to type anything back. what kind of answer is that?

alr, imma be honest. yeah i would

your heart stops. you blink at the message, reading it again and again, like the words might change if you look long enough. you weren’t prepared for this.

subong’s typing…

would u? with me?

you want to lie, to brush it off, but your fingers move before your brain can stop them.

maybe

the dots pop up again. then disappear. then pop up again.

maybe?? that means yes. cmon i’m hot as hell, baby, u know it. u’ve probably touched yourself thinking about me at least once

wtf bro you’re giving me the biggest ick rn 💀

but have u?

and you? i bet you jerk off to my insta photos, perv. don’t even start lmaoo

can’t help it when u look that good💯

you stare at his message, your mind scrambling to process it. you feel your breath catch in your throat. the shock should be overwhelming, but instead, you feel a strange warmth spread through you.

you didn’t expect this. the idea that he’s been thinking about you like that… it sends a shiver down your spine. you should probably tell him to stop, tell him it’s too much, but instead, you feel yourself leaning in, pulled toward this conversation in a way you didn’t think you would be.

i may or may not have done the same with your insta pics

i knew itttt señorita 🙏🏼

shut up

how many times?

why do you wanna know?🤨

i answered ur stupid ass questions, now u answer mine

maybe like idk, two?

no fucking way, just two????????

you think it’s not enough or what???? how many times have you done it?

more than u wanna know

how bad are we talking?

so bad i’ve lost count. u really want me to get into details?

maybe i do

bro, let’s just say that everytime u post i’m over here fighting a battle

you do realize i’m your bestfriend right?

yeah, so?

so aren’t there any girls to jerk off to instead of me???

yeah but they don’t make me as hard

you stare at the screen, your heart pounding, your legs squeezing together instinctively. what the hell is happening right now? and then another message comes through.

even saying this shit is getting me worked up

what???😭 you’re hard??

yeah bro, what's a guy supposed to do when his best friend asks if he would fuck her?

it was hypothetical

hypothetically speaking, if a guy was attracted to his best friend, he'd probably be rock fucking hard right now. so yeah, i'm fucking hard, girl

your stomach flips at the bluntness of his words. you can feel the blood rushing to your face as you stare at the message.

too much info, subong

nahhh, u asked. u wanted details, so here they are

okay… should i leave you to it?

fuck no

damn alr, suffer then🙄

could u help me out?

help you out?????????????

with a pic of u or smth

boy whatttttttttt

what?

i’m not sending you fucking nudes wtf 💀💀

no one asked for that, stupid. just a pic of u

just a pic of you. the request feels so simple. he’s your bestfriend—it’s not that big of a deal, right? especially after everything you’ve both just confessed to each other.

your eyes flick toward the mirror in your room. you’re in your pajamas. no bra. you know how it looks. it’s the kind of thing you wouldn’t think twice about wearing around him in person, but now, with this conversation, it feels different. your legs carry you to the mirror almost on autopilot. you pick up your phone and angle it toward your reflection. you shouldn’t even be entertaining this. but instead, you snap the picture. you stare at it for a moment, biting your lip. it’s not explicit—it’s just you. but still… you know exactly how he’ll see it.

your thumb hovers over the send button, hesitation gripping you. a hundred reasons not to do this race through your head, but one single thought drowns them all out: you want to know how he’ll react. before you can second-guess yourself, you hit send. the moment it delivers, your stomach drops, a mix of adrenaline and regret washing over you. you sit down on the edge of your bed, staring at the screen, waiting for his response, your heart pounding louder with every passing second.

hoooooooooly shitttttttttt

it’s just a pic

yeah, a pic of u looking like that

im just in my pajamas

and i’m hornier now, if that’s even possible

subong you can’t just say stuff like that

why not? we always tell each other everything

i should’ve thrown on a hoodie

i’d still be thinking of what’s underneath

well, glad i could help your horny ass🫡 enjoy or whatever

subong’s typing…

subong’s online

subong’s typing…

subong’s online

you watch the dots—flickering like they're mocking you. you can't help but wonder what he's typing—or if he's second-guessing whatever bold thing he's about to say. but then, they disappear. nothing. you frown, staring at the screen, waiting a few more seconds. still nothing. you realize exactly what he's probably doing. you bite your lip, heat creeping up your neck as the image forms in your mind: him, sitting there, hand wrapped around his dick, staring at the picture you sent.

you feel like you need to do something—anything—to distract yourself. you toss your phone onto the bed and reach for the remote, flipping on a random tv show. you let the noise fill the silence, but your mind keeps drifting back to him. it's a few minutes later when your phone dings. the sound cuts through the room like a knife, and you hesitate for a moment, staring at the screen, before finally reaching for it.

it's him. he sent a picture.

these are my pajamas. now we’re even, baby

him, standing in front of the mirror, shirtless and wearing only a pair of tight black briefs. the way he's posing is so over the top... he's trying way too hard. his expression is almost comical, like he's not really sure if he's pulling it off but is hoping you'll think he is. you can't help it—you stifle a laugh. but then your eyes drop, and that laughter dies in your throat. the bulge is so obvious, pushing against the fabric in a way that's impossible to ignore. it's not just visible, it's big. big enough that your pulse spikes, and you forget to breathe for a second. that laughter you were holding back? gone. you glance back at his goofy grin in the mirror, but it's no longer funny. shit. you’re wet.

you don't even know how it happens. one moment, you're staring at his picture, then a teasing comment here, a bold reply there—and before you know it, you're lying on your bed, your phone clutched in one hand and your other slipping between your thighs, pressed against the growing ache he's stoked with every message. you've never gone this far with him before—always ignoring his obvious flirting. but you can’t stop now. and he isn’t shy about it either, telling you with detail everything he would do to you.

u'd look soooo fucking good begging under me, baby

and what if i don’t?

then i'd make u

mhmmm, how?

fuck, i’d bury my face between those thighs and eat u out until u can’t take it anymore

a soft gasp escapes your lips as you read, your body reacting to the vivid images his words paint in your mind. you know you shouldn't be doing this—not with him—but the way he's describing everything makes you forget about all the reasons why. you’re far past the point of feeling shy too. you bite your lip, barely believing yourself as you hit send.

i wish you could feel how wet i am just thinking about you fucking me from behind

god damn girl, i’d stretch that pussy so good my dick is the only thing u’d think about for weeks

and then, it's not just texting anymore—you're sending pictures, even though you swore you wouldn't. the first one is a close-up of your fingers, glistening with your juices. his reply comes almost instantly, not as a text but as a voice message. “shit, baby, you're f-fucking killing me... mhmm... look at that. you're so fucking wet f’me, I can almost taste it through the screen... fuck...” his voice is low and rough, broken by soft, shaky breaths. you can hear him stroking himself, moans slipping out between words. you're losing your damn mind over it, replaying the voice message again and again—fingers curling inside of you as you push them in and out, wishing it were his fingers instead of yours.

he sends a pic too. this time, he leaves nothing to the imagination. it’s a selfie, his face barely visible at the corner. the center of attention is his hard dick, hand wrapped around it, tip leaking precum. and the only thing that comes to your mind right there and then is just how badly you want to take him in your mouth.

one picture leads to another, the messages growing dirtier with every exchange. his words are filthy, his photos even filthier, and the way he talks about your body—what he'd do to it, what he's imagining—fucking hell. your breathing quickens, your body burning with need, and before you know it, that familiar tension starts to coil low in your stomach.

shit, subong… i’m close

u’re gonna cum for me? cmon pretty girl, let me hear you

you hit record just as your orgasm crashes over you, moaning his name loudly as you cum on your fingers. after a few minutes, he sends a voice message back “you sound so fucking good… shit, look what you’ve done t-to me… mmm… fuck, fuck, fuck… i’m gonna cum thinking about fucking you, baby. i’m gonna cum thinking about you making those… s-sounds while i fucking pound into you.”

the next few days are a blur. he hasn’t texted, and you haven’t either. but no matter what you do, you can’t stop thinking about what happened. no matter how hard you try to shake it off, it’s there. his voice, the way he sounded saying your name, the damn nudes, the way your heart raced as you typed those things to him.

you don’t know how to feel about it. on one hand, you can’t deny how much you wanted it in the moment. but now? now you’re not sure. did you cross a line? did he? part of you regrets it, wishes you could just rewind and stop yourself before things spiraled. but another part—one you’re trying to ignore—remembers how good it felt, how right it seemed in the moment.

and then there’s the friendship. years of it. he’s been your best friend for a few years now. he knows things about you no one else does and he’s seen you at your absolute worst. like that night you showed up at his door after a horrible breakup. mascara streaked down your cheeks, and he didn’t say a word—just handed you a blanket, put on your favorite movie, and sat there with you until you fell asleep on his shoulder.

but it wasn’t always serious. like the time he tried rapping one of his freestyles for you, all cocky, and you laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe. or like the time you tripped over absolutely nothing at the mall, and he laughed so hard he cried, then spent weeks reenacting it whenever you were around. or when he clogged your toilet and tried to fix it himself instead of just telling you. or when he picked a fight with some guy at a club because the guy bumped into you and didn’t apologize. he got all puffed up and said, “you got a problem, man?” like he was some kind of action movie hero. but the guy was huge, like, rugby player huge, and before you could drag subong away, he swung and missed, and the dude took him down in one hit. he spent the rest of the night with a bloody nose and ice pressed to his face, grumbling, “he got lucky.” you still remind him of how he ‘lost a fight in one punch,’ and it always makes him groan.

you’ve got a thousand stupid inside jokes that no one else would understand, like how you always text each other ‘don’t die’ instead of ‘goodnight’ because of some dumb horror movie you watched together. or the fact that he nicknamed you ‘señorita’ when you said you wanted to visit spain one day.

he’s a walking disaster, an endless source of secondhand embarrassment, and somehow, that’s what makes subong… subong. being around him has always felt easy, like slipping into your favorite hoodie—comfortable, familiar, safe.

but friends don’t do… that. what if it’s never the same again? you’ve always been comfortable with him, never overthinking what you said or did around him. now, you can’t imagine looking him in the eye without thinking about what you two did together. you keep telling yourself that things will go back to normal, but deep down, you’re scared they won’t. because you’re not sure you can go back—not after knowing what it felt like to be wanted by him in that way. not after letting yourself want him back.

one day, out of the blue, he texts you like nothing happened. just casually, like you didn't have your hand between your thighs while listening to him moan your name a few nights ago.

yoooo, wanna hop on call and play videogames? i’m bored

at first, you stare at the text, because... what does this mean? is this his way of brushing it under the rug? of pretending nothing ever happened? still, you say yes. because what else can you do? you hop into the call, and there he is—joking, laughing, completely normal. like the two of you didn't cross every possible line. he's so good at acting like nothing's changed, it almost convinces you. you match his energy, responding with the same casual ease. maybe this is fine. maybe you're fine.

then the group chat lights up a few days later: a cinema meet-up. everyone's throwing out ideas for what movie to watch, talking about snacks, debating over showtimes. he's there, throwing in jokes about popcorn sizes and his infamous sweet tooth, and you're sitting there trying to decide if you can handle seeing him face to face. you hesitate, debating if you should just make up an excuse not to go. but then he replies to the chat, tagging you specifically.

u better be there señorita

i will🙃

the day arrives faster than you’d like, and before you know it, you’re standing outside the cinema, stomach flipping as you spot namgyu, minsu, gyeongsu, and semi waving at you. you force a smile and walk over, doing your best to focus on their chatter and ignore the nerves crawling up your spine. but then you see him—subong, leaning against the wall, vape in hand. and when his eyes land on you, he smirks. he knows damn well. he knows exactly what you’re thinking, and he’s not going to make this easy for you. “finally,” he says when you’re close enough. “i was starting to doubt you’d come.” “why wouldn’t i?” you reply. he shrugs, taking a puff from his vape “thought you might’ve had better things to do.” the way he says it feels loaded, but he doesn’t give you time to respond, turning his attention to namgyu instead.

when it’s time to head into the cinema, you try to position yourself far from him, making a beeline for a seat between minsu and semi. you settle in, thinking you’re safe, but of course, subong has other plans. “yo, minsu, my boy,” he says as he walks down the aisle, stopping directly in front of you. “mind scooting over? i’ll sit here.” “uh, sure,” minsu says, shifting down without hesitation. you open your mouth to object, but before you can say anything, subong is sliding into the seat next to you, drink in one hand and a bag of popcorn in the other. “hope you don’t mind,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer than necessary. you grit your teeth, keeping your gaze locked on the screen as the previews start. “not at all,” you mutter under your breath.

you think that’s it. but, of course, it doesn’t end there. he shifts in his seat, his arm brushing against yours every now and then, like he’s waiting for you to react. you swear you catch him smirking out of the corner of your eye multiple times. you try to focus on the movie, but it’s impossible when his presence is so loud. every little movement, every tiny glance, has your nerves on edge. and he knows it.

then, you feel it. his hand—light at first— rests on your bare thigh, the heat of his palm sending a jolt through you. you freeze, your breath catching in your throat. what the hell is he doing? his fingers trace a soft line along your skin, caressing just above your knee. you stay still, unsure of what to do, but your body betrays you, not pulling away.

his touch grows bolder, creeping higher up your leg, slipping under your skirt. you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. he's still watching the movie, acting like nothing is happening, like his hand isn't inches away from your clothed pussy. “what are you doing?” you finally ask, your voice barely above a whisper. he turns his head toward you, looking innocent, like he's just minding his own business. “nothing.” “subong—” “i'll stop if you want me to.” you don't answer, torn between wanting to push him away and not wanting him to stop at all. “do you want me to stop? be honest,” he says, still waiting for your response. “no,” you reply, looking away with embarrassment. he chuckles softly—hand rubbing the inside of your thigh.

you drape the thin jacket you brought over your legs, a flimsy attempt to shield his hand from semi’s view. every nerve in your body screams that you shouldn’t be letting this happen, but you don’t stop him. he spreads your legs with his hand for better access, and soon you feel two of his fingers pressing against your clit over the fabric of your panties. your breath hitches, and you try not to move—not even a sound escapes you—but your lips part at the feeling of his touch. he moves them slow—too slow—in a way that has you shifting against him, your hips bucking against his hand, desperate for more. and he gives it to you. his hand slips beneath your soaked underwear, and a low chuckle leaves him when he feels just how wet you are.

subong knows what he is doing. he rubs your clit in circles, gently but with enough pressure to have you biting your bottom lip. and god, his fingers feel so much better than you ever imagined. when he quickens the pace, a soft moan escapes your lips before you can stop it, and you quickly slap a hand over your mouth, pretending to be focused on the screen. but the rapid rise and fall of your chest betrays your so-called calm. before you can collect yourself, semi leans in. “are you okay?” “mhm,” you nod quickly, forcing a smile. “yeah, don't worry, i—” your words falter when his fingers move faster. you bite your lip, trying to hold it together, but he's clearly enjoying watching you struggle. “i-i'm fine,” you manage to stutter. semi raises an eyebrow. “you sure?” “yeah,” you nod. “alright,” semi says before shrugging and turning her attention back to the screen.

you let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through you. your head snaps toward subong, eyes narrowing in a glare that’s meant to convey exactly how ridiculous he’s being right now. you dig your nails into his wrist, “are you crazy?” but he only pauses for a second, leaning in close enough to whisper, “relax, girl. no one noticed.” the audacity of him sends heat rushing to your face. but he doesn’t back down, his fingers resuming their slow, torturous movements. and just as you’re about to reach your orgasm… he stops. your body jerks in frustration, and you whip your head toward him, confused. his smirk only deepens as he pulls his hand from under your skirt, bringing his fingers to his lips and licking them clean. “what the fuck?” you whisper, a soft groan escaping at the loss of his touch. “what?” he whispers back, feigning innocence. “you know what.” “i don't. you'll have to spell it out for me.” “subong—” “tell me what you want.” the frustration wells up in your chest. to him, this is probably hilarious—you being so desperate. but for you? it's humiliating. pathetic. begging your best friend for something like this. still, the need outweighs your pride. you lean in, your lips almost brushing his ear, “i wanna... i wanna cum. please, make me cum.” “yeah? be fucking quiet, then.”

his fingers slip back under your skirt. your breath catches, and you press your lips together, your body already trembling from how close you were before—gripping the armrest, barely able to keep still. every nerve in your body feels like it's on fire, and when his fingers circle just right, you're done. the release hits hard, and you muffle your moans by biting down on your lip so hard it stings.

the days after are... strange. again. no texting, no acknowledgment, no teasing, nothing. it's like it never happened. and when he does text again, it's so casual it throws you off. he sends a random picture, a meme he has found on instagram.

this shit is so funny bro loooololol

i fear your humor is broken😐

naahhh u just don’t get ittt babyy

you reply like everything's fine because, well, isn't it? you don’t even know at this point.

another day, he messages the group chat:

pentagon this weekend?🔥

the replies come fast. namgyu’s working that night. semi has plans with her girlfriend. gyeongsu says he’s too exhausted for it. minsu doesn’t even reply. everyone has an excuse, and eventually, the chat goes dead. then, a private message from subong popps up.

wbu? still down to go?

you and subong had gone clubbing together hundreds of times. hell, most nights it was just the two of you, dancing until your legs gave out, taking blurry selfies, and laughing over cheap drinks. it was normal. so, you type:

yeah, sureee

bet. see u saturday, señorita

when the night comes, your phone buzzes as you’re double-checking your look in the mirror.

outside

outsideeee

outsideeeeeeeee

hellooooooooooooooooooo

one minute, let me grab my jacket

i’m freezing man

one minute my ass

patience is a virtue ❤️

cmooooooooon

u knitting the jacket or what

girl i just hit retirement age waiting for u

you’re so dramatic

and u r so slow, balance baby

you grab your jacket and head out, the bass from his car already thudding through the air when you step outside. you see him leaning against the passenger door, dressed in his usual baggy style—a loose graphic tee, cargo pants, and sneakers that probably cost more than your entire outfit (the only damn thing he saves up for…)—vape dangling lazily from his fingers. when he sees you, his eyes trail over you for a second too long. “you’re overdressed,” he teases with a smile. “you’re underdressed,” you shoot back.

the drive to club pentagon is easy, filled with a mix of rap tracks and subong’s singing. when you finally pull up, the line’s already stretching down the block, but subong doesn’t even blink. “namgyu’s working, right?” he asks, sliding out of the car. you nod. “yeah, he’ll let us in.” inside, the music is already pulsing, bass heavy enough to shake the floors. subong grabs your wrist. “drinks first?” “obviously,” you answer. you follow subong to the bar, the pounding music buzzing in your ears. “what are we starting with?” he asks, leaning against the bar. “shots,” you say, already reaching into your bag. he raises an eyebrow. “you’re paying?” “you’re broke,” you remind him, rolling your eyes before ordering four shots of tequila. when the glasses arrive, he grabs two and hands you one. “guess i’ll owe you,” he says, clinking his glass against yours. “you already do,” you reply, downing the first shot without hesitation. the familiar burn of tequila trails down your throat, and you chase it with a quick breath.

you can feel his eyes on you as you throw back the second shot. you don’t meet his gaze, but you can feel it—the weight of it, the way it makes your stomach flutter. shaking it off, you slam your glass on the counter and signal for one more round. “last one,” you say, mostly to yourself, pulling out more cash. he doesn’t argue, just picks up his shot, watching you as you pick up yours. you both toss back the final shot, and the alcohol is just enough to loosen the knot in your chest. but the way his gaze lingers as he sets his glass down makes it tighten again. “dancing?” you ask. he nods. you push through the crowd till you find a spot on the dance floor. the techno track thuds through your chest as you sway to the rhythm. subong moves with you, not particularly in sync with the beat, but in his own way that somehow works. every now and then, his eyes catch yours, and you have to force yourself to look away.

the music builds, and you let yourself get lost in it, the alcohol buzzing through your veins and the tension from earlier slowly dissolving into the haze of the moment. after a while, he stops moving and pulls his phone from his pocket. you glance at him, curious, as he squints at the screen. whatever he sees makes him smile faintly before he shoves the phone back into his pocket. “i need to hit the bathroom!” he says, leaning close so you can hear. you blink at him, confused. “right now?” he nods, gesturing for you to follow. you don’t argue—it’s not exactly safe to hang around the dance floor by yourself. reluctantly, you let him lead you off the floor.

he disappears into the men’s room, leaving you standing against the wall, arms crossed. you tap your foot, watching drunk strangers stumble past. a few minutes later, the door swings open, and subong walks out, a small smirk playing on his lips. “what took you so long?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him. instead of answering, he holds up a small plastic bag between his fingers. your stomach flips when you see the little colorful pills inside. “what the hell is that?” you ask, but you already know. he grins, tilting his head. “new stuff.” your brows furrow. “what?” “my plug got these,” he says, holding up the bag slightly. “said they hit different. figured i’d try.” he slides one pill between his fingers, studying it like it’s no big deal. then he brings it to his mouth, about to toss it back. “wait,” you say, grabbing his wrist. he scoffs. “what? you want it instead?” you glare at him. “no, subong. what are you even doing? you don’t need that!” he rolls his eyes, freeing his wrist from your grip. “come on, it’s nothing. we’ve had worse.” “worse?” you scoff. “you’re really gonna compare getting blackout drunk and smoking pot to this?” “you’re fucking overthinking it. it’s just one pill. just tonight. trust me.” he says.

you glance at the bag again, at the little pills that seem so harmless yet scream bad idea. “subong…” you start, but your voice trails off. “look,” he cuts in, his voice softer now. “we’re having a good fucking time, yeah? it’ll be just this once, okay? i promise.” “okay,” you say suddenly, lifting your chin. “but if you do one, i’ll do one.” his smirk falters for half a second. “no.” you frown. “what do you mean, no?” “i mean no. you’re not taking one.” “but you can?” you challenge, crossing your arms.“yeah.” you scoff. “that’s bullshit.” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “this isn’t your thing, señorita.” “since when it’s yours?” you snap. “if you’re gonna do it, then so am i.”

he looks at you, really looks at you. then, with an exasperated groan, he reaches into the bag. “fucking stubborn,” he mutters, pulling out another pill. “just this once.” he holds it delicately between his fingers before stepping closer. “open up,” he says, his voice dropping a notch. you hesitate for a second but eventually part your lips, sticking out your tongue. he places the pill gently on it. “there you go,” he says, stepping back and popping his own pill. you swallow it quickly, trying not to think about what you’ve just decided to do.

you move back onto the dance floor, the pill's effects creeping in like a warm wave washing over you. the flashing lights seem brighter now and everything blurs together—colors, sounds, the heat of the crowd—but it feels good. better than it should. your limbs feel lighter, like you're floating, and the energy buzzing inside you pushes you to move. subong is right there beside you, dancing with his hand raised, and you can't stop staring at him. his messy hair sticks to his forehead, sweat glistening on his tanned skin.

before you know it, your arms are around his neck, pulling him in like it’s the only thing keeping you steady. his eyes burn into yours for half a second, like he’s daring you to close the distance. then his hands are on your waist, rough fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt, warm against your skin, and he drags you closer until you’re pressed against him. the music is pounding, but it feels distant—like the only rhythm you can hear now is the way your bodies move together, hips rolling in time, every brush of his skin against yours making you burn.

his breath fans across your lips, hot and tasting of tequila and something bitter—maybe the pill he took earlier—and it makes your head spin. then your mouth crashes into his. there’s nothing soft about it. it’s messy and sloppy, urgent—like you’re both too far gone to think about anything but this. his lips part against yours immediately, and your tongues meet in a dizzying clash of heat and need. his hands slide up your back, fingers threading into your hair, tugging just hard enough to make you gasp into his mouth.

you tilt your head, chasing the kiss even deeper. you feel the sharp graze of his teeth against your bottom lip, a bite that makes you whimper before he soothes it with his tongue. the sound you make pushes him further—he groans into your mouth, his other hand gripping your jaw, tilting your face exactly how he wants it.

you’re not sure where the desperation is coming from, but it feels like if he stops touching you, you’ll shatter. your fingers clutch at his shirt, twisting the fabric as you grind just a little closer, a little harder. he’s breathing just as heavy as you are, lips red and swollen from kissing you like he never wants to stop.

you’ve kissed people before but nothing’s ever felt like this. nothing’s ever felt this fucking good. the two of you stumble out of the club. your legs feel like jelly as you hold onto subong, and his arm wraps around your waist to steady you. his car is parked a few streets over, tucked away in a dark, hidden corner under some trees. “thank god for this spot,” he mutters as he unlocks the doors.

you barely make it into the backseat before he’s on you again—his lips crashing into yours like he’s been waiting for this forever. his hands are all over you, rough and desperate, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. but you’re not going anywhere. his fingers dig into your thighs as he pulls you into his lap, and the second you straddle him, you feel it—hard and thick, pressing right against the heat between your legs. a soft gasp slips out of you, but he swallows it with another kiss, his tongue sliding against yours. fuck, he’s good.

your hands tangle in his hair, pulling as your hips start to move, grinding down on him. his grip tightens immediately, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he guides your movements, rocking you against him harder. the friction creates a delicious, aching pressure that makes you whimper against his lips. “fuck,” he breathes, breaking the kiss just long enough to let his head fall back against the seat. his fingers squeeze your ass, dragging you down against him rougher. “keep doing that.” so you do. you roll your hips, slow at first, letting yourself feel everything. you’re already soaked, already throbbing for more, and from the way his hands are gripping you, the way his breathing is getting heavier, you know he feels it too. “i need to eat you out,” he says, trailing kisses down your neck. “want you to cum on my tongue.” you do exactly what he wants—legs spread wide, thighs trembling as his head dips between them. his breath is hot against your soaked pussy, teasing, before his tongue finally makes contact—slow at first, a long, deliberate lick from your entrance to your clit that makes your whole body jolt.

you gasp at the feeling, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging hard, but it only makes him groan against you, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure straight through you. he doesn’t hold back. he devours you, eating you out like a man starved, his tongue flicking against your clit before he sucks it into his mouth. and when two of his fingers slip inside you, curling deep, pressing against that perfect spot, you swear you see stars. “you taste so fucking good,” he groans against you, his lips slick with your arousal before he flattens his tongue and laps up every drop. the way he’s working you—his mouth, his fingers, the filthy sounds coming from between your legs—it’s too much, too good, and your whole body is trembling, hips rolling against his face, chasing more. “shit—subong!” your voice breaks as the pleasure crashes over you all at once. your thighs clamp around his head, your body arching off the seat as you cum hard against his mouth. but he doesn’t stop—his tongue keeps moving, drinking you in, dragging out your release until you’re shaking.

when he comes back up to kiss you—chin shining with the evidence of your release— your hand instinctively moves to rub him through his pants, the hard outline of his dick impossible to miss. he hisses at the contact, his hips bucking eagerly against your touch. “you got a condom?” you ask. he pauses. “yeah, hold on.” reluctantly, he pulls away and starts patting his pockets. his brows furrow in concentration as he checks one side, then the other. finally, with a relieved grin, he pulls a condom out and holds it up. “got it,” he says before kissing the wrapper, making you chuckle.

he looks so fucking hot as he rolls the condom onto his cock, his chest rising and falling with anticipation. but nothing gets him off more than watching you climb back onto his lap, your soaked folds teasing the head of his dick as you line yourself up. his breath stutters, his hands gripping your thighs, barely holding himself back. “fuck, you’re so wet,” he says, voice tight with restraint. then, slowly you sink down onto him. inch by inch, he stretches you open, filling you up until there’s no space left between your bodies. “shit,” he hisses, watching as your slick coats him, making every movement easy, effortless—like your body was made to take him. and when you start moving, lifting your hips before sliding back down, a broken moan escapes his lips. “fuck, baby,” he breathes, hands roaming up your back, gripping your ass, anything to ground himself as you ride him. “you feel so f-fucking good—look at you, taking me so… mmm… so fucking well.” his voice is needy, and when you slam down harder, his hips jerk up to meet yours, pushing even deeper. “oh my—fuck, subong!” you cry out, your walls clenching around him so tight it makes his whole body tense beneath you.

he almost fucking loses it the second he feels you clench around him, his face twisting in pleasure, jaw going slack. his hands grip your hips, guiding you—faster, rougher—eyes locked on where your bodies meet, watching his cock disappear inside you over and over again. he forces himself to meet your gaze, even though his eyes keep threatening to roll back. “fuck, if i’d known how fucking good this pussy is… i would’ve f-fucked you sooner.” he moans as you move faster, bouncing on his cock—every thrust making obscene, slick sounds that only turn him on more. his eyes drop to your tits, bouncing perfectly in time with your movements, and fuck, he can’t decide what he wants more—to keep watching you ride him like this or to flip you over and ruin you.

but then you tighten around him, your rhythm stuttering as you throw your head back, moaning so loud he swears the whole damn neighborhood can hear you. “fuck— i’m gonna—! i-i’m gonna cum!” you cry out, your whole body trembling, thighs shaking as you cum around his cock. and that’s it. that’s all it takes to break him. “shit—ngh!” his body jerks beneath you, his abs tensing as he spills into the condom, his head falling back, mouth open.

his hands are still gripping you, holding you down against him as he rides out every last pulse of his release, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. and fuck—you’re still wrapped around him, warm and wet and perfect. you end up laughing for a solid twenty minutes after that, still too high to fully process what the fuck just happened between you two. but even in your haze, every single detail stays with you the next day.

fucking your best friend while high as fuck one night might’ve been an accident. but then it happens again. and again. and again. and you can’t call it an accident anymore.

it happens everywhere.

in his car, where the windows are always fogged up, your moans echoing in the tight space. in your apartment, where he barely gets the door shut before he’s got you pinned against it, hands rough and greedy, yanking your clothes off like he’s been waiting all fucking day for this. sometimes he doesn’t even make it past the kitchen—he just lifts you onto the counter, knocking over whatever’s in his way, too impatient to care as his mouth moves down your neck. in his bed, where the sheets are always a mess, tangled from how hard he fucks you into the mattress, his hands gripping your wrists, pinning them above your head. even in a club bathroom, right after he gives a show, still high off the energy, sweat dripping down his temple. you’re barely inside before he’s got you bent over the sink, hiking your dress up, shoving your panties to the side, fucking into you so deep you have to bite your hand to keep from screaming his name.

wherever. the second you’re alone, it’s happening. it becomes a thing. a need.

you always figured subong would fuck good. he never shut up about the girls he’s been with, the shit he’s done, bragging like he was the best lay any of them ever had. and every time he talked about it, you’d feel heat pool between your thighs, wondering if he was really that good or just full of shit.

now you knew. and fuck, he wasn’t lying.

he’s rough and passionate—the kind of lover who takes without hesitation but gives just as much, maybe even more. he loves watching you squirm, loves the way your body responds to him like it was made for this. like it needs this. his fingers trail down your skin, barely touching, making you shiver before he finally gives you what you want. and fuck, he lives for it—the way you gasp when he finally presses his mouth between your legs, the way your back arches when he fills you up, stretching you wide, making you take every inch.

some days, he drags it out, torturing you with slow touches, lazy kisses, making you beg before he finally gives in. he’ll tease you until you’re trembling, hands gripping at him desperately, “please, subong… need you so bad.” and then, maybe then, he’ll give you what you’re begging for. other days? he doesn’t bother waiting. before you can say a word, he’s got you pinned to the mattress, yanking your legs apart, pressing himself against you, making you feel just how hard he is. “been thinking about this all fucking day.” then he’s inside you, fucking you like he’s been starving for it.

it’s been months now—this thing between you and subong. but you don’t talk about it. not once. there’s no late-night confessions, no whispered ‘what are we?’ between tangled sheets. he doesn’t ask who else you’re seeing, and you sure as hell don’t ask him. but the uncertainty lingers. because he’s still your best friend. you still laugh at his dumb ass jokes, roll your eyes when he’s being his cocky self, and feel that weird, warm twist in your stomach when you catch him watching you from across the room.

and yet, there are a bunch of little things that scream something more. like that time you sat on his rumpled bed while he was writing a song, and you helped him hammer out stupid-ass verses—even when he swore they’d never work. you teased him for his cheesy lines and then watched his face light up like he’d just discovered a new fucking world. hell, he even calls you his muse sometimes, and you hate how damn proud that makes you feel.

or that stormy night. the rain was lashing against the windows, and you two were locked in his tiny studio apartment. one minute you were laughing, taking silly pictures of him with a digital camera while he smoked, and the next, he had your face pressed against the wooden table as he fucked you from behind—your ass cheeks burning from his vigorous spanking. after, he pulled you close, running his fingers through your hair as if trying to memorize every inch of you.

that one night he showed up at your door at 2 a.m., high off his ass, slurring your name with that cocky grin, his knuckles tapping too fast against the wood. “couldn’t sleep,” he mumbled, leaning against the doorframe. “fucking missed you.” you should’ve told him to fuck off, should’ve rolled your eyes and slammed the door in his face because he promised he wouldn’t do that shit again. instead, you let him in, let him collapse onto your bed with a heavy sigh, pulling you down with him. his arms caged you in, the scent of his cheap cologne filling your senses.

then there was the time you caught him staring at you while you were getting ready. you were fixing your hair in his mirror, wearing nothing but his oversized t-shirt, and when you turned around, he was just standing there—arms crossed. “what?” you asked, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. he just shook his head, smirking a little. “nothing,” he said. “you just—you look good in my clothes, mama.”

and when you called him crying after a shitty day at work, voice shaking so bad he could barely understand you. you didn’t even have to ask—he just showed up, no questions. drove way too fucking fast to get to you, and pulled you into his chest so tight it felt like he was trying to hold you together. “who do i need to punch?” he asked, half-joking, half-dead serious. and you laughed, even through your tears, because that was him—always trying to make you smile. he let you cry into his hoodie, let you hold onto him like a fucking lifeline, and then, when you finally calmed down, he kissed your forehead like it was second nature. “you’re okay, baby” he murmured. “i got you.” he always had you.

or the night he took you to some shitty underground concert, knowing damn well you didn’t even like the band. “it’s not about the music,” he told you, grinning like an idiot. “it’s about the experience.” you rolled your eyes, but you still let him pull you into the crowd, still let him wrap an arm around you when the pit got too wild, still let him hold your hand. afterward, sweaty and breathless, you sat on the curb outside, sharing a cigarette while he rambled about how sick the show was. “you should play up there one day,” you told him, nudging his shoulder. “your songs have gotten better.” “you think?” “yeah. you’re good, bong-bong.” the nickname made him laugh. a week later, he showed you something he wrote. something raw and messy and fucking beautiful. he let you hear a part of him no one else ever did.

you even helped him rebrand himself. it started with him pacing his room, muttering to himself, stopping every few seconds like he was about to say something, then changing his mind. eventually, you sighed, rolling onto your stomach while watching him from his bed. “are you having a breakdown or just being dramatic?” he ignored you, still pacing. and then, out of nowhere, he stopped. snapped his fingers. looked at you like he just discovered the secret to life itself. “i’m gonna dye my hair purple.” you stared at him for a long second, waiting for him to laugh or tell you he was joking. but he just stood there, completely serious, shoulders squared like he was about to go to war.

within twenty minutes, you were in his bathroom, gloves on, a box of purple dye sitting between you. you didn’t even ask how he got it so fast. knowing him, he’d probably been sitting on this idea for weeks, just waiting for the right moment to drag you into it. he sat on the closed toilet lid, legs spread, while you stood over him, parting his hair and working the dye through. up close, he looked smug as hell, like he knew he was onto something. the whole rap game was about standing out, and he was done waiting for people to notice him.

the name ‘thanos’ caught on faster than you expected. at first, it was a joke—you called him that to be annoying, and then he used it in a song, and suddenly, people were saying it back to him. dms started piling up. more people started listening. before you knew it, subong wasn’t just some guy making music in his bedroom—he was thanos. and, of course, he acted like he knew it was gonna work all along.

and fuck, the time he brought you home to meet his family. his mom fussed over you like you were the perfect daughter-in-law, laying on your favorite dish and insisting you have seconds. then, saying, “he talks about you a lot”, making subong choke on his food while his sister goaded him about how he treats you like his damn girlfriend. you felt so out-of-place and yet so damn loved by the way he proudly introduced you to everyone, as if you were the missing piece in his fucked-up puzzle. he even opened up to you about his dad—how he never gave a shit about him, never looked at him unless it was to point out everything he did wrong. maybe that was why he kept stealing glances at you like he was trying to make sense of it—of being wanted, of being next to someone who actually cared.

and later that night, when you were both lying on his couch, full and sleepy, he nudged your knee with his. “thanks for coming, señorita,” he mumbled, eyes half-lidded. “they liked you.” you turned your head to look at him, saying, “of course they did. i’m fucking amazing.” he smirked, but it faded quick, his gaze lingering on you a little too long. “yeah,” he murmured. “you are.”

nights that weren’t about sex at all. the ones where he just wanted you close, his hands resting on your back, his lips pressed to your shoulder, his voice low and sleepy in the dark. “you’re warm,” he’d mumble, pulling you closer. “don’t leave.” “i work tomorrow, baby,” you’d say. “i’ll drive you… stay with me,” he’d always replied.

and you did. every single time.

and there were the nights he fucked you like he meant it. not just like you were some girl he was hooking up with, but like you were the only one who had ever mattered. like he was trying to prove something with every touch, every kiss, every time he pressed his sweaty forehead to yours and whispered your name like a prayer.

like he loved you. but he never said it. and neither did you.

so instead, you settled for the quiet moments—for the way he always pulled you into his lap at parties, his hands resting lazily on your thighs; for the way he let you pick the music when you drove anywhere, even though he always bitched about your taste; for the way he let you steal his fries, let you doodle on his lyrics notebook, let you wear his hoodies even when you didn’t ask; for the way he texted you ‘good morning, baby❤️,’ and it made you smile for no damn reason; for the way you woke up to find him still asleep beside you, hair a damn mess on the pillow, and traced lazy circles on his chest while he mumbled some half-remembered melody. for the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

you can’t help but hope that one day you’ll both just say the damn words and finally admit that all these little moments mean something. you hope that maybe, just maybe, one day you’ll stop wondering if you’re more than just friends with benefits.

are u busy?

no, why?

good, i’ll be there in 10

i’m on my period

who gives a shitttt, i sure as hell don’t, mama

subong.

yeah?🙏🏼

not in the mood❤️

alr cool👍🏼💯

can i still come over tho? we could watch a movie or something

yeah okayyy, bring snacks (or else i won’t let you in)

i’m the only snack u need, girl

you don’t expect him to show up with anything, but when you open the door, subong’s standing there, hands full—one holding a plastic bag, the other gripping a bottle of soda. “what’s all this?” you ask, raising a brow. he steps inside without waiting for an invite, kicking off his shoes. “you said ‘bring snacks’, didn’t you?” he says, dropping the bag onto your coffee table. “figured you’d want something sweet.” you peek inside—chocolate bars, a pack of strawberry pocky, even a container of sliced fruit. your chest tightens at the thought of him actually remembering the little things you like.“what, no painkillers?” you tease, flopping onto the couch. he scoffs, collapsing next to you, way too comfortable in your space. “what do i look like, a pharmacy?”

you give him a knowing look, and his lips twitch, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. grabbing the remote, you ask, “so, what are we watching?” “something i won’t fall asleep to,” he says, stretching an arm across the back of the couch. “which means no boring indie shit.” you nudge his thigh with your foot. “first of all, my movie taste is elite. second, if you fall asleep, i’m taking pictures.” he grins, lazy and cocky. “yeah? what will you use them for?” heat rushes to your face, and you smack his arm without thinking. “shut up.”

the movie plays, and for a while, it’s normal. easy. you snack on the pocky while subong steals pieces of fruit from the container, acting like he’s doing you a favor by eating the ones you don’t like. he stretches out on the couch, legs spread, one arm draped lazily over the backrest. goddamn.

it's barely been a few minutes when you find yourself on your knees in front of the couch, his strong hand fisting in your hair as you hungrily suck his dick like your life depends on it. you couldn’t help it. he just looked too fucking good. you take him deep, your nose pressing against his abs, gagging slightly but refusing to back off. he lets out a groan as you take him, the head of his dick hitting the back of your throat. His hand tightens in your hair, guiding your head up and down. “fuck, just like that baby... show me how much you love this dick.” his hips thrust forward, making you gag slightly. “you're so f-fucking good for me... mmm such a pretty little mouth, choking on my cock.”

drool slips down your chin as you struggle to breathe but maintain eye contact, wanting him to see how much you love taking him in your mouth. the wet, obscene sounds of you slurping and gagging fill the room. he watches you intently, pupils blown wide with lust, his dick throbbing against your tongue. moaning around him, the vibrations make his thighs quake. "shit... you’re gonna make me fucking c-cum," he breathes out. “you gonna… you gonna let me cum in that s-sweet mouth of yours, hm?” “mhmm,” you purr around his length, looking up at him with hooded eyes. you double your efforts, sucking him hard and fast, your hand pumping what you can’t reach. he holds your head in place as he comes, making you to swallow every last drop. you take a moment to catch your breath, wiping your mouth before sitting back up.

the bathroom lights hum to life as you rinse your mouth and splash cool water on your face, trying to shake off the heat thrumming through you. you press your palms against the sink, inhaling deep in an attempt to look less flustered. the movie’s still on when you come back. you get comfortable, leaning into subong just slightly. he doesn’t say anything, just lifts his arm and lets you settle in against his side. the warmth of him seeps into you, and you rest your head on his shoulder. subong smiles at you before kissing your forehead, something that shouldn’t mean anything but somehow does.

you shift slightly, but he just pulls you in closer, his body solid and warm against yours. your heart stutters in your chest, and the thought of what you are—what you actually mean to him—becomes impossible to ignore. the longer you sit there, the harder it is to pretend this is normal. your heart is beating too fast, your mind racing with thoughts you’ve been shoving down for months. finally, you tilt your head to glance up. “subong,” you start, your voice quieter than you mean it to be. he hums, eyes still on the screen, but you can tell he’s listening. you swallow, suddenly nervous. “what… what are we doing?” that gets his attention. “what do you mean?” you sit up a little, putting some space between you—enough to see him clearly. “this. us. it’s been months, and we’ve never talked about it.” “what’s there to talk?” “i mean, is this just sex to you?”

he doesn’t answer right away. his jaw tenses, his eyes flicking away for a second like he’s weighing his words. “does it feel like just sex to you?” he finally asks. your chest tightens. “no.” his lips part slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you to admit it so easily. like maybe he’s been trying to convince himself of something different. “right. it’s not just sex, we’re friends, too,” he says. “then why are we acting like this?” you push. he rubs a hand over his face. “i don’t know.” he leans forward, elbows on his knees. the silence stretches thick between you, but you refuse to let it suffocate you. you need to know. “what do you want this to be?”

subong exhales hard, dragging a hand through his hair. he looks frustrated, like he doesn’t even want to have this conversation. like you’re ruining something by asking. “why do we have to call it something?” he says finally, and your stomach twists. you blink, sitting up a little. “because it’s been months, subong. because we’re not—we’re not just fucking and then going our separate ways. because we’re sitting here, cuddling, watching a damn movie, and it feels like more.” his jaw clenches, his fingers tightening around his knee. “it doesn’t have to mean anything.” that stings. worse than you were expecting. you swallow around the lump forming in your throat. “it does to me.” his face twists, like he hates hearing that. “shit, don’t fucking do this,” he mutters, shaking his head. “why can’t we just keep things the way they are?” “because i’m tired of pretending this is casual when it’s not,” you snap, your voice cracking. “not for me, at least.”

he squeezes his eyes shut for a second, like he’s trying to hold something back. when he looks at you again, his expression is unreadable, but his next words hit like a punch to the gut. “then maybe you shouldn’t have let it get this fucking far.” you feel like the air has been sucked out of the room. “what?” “i never promised you shit.” the words cut deep, sharper than anything he’s ever said to you before. you open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. because he’s right. he never did. but the way he touched you, the way he held you after—none of that felt like nothing. you shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your voice steady. “are you fucking kidding me?”

he hesitates for a second too long. and that’s all you need to know. you force yourself to nod, pressing your lips together. “okay.” his brows furrow, like he wasn’t expecting you to take it like that, but you don’t give him the chance to say anything else. you grab the remote, press stop on the movie, and push yourself off the couch. “you should go.” “are you fucking serious?” you cross your arms over your chest, fighting to keep your composure. “yeah, i’m serious. get the fuck out.” “we have one fucking shitty conversation, and now you don’t want me here?” he scoffs, shaking his head. “what the fuck do you want from me, subong?” your voice shakes, and you can feel it crack, but you force it out. “sit here and pretend like i didn’t just fucking tell you how i feel? pretend i’m not fucking hurt because you—” you stop yourself, biting your lip so hard it almost bleeds. his jaw clenches. “what?” you let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and bitter. “because you don’t fucking care.” “i never said i don’t care.” “you might as well have,” you snap, voice breaking with frustration. “you just don’t give a shit enough to do anything about it.” he presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, breathing hard through his nose. “just because i care doesn’t mean we have to slap a fucking label on it!” “and i just have to be okay with that?!” you snap, your voice rising. “i have to sit here like a dumbass and pretend this is fine when it’s not?”

he throws his hands up, his face twisting in frustration. “for fuck’s sake, why do you have to make everything so fucking difficult?” “difficult?!” you let out a humorless laugh. “you’re the one acting like a fucking idiot, subong! you want to fuck me, cuddle me, act like i’m your fucking girlfriend, but the second i ask you to be honest about what this is, suddenly i’m the problem?! you even introduced me to your damn family!” he freezes for half a second when the words leave your mouth, then he stands up, jabbing a finger in your face. “what the fuck did you just call me?!” you swat his hand away, your glare burning into him. “don’t fucking point at me like that!” his jaw tightens, and his nostrils flare like he’s barely keeping himself from snapping. “you wanna talk about being a fucking idiot?! look in the fucking mirror!” he spits. “you’re the one acting like some needy little bitch because i won’t say what you wanna hear.” “fuck you, subong!” you don’t say anything else. you just turn on your heel and walk out of the living room, heading straight for the kitchen. your hands are shaking, your chest tight, and you just need to put some distance between you and him before you completely fall apart. behind you, you hear him scoff. “seriously? you’re just gonna walk away mid-fucking-conversation?”

you grip the edge of the counter, squeezing your eyes shut. maybe if you stay quiet, he’ll take the fucking hint and leave. but of course, he doesn’t. you hear his footsteps as he follows you in. “you always do this shit,” he mutters, his voice dripping with irritation. “running off the second things don’t go your way.” you whirl around, your eyes burning. “what should i do, then? hm? get on my knees and suck your fucking dick again?!” he clenches his fists at his sides, his mouth opening like he’s about to argue—but then he hesitates. because the truth is, you do mean something to him. he just doesn’t know how to fucking deal with it. subong has never done this before—never been in something that wasn’t just fucking around, never had to deal with real feelings, real expectations. and the idea of fucking it up? it scares the shit out of him. but instead of admitting that, instead of being honest for once in his life, he just does what he does best—pushes, lashes out. it seems easier than dealing with what he feels when he’s around you.

“why do you care so fucking much about not calling it something?” you ask, your voice softer now. “if we’re not seeing other people, if we’re always together, if you do care about me, then why?” his throat bobs as he swallows hard. and then—because he’s a fucking coward—he lies. “who says i’m not seeing other people?” you freeze. his face is unreadable, but you can see the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like he already regrets saying it. “you’re lying.” your voice is quiet. he just shrugs, “i’ve been seeing this girl.” “who?” you raise your voice, taking a step closer as tears start falling down your face. “who?!” “i’m not fucking telling you!” “are you serious?! aren’t we supposed to be friends too?! we used to tell each other everything!”

his eyes flick to yours, and for a second—just a second—something flashes in them. something like guilt. but then he shuts it down, scoffing as he shakes his head. you continue, “but we’re not even friends anymore, are we?” “don’t say that.” “why not? it’s true, isn’t it? friends don’t do what we do,” you wipe at your face, even though the tears won’t stop fucking falling. he swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, pressing it against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying to hold something back. but then he just shrugs again, voice flat. “guess we’re not fucking friends either, then.”

your vision blurs as you cry, no matter how hard you try to keep it together. “get the fuck out, subong.” your voice breaks on the last word, and you hate how fucking weak you sound, how pathetic. and the second the first real sob rips out of your throat, something in him shifts. “fuck. no, i—” he exhales, raking a hand through his hair, his voice softer now, like he’s realizing he went too far. “i didn’t mean it. i’m sorry—i’m sorry, baby.” “don’t fucking call me that!” “you gotta listen to me!” you shake your head, taking a step back, your whole body trembling. “no. i’m done listening to your fucking bullshit.” “baby, please.” his voice cracks, and his hands reach for you—hesitant, like he doesn’t know if you’ll let him touch you. “please.” you slap them away instantly. “don’t fucking touch me.” “you’re really just gonna shut me out like this?!” “you shut me out first!” “i fucking care about you!” “not enough!” his breath catches in his throat, and for a second, he just stares at you. “you’re being fucking dramatic.” “get the fuck out of my house, subong.” “why are you being such a fucking—” “say it.” your voice is a challenge, daring him to go there. he doesn’t hesitate. “bitch. a fucking bitch. you—you’re acting like a bitch.”

you’ve had enough. without thinking, you shove him—hard. he stumbles back a step, caught off guard, but you don't stop. you shove him again, your palms flat against his chest. “you’re a fucking asshole! fuck you! get out! get the fuck out!” his jaw tightens, like he wants to argue, like he wants to throw something else back at you, but you're already stepping forward again, grabbing his arm and shoving him toward the front door. subong wrenches his arm away, but you don't let it stop you. you push him again, shoving him past the threshold. but he’s not moving, so you grab the nearest thing—his damn sneakers—and chuck them at him, one after the other. the first one bounces off his chest, the second one catches him square in the shoulder. “what the fuck, man?!” subong barks, flinching back, his face twisting in irritation. he barely catches the second shoe before it can hit the ground. “you’re a crazy bitch!”

“fuck off!” your voice cracks again, but you don’t care. you’re already stepping forward, already reaching for the door—and you slam it in his face. the sound echoing through the room. for a moment, silence. a long, awful pause where your breath hitches, where your chest tightens so much it feels like you’re suffocating. then—“open the door. c’mon, open—open the fucking door!” he slams his fist against the wood. “stop being so fucking childish!” “you’re calling me childish?! grow up, subong! you’re twenty six, you don’t know what you want and you still dress like a fucking kid!” he bangs the door. “you’re one to talk, girl! always dressed like a damn slut!”

you squeeze your eyes shut and stumble to your room until your knees hit the bed, and then you’re collapsing onto it. the first sob breaks out of you before you can stop it, and then another, and another. you curl into yourself, pulling the blanket over your head, pressing your hands against your ears. but it doesn’t block him out. “fucking talk to me!” another bang. you hear the doorknob rattle. “baby, please! i’m sorry, okay?! c’mon, don’t do this! we’re fucking friends!” your voice is muffled when it finally comes, thick with tears, but loud enough for him to hear you. “go away!” “not fucking happening! open the damn door!” “go away or i’m calling the fucking cops, motherfucker!” that seems to work. you curl tighter, press your face into the pillow, and sob until the sound of his fists against the door fades away. he did this. he made you feel this way. and he fucking hates himself for it. but it’s too late.

the next few days are absolute shit. you barely leave your bed at first. your body feels too heavy, your chest too tight, your eyes too sore from crying. when you do finally move, it’s only to go through the motions—brushing your teeth, pulling on the same oversized hoodie, forcing down a few bites of food even when everything tastes like nothing, and going to work. you don’t check your phone at first. you can’t. but eventually, the screen lights up, and you don’t have to look to know who it is. subong. you let it ring. he calls again. and again. when it finally stops, the texts start.

pick up the fucking phone

cmon baby please

i fucking miss u

don’t do this shit to me

u make me so fucking angry

bro istfg

please

you turn the phone face down. but he doesn’t stop. every time you glance at your screen, his name is there.

i know u r reading these

don’t fucking ignore me bro

at least tell me u r okay

minsu asked why u didn’t come with us today

just fucking answer

is it that hard?

years and years of friendship man and u throw it all away like that?

u r fucking selfish

i hope u know that

the texts keep coming. always at random times. but the worst ones come at night. one day, at 4:12 a.m., your phone buzzes against your nightstand. you try to ignore it, try to pretend you’re asleep, but something tells you to look.

im highhg as fuvckk bro

look whatu vdone to me

fukcing bittvhhh

its urA fault

i mis uu

u r myybhaby❤️❤️❤️❤️

its fucking 4am. i wake up at 6 to go to work, stfu and leave me alone

can i cone over? plewaasse

answer bitchj

fuck you, subong. i don’t want to see you again

come bsck

i loveyouy

you block him, roll over, and squeeze your eyes shut. but sleep doesn’t come easy. not when the last words he sent are still glowing behind your eyelids, burning into your brain.

blocking him should have brought peace. should have been the final step, the clean break. but it doesn’t feel like that. instead, it feels like holding your breath underwater, waiting to resurface, except there’s no hand to pull you up this time. the first few days, you keep checking your phone out of habit. unlocking it without thinking. but there’s nothing. you still reach for him in small ways—almost texting him when something funny happens, almost turning to tell him about your day. but you can’t do that. you won’t do that. so you keep yourself busy. you pick up a book, let your eyes scan the words without really absorbing them. go on long walks, let the cold air bite at your skin, hoping it shocks you out of your thoughts. start journaling, writing down everything except his name, except the way your chest still feels hollow. you even try new things—take a yoga class with a friend, bake cookies at 2 a.m., cut your hair just to feel something different. but memories of him are stitched into the fabric of your life.

you hear his voice on the radio sometimes now, when they play a song of his that went viral. see him in the reflection of dark car windows, like he’s just a step behind you. hear a joke and immediately think about how he’d laugh, head thrown back, eyes crinkling at the edges. you tell yourself that eventually, you’ll forget. but some nights, you lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he’s staring at his too. if he’s thinking about you. and the ache doesn’t go away.

your phone rings one night, when you’re already in bed. you almost don’t answer, but when you see semi’s name flash across the screen, you pick up. “hello?” your voice is groggy, tired. “hey,” semi says. “sorry, did i wake you?” “no,” you lie. “what’s up?” there’s a pause. hesitation. then, “it’s subong.” your stomach drops. “we’re worried about him.” she rushes the words out, like she’s been holding them in for too long. “he’s been acting weird lately—worse than usual.” you close your eyes, already knowing where this is going. already knowing what she’s about to say before she even says it. “he’s been taking those pills,” she continues. “the ones he used to mess with sometimes, but now he’s on them all the time. it’s like he’s not even—shit. he was out,” she says, frantic. “namgyu couldn’t wake him up at first, it was fucking bad, dude. and now he’s still high as hell, barely making sense, and he keeps—” she hesitates. you frown. “he keeps what?” “he keeps mumbling your name.” you feel like you’ve been punched in the chest. you press your fingers to your temple, trying to stop the pounding in your head. “fuck.” “he’s not okay,” she says. “he’s barely sleeping, barely eating. he looks like shit. well, he always does, but you know what i mean. and when he does talk, it’s like he’s—like he’s not there.”

you take a shaky breath. you shouldn’t care. you don’t care. he’s not your problem anymore. but your stomach still twists at the thought of him like that. “maybe you could talk to him?” semi says, hopeful. “when he feels better. i think he’d listen to you. gyeongsu is gonna take us to the hospital in a few minutes, maybe you could come too? we’ll pick you up. we’re at namgyu’s apartment, we had to take him—” “we’re not friends anymore, semi,” you cut off, swallowing down the lump in your throat. silence. “what?” she says. “what do you mean?” “he hasn’t told you?” “told us what?” “it doesn’t matter,” you say finally, letting out a heavy sigh. “i can’t help him.” “but—” “i can’t, semi.” the words come out sharper than you mean them to. she falls quiet. after a long moment, she sighs. “alright, okay,” she says, voice heavy with disappointment. “i just… i didn’t know.”

and even though you tell yourself it’s not your problem, even though you tell yourself you did the right thing—you don’t sleep that night. maybe you’re the most horrible person ever. for not helping him. that’s what you think to yourself as the days go by. you don’t go to see him. you don’t text semi back. you tell yourself that there’s nothing you could have done, that he made his choices, that you’re not responsible for saving him. but the guilt sticks to your ribs.

you keep moving forward. and then, somewhere along the way, you meet him. he’s nothing like subong. not really. but sometimes, in the way he leans back in his chair, in the way he runs his fingers through his hair, in the way he laughs when he’s had one too many drinks—he almost is. (he even likes rap!) and maybe that’s why you let him take you out. why you let him kiss you. why you let him press his hands against your skin and pretend it feels right. it doesn’t. but you let it happen anyway. because it’s easier. because when you close your eyes, you can almost pretend it’s subong. it’s fucked up. you know it’s fucked up. but you tell yourself it’s fine. that it doesn’t matter. that this is what moving on is supposed to look like. but it’s not fair. you know you shouldn’t be doing this. and when he asks what’s wrong, why you get quiet sometimes, why you look at him like you’re seeing someone else—you just smile. shake your head. press a kiss to his lips and hope he never realizes that you don’t mean it. hope he never realizes that no matter how hard you try—subong is still the only one you see.

he invites you to a show one night, says it’ll be fun. you don’t really know much about it—just that it’s some rap battle tournament called ‘rap battlegrounds’—but you’re bored, and it’s something to do. you don’t ask too many questions because, honestly, you don’t care that much. he picks you up, and you follow him through the neon-lit streets to a club you’ve never seen before, the bass already thumping from inside. he leads you through the crowd to a small corner of the club. it’s dark, gritty, with exposed brick walls and dim, flickering lights that barely cut through the haze of smoke hanging in the air. the floor is sticky. it’s the kind of place you usually avoid, but tonight, you let it slide.

you're barely paying attention, your eyes drifting over the crowd, the noise just background filler. the battles blur together, the hype not really doing anything for you. you're zoning out, tapping your foot to the rhythm of the beat, hoping this night will pass quickly—regretting all your life choices when he wraps his arm around your shoulders. when suddenly, a voice crackles through the mic, cutting through the noise. “yo, yo, yo, we got a real one up next! fresh off that new heat, straight killin’ the game—make some noise for ‘thanos’!” you freeze, snapping your head to the stage as the crowd cheers. “…and he’s goin’ up against the beast, the local legend, the one and only jace ‘the hammer!’”

there’s no way. you blink, trying to process it, but everything’s too dark, shadows everywhere, making you second-guess yourself. but then, you hear it—his voice. your stomach sinks. this is real. subong is here. for a second, you think you might pass out. he’s standing there, center stage, all cocky confidence, rapping like he owns the room. you wish you could ignore it, wish you could pretend he’s just another guy on stage, but he isn’t. and you can’t. and then it happens. his eyes sweep across the crowd, like he’s eating up the attention, and then they land on you. he freezes. just for a second—just long enough for his flow to falter, the words dying on his tongue. the beat keeps going, but he doesn’t, and the guy he’s battling jumps in, taking advantage of the opening. subong blinks, shakes his head, tries to recover—but it’s too late. he’s lost the rhythm, lost the momentum, and the battle ends with subong’s opponent eating up the win. the crowd erupts, but subong doesn’t hear any of it. he stands there for a second, chest rising and falling like he can’t believe it—like he can’t believe he actually lost. then, without another word, he shoves the mic into someone’s hand and disappears behind the stage.

someone else takes the spotlight almost immediately, the next rappers stepping up, music booming through the speakers again. you turn to the guy beside you, grabbing his wrist. “i wanna leave.” he frowns. “what? why?” you glance toward the side of the stage, your stomach twisting. subong won’t just leave it alone—you know him. “i’m just—i’m kinda tired.” the nervousness in your voice alarms him. “are you okay? what’s wrong?” “nothing. i just don’t wanna be here right now.” he studies you, and you can tell the exact moment he realizes how tense you are, how your shoulders are stiff, how you haven’t stopped glancing over your shoulder. his expression softens, just a little. “hey,” he says, voice quieter now. “it’s okay. i’ll take you home.” “yeah?” “of course.” you don’t move when he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. and it feels like… nothing. just lips on lips, a fleeting warmth that barely registers. your chest feels tight, like you need to shake something off, drown something out. so you kiss him back, harder this time, pressing in, searching for something. maybe it’s the adrenaline, maybe it’s the way seeing subong on that stage messed with your head, knocked you off center. maybe you just want to prove to yourself that you can feel that rush with someone else. but you don’t. no matter how deep the kiss goes, no matter how much you try to lose yourself in it, there’s nothing there.

and just a second later, he’s ripped away from you—shoved back so hard he stumbles, nearly knocking into the bar behind him. and when you look up, you already know. subong stands there, shoulders tense, and his eyes locked on you. “what the fuck are you doing?!” “me?! what the fuck are you doing, subong?!” the guy composes himself and goes back next to you with a strained expression, one of his hands caressing his side. “what’s your problem, man?!” “who the fuck is this?” subong demands, his eyes never leaving yours. you exhale sharply. “just leave me alone.” disbelief flashes across his face like you’ve just insulted him. “nah, what the fuck is this?” he gestures vaguely between you and the guy. “this who you’re with now?” the guy straightens up. “is there a problem?” subong laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “yeah, there’s a fucking problem. who the fuck are you?” “just go, subong.” you cut in quickly. “no. i’m not fucking leaving.”

the guy beside you steps in, placing himself between you and subong. “you know this asshole?” he asks you. you sigh, “he’s… we used to be friends,” you reply. “yeah, and i’ve probably fucked her more times than you have, bro,” subong adds, a smirk on his face. “don’t listen to him,” you tell the guy before redirecting your attention to subong. “you’re being more than ridiculous right now. stop it. leave us alone.” he just stares, like he didn’t even hear you. like you didn’t just tell him to fuck off. “ridiculous?” he repeats, like the word itself it’s funny to him. “you wanna know what’s fucking ridiculous? you showing up here with—” he finally looks at the guy, eyes dragging over him like he’s barely worth acknowledging “—this.” “enough! i said… leave us alone.” “no, we need need to talk.” “she told you to leave, man.” the guy interrupts. wrong move. subong’s lips curl into something mean. “and who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?” he sizes him up, scoffing. the guy doesn’t back down. he squares his shoulders, keeping himself between you and subong like he actually thinks that’ll stop him. subong steps closer, just enough to invade his space. you step forward, grabbing the guy’s arm. “seriously, let’s just go—”

subong’s hand shoots out, grabbing his collar. the guy shoves him back instantly, and that’s all it takes. subong’s always been quick to anger, and now he’s pissed. “relax,” the guy says, lifting his hands like he’s trying to de-escalate, but subong’s past that. “relax? you want me to relax when you’re out here kissing my girl?” the guy exhales through his nose. “you wanna fight me over her that bad?” he shakes his head. “man, you already lost once tonight.” subong’s expression shifts in an instant. his shoulders go tense, his nostrils flare, and his jaw locks so tight you swear you can hear his teeth grind. he snaps, swinging first. it’s fast, a punch aimed straight for the guy’s jaw, but he dodges, stepping back just in time. the guy doesn’t waste time. he drives forward, ramming his shoulder into subong’s chest, sending him stumbling back. for a second, you think it might end there—but of course, it doesn’t. subong recovers quick, too quick. he surges forward, grabbing the guy’s shirt and yanking him down just to throw a knee into his ribs. the guy grunts, shoving him off, and then they’re both swinging. fists connect, curses fly, and you can barely keep up. the guy tries to hold his own, landing a few hits, but subong barely flinches. he’s fueled by something else, and he’s not stopping. one punch lands hard against the guy’s cheek, snapping his head to the side. another follows, a brutal hit to his jaw that makes him stumble. then another. and another. the guy grunts, arms coming up to shield himself, but subong doesn’t let up. he grabs the front of his shirt, yanking him forward just to slam his fist into his face again.

blood splatters. and that’s when you snap out of it. “subong, stop!” he doesn’t hear you. “subong!” he pulls back for another hit, and you move before you even think. you grab him by his shirt, using all your strength to shove him back. he stumbles, losing his grip on the guy, his eyes wild when they snap to yours. “what the fuck is wrong with you?!” you scream, chest heaving. subong’s nostrils flare, hands still clenched into fists like he’s seconds away from going back for more. the guy groans, wiping blood from his face. “you broke my fucking nose, man! you’re insane!” he yells. “shut the fuck up,” subong spits, but before he can go at him again, you shove him harder. “leave him alone!” his breathing is heavy, his eyes dark, burning into yours. for a second, you think he might listen, that the fight might finally be over. but then, in one swift movement, he grabs your wrist. “what are you—” you barely get the words out before he pulls you with him, dragging you through the crowd, past the stage. “let go of me!” you struggle against his grip, but he doesn’t stop. people turn to look, but no one moves to intervene. they just watch. before you know it, you’re backstage, away from the lights, away from the eyes—trapped in a space that feels too small.

subong finally stops, shoving you back against the wall. you barely have a second to catch your breath before you’re shoving him off. “what the fuck is wrong with you?! what the fuck was all of that about?! huh?!” you slam your hands against his chest, but he barely moves. his jaw clenches, and when he speaks, his voice is rough. “what the fuck is wrong with me?! you’re really asking me that?! when you’re the one out there acting like a desperate fucking slut?!” your head jerks back, a bitter laugh ripping from your throat. “are you fucking serious right now?! you just beat the shit out of him, and you’re mad at me?! for what?! for moving the fuck on?!” “yeah, i fucking am!” he snaps. before you can react, he steps in, closing the space between you in an instant. his hands come up, slamming against the wall on either side of your head. your whole body tenses. he’s seething, breath ragged and reeking of cheap liquor and god knows what else. “why?!” “because you’re mine!” “yours?! fuck off!” you shove at him again, hard. “and take a goddamn shower while you’re at it. you smell like a fucking alleyway.”

his nostrils flare. “yeah? well, you smell like a cheap whore.” rage flares hot in your chest. “right, because you’d fucking know, wouldn’t you?” you sneer. his head tilts, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “at least i don’t pretend to have fucking standards. what’s his name, huh?” your stomach turns, but you don’t let it show. instead, you smile. “why? you jealous? go cry about it, asshole.” he leans in, voice dropping to a whisper. “you know he’s just using you, right? you’re nothing but a warm hole to him.” your hand flies up before you can think better of it, shoving his face away. “yeah. like that wasn’t exactly what i was to you too, motherfucker.” he stumbles back a step, running a hand over his jaw. “we never talked about what the fuck we wanted, or what we expected from each other. so don’t—don’t—” “that’s what you tell yourself? that you didn’t lead me on? that you didn’t fuck with my head for months?!” you cut him off. “you’re a fucking coward, subong. too fucking scared to admit you wanted me, but the second i move on, suddenly you give a shit?” “move on? to who? that fucking loser? you think he actually gives a shit about you?” “and you do?” “you can’t just act like we never fucking happened!” “we didn’t happen, that’s the thing!” you shoot back. “you didn’t want to be with me like that,” your voice wavers, but you force yourself to hold your ground. “so you don’t get to fucking act like this. you don’t get to be jealous, you don’t get to start fights over me, and you sure as hell don’t get to drag me back here like you own me.”

his throat bobs as he swallows. he looks away for a second, like if he doesn’t meet your eyes, this won’t sting as much. like he can pretend this isn’t hitting him the way it is. his fingers twitch at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching like he’s trying to hold onto something—maybe the last shred of whatever this used to be. his breath comes sharp through his nose, the kind that’s meant to steady him but doesn’t do a damn thing. “i didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters, voice rough around the edges. “i don’t—i don’t own you.” but there’s something bitter in the way he says it, like he hates that it’s true. like he hates that he ever let it get to this point. you’re not his anymore. you never were, really. “then stop acting like it! don’t try to ruin everything just because you can’t handle the fact that i moved the fuck on!” for a second, he doesn’t say anything. his eyes flick over your face, tongue running over his teeth like he’s trying to stop himself from saying something worse. but then— “if you had, you wouldn’t have let that motherfucker shove his tongue down your throat right in front of me.” you scoff. “you think i did that on purpose?” he steps in, too close, and you instinctively take a step back. “fuck yeah, you did. you wanted me to see it. you wanted to fucking piss me off.” “you piss yourself off, subong! newsflash! not everything is about you! get over yourself.” “get over myself? you made me look like a fucking idiot out there!” “what the fuck are you talking about?” his eyes flash. “you made me lose the fucking battle, man!” you blink, caught off guard for half a second, then roll your eyes. “first of all, i’m not a man. second of all, don’t blame that shit on me.” “right. it’s never your fucking fault, huh?” he shakes his head. “you just get to do whatever the fuck you want and act like it doesn’t affect me.” you throw your hands up. “if you weren’t such a fucking asshole, maybe this wouldn’t have happened!” “yeah?!” “yeah!”

and then there’s silence. thick, heavy silence. his breathing is still ragged, his hands still curled into fists at his sides. your heart is pounding, your own fists clenched just as tight. then subong scoffs, shaking his head. “you’re so fucking full of shit.” “excuse me?” “you wanna talk about me being an asshole when you’ve been ignoring me for months? like i didn’t fucking exist.” the pain in his voice is evident and it catches you off guard. “i wasn’t—i didn’t ignore you. i was trying to heal. you’re seriously throwing that in my face right now?” “yeah, i am. don’t act like you’re the only one who got hurt.” “don’t do that.” “do what? tell the truth? you fucking blocked me, girl!” “no! don’t—don’t twist shit around just to make yourself feel better,” you snap. “you know exactly why i did it. don’t act like you’re the fucking victim.” “who is it then? you?” he scoffs. “oh, eat shit, subong! you never fucking came to see me!” you throw your arms out, exasperated. “not once! you could’ve fixed this, but you didn’t.” his jaw clenches, but he doesn’t look away. “you think i didn’t want to?” “i don’t know what the fuck you wanted!” your voice cracks, but you don’t care. “i called! and texted you every single fucking day!” “and you think that’s enough?! after everything?!” "i almost fucking overdosed!" he yells. "i was at my fucking lowest, and you—" he lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "you weren't there." you shake your head, anger bubbling in your chest. "don't put that on me, subong. you did that to yourself," you snap, voice sharp. "don't fucking guilt trip me with that." "are you serious?" “what do you want me to say? did you expect me to just forget everything and come back to you like nothing happened? you promised me—how many times?—that you weren’t gonna do that shit anymore, and here we are! and not only are you trying to make me feel like a fucking piece of shit for it, but you’re also acting like this—all of this—is my fault? when you were the one who decided i wasn’t good enough to be anything more than a fuck buddy?”

his expression falters—just a flash of something almost guilty—but then he scoffs, masking it with anger. “you’re really trying to act like you didn’t fucking replace me the second i was gone?” “replace you?” you repeat, incredulous. “you can’t be serious right now. i wasn’t the one fucking other people when we were…. whatever we were!” he freezes, his face draining of color for a split second. “don’t bring that shit up.” “oh, I’ll bring it up, alright. because you can’t say that shit to me when you were too busy screwing around while i was waiting for you to call me your fucking girlfriend.” he opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, a group of people walk past, glancing over at the scene. a couple of them whisper, eyes flicking nervously from you to subong. his face hardens, irritation flashing across his features, and without warning, he grabs your wrist. “what the fuck are you looking at?” he snaps at them. the group quickly averts their gazes, pretending they weren’t just watching him. he yanks you away and you struggle for a moment, trying to free yourself from his grip, but he doesn’t let go. you’re too caught up in the heat of the moment to really think about where he’s taking you. before you know it, you’re being shoved through a door into a dimly lit room backstage, the door slamming shut behind him with a force that echoes in the silence. the room is small, cluttered with his belongings—bags, jackets, and scattered items. a mirror with round vanity lights casts a dull glow over the space, reflecting the mess on the counter: a half-empty water bottle, energy drink cans, his vape, a lighter, a bunch of candy wrappers and a few crumpled papers.

“you need to stop doing that!” you snap. “dragging me around like i’m—i don’t know—like i’m some puppet!” he ignores your words. “listen,” he says, “i tried to make it right, okay? i did.” “calling me? texting me?” you scoff, disbelief laced in your voice. “that’s what you think making it right looks like? all you ever did was send bullshit messages—half insults, half nothing at all.” you shake your head. “if you actually meant it, you would’ve come to me. you know where i live, where i work—you had every chance to show up, to prove that you actually gave a damn. but you didn’t.” his voice shakes now. “i thought… i thought you didn’t fucking need me anymore! i thought you’d be better off without me!” “better off without you?! that’s the dumbest excuse i’ve ever heard!” before you can stop yourself, you shove him, hard enough that he stumbles back a step. “you were my fucking best friend, you idiot!” your voice cracks as a tear rolls down your cheek, and you have to look away. “and i…” the words tangle in your throat. you swallow hard, forcing them out. “i fucking loved you.”

the words hit him like a fist to the gut. he swallows, his throat suddenly dry. because he knows. he knows exactly how that feels. he’s loved you too—probably longer than he even realized. but he’s never said it. not properly. not in a way that mattered anyway. and now? now it sounds like it’s too fucking late. “loved,” he repeats. “past tense?” you don’t answer. “you don’t—you don’t love me anymore?” the words slip out before he can stop them, and he hates how pathetic they sound, how fucking vulnerable they make him. “subong i—i’m sorry, i can’t… i can’t do this,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “answer me,” he presses, stepping closer, his pulse thundering in his ears. “please.” “i’m not talking about this,” you say firmly, reaching for the door. but he moves faster, pressing his hand against it, keeping you trapped in the small room with him. you squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling sharply. “i don’t want to see you again, subong.” “i do.” “well, i don’t.” “why not?” “because it fucking hurts!” the words barely leave your lips before the weight of everything crashes down on you all at once. “it… it hurts.” your throat burns, and suddenly, you can’t hold it back anymore. a choked sob rips through you, and before you can stop yourself, you’re crying.

subong’s eyes widen for half a second, like he doesn’t know what to do with the sight of you breaking down in front of him. but then, without hesitation, he reaches for you. “i know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. “i know, baby.” the warmth of him, the familiarity, the way he holds you…it all feels too fucking good. too safe. too much like home. you sob into his shirt, fists clutching at the fabric, body shaking as months’ worth of pain and anger pour out of you. he holds you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other resting firm against your waist. “i’m sorry,” he breathes.

you suck in a sharp breath, realization slamming into you. and just like that, the warmth turns suffocating. “no,” you whisper, pushing against his chest. he stiffens. “what—” “get off me.” he hesitates, grip loosening slightly, but you shove harder, forcing space between you. “fuck, subong, what the hell am i doing?” he looks at you, confused, almost dazed, like he doesn’t understand why you’re suddenly pulling away. “baby—” “don’t call me that,” you cut him off. “i can’t—i can’t do this with you.” his jaw tightens. “you don’t mean that. you know you don’t.” “i do! because you fucking broke me!” you yell, hands trembling. “and i hate that you still make me feel like this!” you pause, trying to catch your breath, wiping at your face furiously. you hate the way the tears cling to your skin. you hate even more that he’s standing there, watching you cry. you force yourself to steady your voice. “i’m leaving.” “no, you’re not.” he’s there—blocking the door. you let out a frustrated breath, shoving at him again, but he doesn’t move an inch. “subong, move.” nothing. he doesn’t even blink. “is he your boyfriend?” the question throws you off balance. your brows furrow, and for a moment, the anger is eclipsed by confusion. “what?” “that guy. is he your boyfriend?” you exhale sharply, shaking your head as you glare at him. “jesus christ, subong, really?” “is he?” “it’s none of your business,” the words are clipped, laced with venom. his eyes darken. “none of my—?” he drags a hand through his hair, like he’s barely keeping himself together. for a second, it looks like he might actually lose it. “seriously? you can’t even say no?” “why does it matter?!” you snap. “it fucking matters to me!” your heart pounds. you don’t know why it’s so hard to answer, why the words feel like they’re lodged in your throat. his patience wears thin. “fucking hell, just—” “no!” you cut him off. “he’s not my boyfriend, okay?!” you shake your head. “did you fuck him?” “are you serious right now?” “answer the fucking question,” he demands, stepping closer. you scoff, shaking your head. “you’re actually insane.” “fucking answer!” “yes!” the word rips out of you before you can stop it. “yeah, i did. happy now?”

for a moment, he doesn’t react. he just stares at you, like the air has been knocked from his lungs. his jaw clenches, his nostrils flare. but nothing can stop the thought from sinking its claws into him—someone else touching you, having you, getting what he let slip through his fingers. it makes him sick. and it’s his own damn fault. he knows he has no right to be angry. no right to feel this way. but the jealousy curdles in his stomach, and before he can stop himself, the words tear from his mouth like a whip. “you’re a fucking whore.” the second he says it, he hates himself for it. but he doesn’t take it back. your fury is instant, white-hot.“fuck you! don’t call me that!” “i’ll call you whatever the fuck i want!” he snaps. he needs to hurt you, to make you feel even a fraction of what he’s feeling. “you really don’t see how fucking pathetic that is? spreading your legs for some guy who doesn’t even matter?” the words taste like acid in his mouth, but he spits them out anyway. he doesn’t know how else to deal with the anger, the self-hatred he feels. it’s easier to take it out on you than to admit the truth—that he ruined everything, that he’s the reason you were with someone else.

your vision goes red. before you can think, before you can stop yourself, your hand swings up and smacks across his face. his head jerks to the side from the impact, and for a moment, everything is dead silent except for the sharp sound of your ragged breathing. then, slowly, he turns back to you, his jaw tightening, his tongue running over the inside of his cheek like he’s tasting the sting of your palm. “did you just hit me?” his voice is low. oh, he’s angry. “yeah, i fucking did,” you say, your hands trembling. “because you’re a fucking piece of shit!” “you’ve got some fucking nerve!” he seethes, shoving your forehead with two of his fingers, forcing your head back slightly. you slap his hand away, your own anger doubling at the touch. “do that again, and i’ll break your fucking fingers, motherfucker,” you warn. “you just slapped me!” “and you called me a whore twice, subong! i wonder how the fuck i was ever friends with you! you’re a hypocrite!” he steps closer, jabbing a finger in your face. “don’t fucking talk to me like that!” “and i told you many times not to fucking point your finger at me!” you yell, shoving his hand away harder this time. so hard his arm jerks back. “who the fuck do you think you are?! you can’t fucking judge me when you’re the one who—”

his patience snaps. he grabs a nearby chair and hurls it at the wall. it hits with a loud crack, rattling from the impact before toppling over. you flinch, but you don't back down. “real fucking mature.” “you don’t fucking get it.” “why do you even care, huh? you have plenty of other girls to fuck, don’t you?” you spit. “so why the fuck does it matter who i’m with? why is it a problem when you do the exact same shit?” he doesn’t say anything. fine. you’re done here. you reach for the door again, shoving past him. “i’m leaving—” “i lied.” his voice stops you cold. slowly, you turn back, brows furrowing. “what?” he swallows hard. “i lied about it. there was never another girl.” you stare at him in disbelief. “i just—i said that shit to piss you off. to make you hate me. but i never—” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “i never touched anyone else when i was with you.”

your mind spins, struggling to piece together what he’s saying. he’s lying again. he has to be. “you expect me to believe that?” your voice is defensive. “i don’t give a fuck if you believe me,” he snaps back. “it’s the truth.” your throat tightens. there’s something in his eyes, something desperate, something you’re not used to seeing. “why?” he hesitates. his lips part, then press into a thin line. “because i—” he exhales sharply, looking away for a moment before forcing himself to look at you again. “because i love you. i’ve—” “don’t fucking lie to me, subong.” frustration flashes across his face. “i’m not lying, okay?! i’ve—” “sure as hell you aren’t.” “jesus—can i fucking talk?!” you huff, arms crossing tightly over your chest. your jaw aches from how hard you’re clenching it. but you don’t interrupt again. you let him speak. “i’ve loved you for so fucking long, and it scared the shit out of me. you were my best friend and i didn’t—i didn’t know how to do it. how to be with you without fucking it all up.” you shake your head, gripping your arms tighter. “you can’t just say this shit and think it fixes everything,” you whisper, voice trembling. “you loved me, and you never told me. you preferred this… this shit between us rather than just… being fucking honest. you—” your breath shudders and you stop to breathe for a moment. “you’re confusing me, subong.”

he sighs. you can see it in his eyes—the regret, the pain, the anger at himself. then, he steps closer. his hands find your face, fingers gentle as they cup your cheeks. his thumbs move carefully, wiping away the tears you hadn’t even realized were still falling. his touch is soft—so fucking soft it almost breaks you. you squeeze your eyes shut, swallowing against the lump in your throat. you shouldn’t let him do this. shouldn’t let him hold you like this, shouldn’t let yourself sink into the warmth of his hands. but you do. because it’s him. “i’m sorry, baby” he murmurs, his breath warm against your face. “fuck, i’m so sorry.” his voice is lower now, and when you open your eyes, he’s already looking at you—his brows furrowed. “i didn’t mean to hurt you,” he continues, his hands steady on your face. “i swear to god, i didn’t.” “but you did.” “i know,” he whispers. “i was a fucking idiot.” his thumbs still trace slow paths along your skin, like he’s trying to ground himself in the feel of you. you try to look away, but he won’t let you. his grip isn’t forceful, but it’s firm—just enough to keep you there. “i can’t stop thinking about you,” he says, his brows furrowing deeper, like it physically hurts him to admit it. “no matter what i do—it’s always you.” “don’t—” “it’s the truth,” he cuts in, his hands sliding down to your jaw, his fingers just barely brushing your neck. “i wake up thinking about you. i fall asleep thinking about you. every fucking song i write is about you. every stupid little thing reminds me of you.” you shake your head, blinking back tears. “stop it.” “i can’t,” he breathes. “i don’t know how.”

he leans in slightly, his lips barely an inch from yours. “tell me you don’t feel the same, and i’ll go.” your heart pounds so hard it hurts. he’s so close… and the way he’s looking at you, like he’s daring you to push him away, makes something snap inside you. before he can say another word, you grab his shirt and yank him down, crashing your lips against his. subong freezes for half a second, like he wasn’t expecting it, but then he groans into your mouth, his hands gripping at your waist as he kisses you back just as hard. he barely gives you a second to breathe before he’s backing you up, walking you straight into the wall. the impact makes a sharp gasp escape you, but he swallows it down, one hand threading into your hair, tilting your head back as his mouth moves against yours.

then it happens—your breath catches, and before you can stop it, a tear slips down your cheek. he stops. his lips hover just over yours, his chest rising and falling against you, and he pulls back just enough to look at you. “are you okay?” you don’t answer. instead, you pull him back in, your fingers curling around the back of his neck. you kiss him harder, and he lets you—lets you take what you need, lets you pour everything you can’t say into this. his fingers tangle in your hair, tugging just enough to pull your head back before pressing his forehead to yours. “tell me what’s wrong,” he murmurs, breath hot against your lips. in a broken whisper, you finally say it. “i need you.” he’s been waiting to hear that. for months, it’s been the only thing on his mind—you. every time he got high, every time he tried to flirt with someone else, every time he told himself it didn’t matter, that you didn’t matter. but it was all a lie. because you did. you always did. and now you’re here, in his arms, needing him. and he’s so fucking mad at himself for wasting all this time, for pushing you away, for pretending he didn’t want this when you’ve been the only thing he’s wanted.

that’s all it takes. he’s on you in an instant, his hands gripping your waist as his mouth crashes against yours. he walks with you, never breaking the kiss, his fingers pressing into your sides, guiding you until your legs bump against the edge of a small table. before you can steady yourself, his hands move to your hips, helping you up until you’re perched on top of it. his lips leave yours, dragging along your jaw and your neck. one hand slides up, fingers curving over your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt. the touch alone makes a soft moan slip past your lips. he swallows the sound with another kiss, deep and greedy, before tugging your shirt up, his palms skimming your skin as he pulls it over your head. his other hand moves with purpose, working the clasp of your bra. the second it falls away, his mouth is on you. you gasp when his tongue flicks over your nipple, your head falling back as pleasure shoots through you. “gonna make you feel good, baby,” he promises, his breath hot on your skin as he switches to your other breast, his teeth grazing your nipple just enough to make you squirm. his free hand slides down your stomach, unbuttoning your pants with practiced ease before slipping between your thighs. you spread them instinctively, your breath hitching when his fingers brush against the damp fabric of your panties. “you’re so wet for me already,” he says, pulling back to look at you, his eyes dark with hunger.

subong takes his time peeling your pants off, pressing soft kisses to your thighs, your knees, your ankles. once they’re gone, he hooks his fingers into your panties, dragging them down at the same agonizing pace, his lips following their path. he tosses them aside without a second thought. then he’s on his knees, hands spreading your thighs wider as the cool air hits your skin, making you shiver. “let me show you how sorry i am, yeah?” you nod slowly in response. subong leans in, his breath hot against you, and you bite your lip, anticipation coiling tight in your stomach. and then his tongue is on you, licking a long stripe up your center, parting your delicate folds, exploring your wetness. you gasp when it finds your clit, your hands flying to his purple hair as his tongue swirls around it in slow circles. “f-fuck, yeah, right there,” you whimper, and he hums against you in approval.

he focuses all his attention on it, flicking his tongue over the sensitive nub before sucking it gently into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing out as he applies gentle pressure. you feel one of his fingers slide inside you, then two, curling them upwards and hitting that spot that makes your eyes roll back. his tongue never leaves your clit, licking and sucking in perfect rhythm with his fingers, and you can feel that familiar pressure building in your lower stomach. your hand travels to the side of his face, your thumb caressing his cheek as he works you. moans grow louder, your hips bucking involuntarily against his face. “subong—” you try to speak, but the words die in your throat—the pleasure too strong. he smirks, feeling you tightening around his fingers. “that’s it, baby” his voice is muffled against you. “cum for me.” and you do, your back arching, knuckles white from gripping the side of the table, a cry tearing from your throat as you fall apart. his mouth never stops, drawing every last wave of pleasure from you until you’re boneless, panting.

you try to catch your breath as he stands, pulling you into him, his mouth claiming yours again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. your fingers tremble slightly as they find the hem of his shirt, slipping beneath the fabric. he shudders under your touch, muscles tensing before he exhales, letting you lift the shirt over his head. it falls somewhere behind him as your hands roam his chest. this isn’t like before. like the other times you’ve had sex. there’s something different in the way his fingers brush your skin, in the way he watches you like he’s afraid to blink, afraid to miss a second of this. you reach for his waistband, tugging at it, and he lets you, his breathing uneven as he watches your hands work him free. his pants and boxers slip to the floor, and he steps out of them, never once breaking contact.

“do you… do you have a condom?” you ask quietly. he stills, his hands resting on your hips as he looks at you. his brows pull together slightly. “no,” he admits, then asks, “do you?” you shake your head. “no.” “shit,” he exhales, his forehead falling to your shoulder. you can tell he’s frustrated—not at you, but at the situation. “it’s… it’s okay. we don’t need one,” you add softly. his head snaps back up. “you sure?” he asks, and you nod. “i want to feel you.” your words are the confirmation he needs. he grabs your thighs before pulling you closer to the edge of the table, spreading them apart to find room between them. his raw tip presses against your clit and you take a deep breath when he starts grinding against you, his stiff dick sliding across your wet slit. you both moan at the feeling, but nothing compares to the gasp that escapes both of your lips the moment he slides inside of you.

he’s slow at first, letting you adjust to the feeling, his hands holding you in place as he sinks in deeper, stretching you around him. you try to steady yourself, holding onto the side of the table with one of your hands again. his breath is uneven, and each slow, measured thrust makes you ache for more. but then his pace shifts. his grip tightens, fingers digging into your skin as he pulls back and thrusts in harder and faster. the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the space between you, mixed with your breathless moans and his ragged groans. when you meet his gaze, his brows are furrowed, his lips parted. you can see it all written on his face: how much he’s wanted this, how long he’s been waiting, how badly he’s yearned for you. he looks like he’s barely holding himself together, like he’s afraid he won’t last because you feel too fucking good. “fuck,” he grits out, voice strained, his fingers flexing against your hips. “i missed you s-so fucking much…” his words cut off in a groan, his head dropping forward, forehead pressing to yours as he fucks you like he’s trying to make up for all the lost time. “i missed this… mmm… missed this pretty pussy of y-yours.” he drives into you harder, like he’s trying to claim you, like he’s trying to erase every trace of anyone else who’s ever touched you—muttering curses under his breath like he’s punishing himself as much as he’s fucking you. your nails scrape down his back, leaving red streaks in their wake, and he groans at the sting, at the way you cling to him. “fuck, baby—” he gasps, voice rough. “was he better than me? tell me,” he demands, his thrusts turning brutal, each one punctuating his words. “did he—did he fuck you like this? mmh? shit… did he make you cum like i-i do?” there’s anger in his voice. not at you—at himself. for waiting too long, for not telling you the truth when he had the chance, for letting someone else have you. you shake your head in response. his hand grips your chin, forcing you to look at him. “answer me.” “n-no!” you whimper “he… he didn’t, baby. only you—mmph!—only you make me f-feel this good.”

his grip on your chin tightens for a second before he releases you, his hand sliding down to wrap around your throat instead. not squeezing, just holding—just feeling you. his pace doesn’t slow, if anything, it gets rougher, like your answer wasn’t enough to satisfy the anger. “that’s right,” he grits out, sweat slicking his skin. “he could never…he could never fuck you like this.” his other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise as he slams into you, making you cry out. you hold onto him, and he loves it—loves feeling you claim him the way he’s claiming you now. and fuck, he needs this, needs to remind himself that you’re here, wrapped around him—that you’re his. “look,” he mutters, commanding. “look how fucking g-good you’re taking me.” your breath hitches as your eyes drop, and fuck—seeing it is different. watching the way his dick disappears inside you, the way your body clenches around him, the way he’s completely buried in you, over and over again… “see that?” he pants. “you were made for me. this was fucking made for me.” his hand moves again, sliding between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, precise circles. “shit—subong!” you let out a broken moan. “y-yeah… fuck, yeah, just like that!” a whimper slips from your lips when subong fists your hair, tugging your head back up until your eyes meet his again. “say it,” he practically pleads. “say that you're mine.” “i-i'm yours!" you gasp, your voice shaking, your whole body trembling from the intensity of him. “i'm fucking yours…mmm… always been.” “i’m yours too, baby.”

his thrusts grow frantic and his breath comes in harsh, uneven bursts. all he can hear is the sound of his name falling from your lips in desperate, breathless moans. he swears he’s never heard something as beautiful. you can tell he is close, holding you in place as he leans over you, his forehead pressing against yours. your body tenses, your gummy walls clenching around him, his fingers still pressed on your clit as he pounds into you, making it impossible for you to hold back. your body tenses, and your free hand clings to the back of his neck with desperation as you kiss him, trying to muffle your whimpering. “gonna cum for me, b-baby?” he whispers, pulling away for a moment. “gonna—mmh! gonna cum on my cock?” you can’t even nod. his words are like a spark, and you can’t hold it back anymore. your body snaps, the pleasure flooding you. “subong!” you cry out, legs shaking. he watches you, his name on your lips, and the sight of you completely undone drives him to the edge. with a final, deep thrust, he follows you, quickly pulling out, his release spilling into your lower stomach. his face contorts, a strangled gasp escaping him as he rides out his own climax. he stays there for a moment, his body pressed against yours, both of you breathing heavily, sweat-slicked skin sticking together. “i love you,” you whisper, hands running through his messy hair. “i love you too, señorita,” he smirks, his hand cupping your cheek before leaning in to give you a small peck on the lips. “i missed you.”

subong is a good boyfriend. or at least he tries to be. he still messes up sometimes, still says things without thinking, still gets into fights he shouldn’t, but he’s trying. you see it in the way he waits for you after work, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s trying to play it cool, but you know he’s been standing there for a while. in the way he walks on the outside of the sidewalk, even though you never asked him to. you see it in the way he always grabs an extra drink when he stops by the convenience store, handing it to you without a word, like he just knew you’d want one. in the way he texts you did you eat? before he even says hello. in the way he always grumbles about carrying your bag when it looks too heavy, but takes it anyway. in the way he lets you steal his hoodies, rolling his eyes when you show up wearing one but never actually asking for it back. you see it in the way he lets you mess with his hair, even when he pretends to hate it. in the way he looks at you, like he still can’t believe you’re his. in the way he says your name, soft around the edges. in the way he tells you he loves you—not just with words, but in a hundred different ways, every single day.

there’s no confusion anymore. no second-guessing, no wondering where you stand with each other. he wants you, and he’s not afraid to say it. he tells you all the time, in every way he knows how. sometimes it’s casual, like when he looks at you in the middle of a conversation, something soft in his eyes, and says, “you know i love you, right?” like he just needs you to know. and then there are times when he’s shameless about it. like the time he made it his entire mission to embarrass you in front of both of your friends, throwing an arm around your shoulders and grinning as he declared, “isn’t my girlfriend the prettiest woman you’ve ever seen? no offense to you, semi.” there’s a beat of silence before half of them go “what?!” while the others just exchange knowing looks. “wait—dude, since when?!” namgyu asks. “oh, come on,” semi scoffs, rolling her eyes. “like we didn’t all see this coming.” subong just smirks, pulling you a little closer, dropping a kiss to your cheek. he’s here, and he’s yours, and he makes sure you know it.

you’re still best friends. you still laugh until your stomach hurts, still steal food off each other’s plates, still shove at each other like you’re kids. except now he kisses you after. or before. or sometimes instead of shoving you back. he’s still stubborn, still gets on your nerves more than anyone else. he’s not perfect, but he never pretends to be. and maybe that’s what makes it feel so easy. there’s nothing to prove, nothing to question. just the two of you, exactly as you are, exactly as you’ve always been. just you and him.

if you’ve read this far, i love you, let’s get married pookie ong

#squid game #squid game 2 #choi seunghyun #choi su bong #thanos #thanos squid game #thanos x reader #thanos smut #choi subong x reader #squid game smut #choi su bong imagine #squid game season 2 #thanos imagine #top #bigbang #seunghyun x reader

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honeyscara · 2 days ago

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❝ not a joke ❞ — Shoyo hinata

-haikyuu(spoilers!)

Synopsis: childhood friends to lovers

Cw: fem! reader x timeskip! Hinata, 18+ MDNI!!, soft sex, fingering, protected sex, hinata being a sweetheart

~4.4k words, this is part 2, { part 1 here }

Hinata snapped his gaze back up, his entire face burning like a wildfire. "I—I wasn’t looking!" he blurted, immediately making it so much worse.

You blinked up at him, lips slightly parted, cheeks tinged pink. The way you were pinned beneath him, your body warm against his, your shirt still not fixed. The air between you turned thick, charged with something different—something neither of you had ever really faced before. Your legs shifted slightly beneath him, your skin brushing his in a way that sent a full-body shiver down his spine.He should move. You should.But for some reason, both of you couldn't.

Hinata wasn't thinking.

Or maybe he was. Maybe he was thinking too much—about the way you felt beneath him, about how warm your skin was where his hands had just been, about how your shirt was still bunched up, exposing way more than it should.

And before he could stop himself, the words just fell out.

"Have you…" He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "Have you done it before?"

Your entire body went still. "What?"

Hinata’s face explodednwith heat, but now that the words were out there, he couldn’t take them back. "You know… what happened in the movie earlier…"

The second realization hit you, your stomach flipped. "Shoyo." Your voice came out a little breathless, a mix of shock and something else you couldn’t quite name. "Did you just ask me if I’ve—"

"NO—! I mean, yes—I mean—I DON'T KNOW!" Hinata panicked, throwing his hands over his face and backing away. "Forget I said anything!"

But how the hell were you supposed to forget that?!

Your heart was pounding, your breath uneven as you sat up and stared at him. "Why?" You smirked slightly, despite the heat rising to your own cheeks. "You wanna know for a reason?"

Hinata choked so hard he nearly toppled off the couch. "W-WHAT?! NO! THAT’S NOT—"

You leaned in slightly, watching him unravel with way too much amusement. "Then why’d you ask?"

"I don’t know!" His voice cracked, and he buried his face in his hands. "It just— It just came out, okay?! I wasn’t thinking!"

You tilted your head, eyes glinting with mischief. "That means you were thinking about it at some point, though."

"STOP!" He whined, practically curling into himself. "Oh my god, why did I say that?!"

You laughed, but your heart was still racing. Because underneath all the teasing, the air between you felt different now.

The words slipped out before you could even think.

"Wanna do it?"

Silence.

Your heart stopped.

Your brain shut down.

Oh. Fuck.

THIS—this was not casual joking. Definitely not innocent. And the second you processed what had just come out of your mouth, your entire body locked up in horror.

You snapped your head toward Hinata, praying he hadn’t heard you—

But oh, he heard you.

His wide, amber eyes were locked onto yours, his face frozen in absolute shock. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. He just sat there, staring, his mind clearly crashing.

The tension in the room skyrocketed. The air felt too thick, your own breathing unsteady.

You swallowed, your hands gripping the hem of your still-bunched-up shirt. "I—"

Hinata blinked. "Did you just—"

"NO!" you practically shouted, scrambling to fix what you just ruined. "I—I didn’t mean— That was a joke, obviously—obviously! Ha ha—*"

Hinata still wasn’t speaking.

"Shoyo, say something," you pleaded, face burning hotter than the sun.

Hinata suddenly let out the most awkward laugh you’d ever heard, rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to shake off whatever this was. "Ha—haha— wow, uh… that was… something."

You groaned, covering your face with both hands. "Forget I said anything. Please. Just erase it from your memory forever."

But then—he moved closer.

Your hands dropped just in time to see Hinata leaning in, his usual nervous energy still there, but something else simmering beneath it. Something that made your breath hitch.

His voice came out lower than usual, hesitant but undeniably curious. "But… what if we do?"

Your stomach flipped.

Your lips parted, but no words came out. Because—what?

Your heart pounded in your ears as his amber eyes locked onto yours, studying your face like he was trying to figure something out. His usual dorky grin was nowhere to be found—only a slight, almost teasing smirk tugging at his lips. He was joking. Right? He had to be.

Right?

But if it was a joke, why did he lean in just a little more? Why was his breath so warm against your skin? Why did his fingers twitch like he wanted to reach for you?

Your heart pounded against your ribs. This was Hinata. Your childhood best friend. The same Hinata who used to challenge you to ridiculous races, who laughed until he cried over the dumbest things, who once fell out of a tree trying to impress you.

Now he was looking at you like he was seeing you for the first time. Like he wanted to hear your answer.

You swallowed hard, your fingers curling against the fabric of your shirt. Your heart was practically hammering against your chest, your pulse roaring in your ears.

And then—without even thinking—

You nodded.

Hinata’s breath hitched. His eyes widened just slightly, amber flickering with something undeniably different.

Neither of you spoke. The weight of your answer settled between you, thick and heavy, making the air practically hum with something unspoken.

Hinata shifted closer, his knee brushing against yours. His gaze flickered from your eyes to your lips, lingering there for just a second too long.

"You’re serious?" His voice was barely above a whisper. You exhaled shakily, unsure if you could even trust your own voice. But you managed the tiniest nod.

Hinata didn’t move for a moment, just staring at you, his lips parting slightly like he was trying to process what the hell was happening right now.

And then—

He leaned in.Hinata hesitated for just a second, his breath warm against your skin, his lips so close yet not quite touching. It was like he was giving you a chance to pull away, to take back your silent answer.

But you didn’t.

And that was all he needed. His lips brushed against yours—soft at first, tentative, as if testing the waters. But the second he felt you respond, a quiet exhale escaping you, something in him shifted.

His hand found your waist, warm and a little unsure, but steady enough to make your stomach tighten. His other hand hovered near your cheek, not quite touching but so close it sent a shiver down your spine.

This was Hinata. Your best friend. The boy who had been by your side for years.

And now he was kissing you.

A quiet, surprised hum slipped from your lips, and that sound alone seemed to undo him. His grip on your waist tightened just slightly, and he tilted his head to deepen the kiss—still gentle, still careful, but undeniably real.

It wasn’t just a joke anymore. It wasn’t teasing.

It was happening. You tugged onto his hair as he as he deepened the kiss, going lower to your jaw and neck.

His fingers trailed across your back and shoulders before reaching into your hair again, tangling their way through your locks while his tongue teased along your collarbone.

You couldn’t help the soft noise that escaped your lips, and the second Hinata heard it, a quiet chuckle rumbled from his chest. His face hovered just above yours, amber eyes dark with something unreadable.

"Sho…" you breathed, your fingers tightening slightly against his shirt.

"Yeah?" His voice was low, a little breathless, as he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. His expression softened, concern flickering behind the heat in his eyes, always wanting to make sure you were comfortable.

You hesitated for just a second before lowering your gaze, suddenly feeling so much shyer than before. "Can we… go to the bedroom instead?"

Hinata blinked, his lips parting in surprise. But then, as your words fully registered, a slow, almost mischievous smile tugged at his lips.

"Yeah," he murmured, nodding before standing up—only to suddenly scoop you up into his arms like you weighed nothing.

A surprised gasp left your lips as your feet left the ground, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. "H-Hinata!"

"What?" He grinned down at you, eyes twinkling. "Gotta put all this muscle to good use, right?" Your heart flipped in your chest.

He carried you effortlessly into the room, his grip warm and secure as if he never wanted to let go. And when he finally set you down on the bed, he did it so gently, as if you were something precious—something he wanted to take his time with.

You barely had a moment to process the warmth creeping up your neck before he reached for the hem of his shirt, tugging it over his head in one smooth motion. Your breath caught as you stared.

Hinata tossed his shirt aside and leaned over you, bracing himself on his arms. His toned chest, the sharp lines of muscle carved into his stomach, the definition in his arms—when the hell had he gotten so built?!

"What happened to that tiny little guy I used to know?" you teased, though your voice came out just slightly breathless.

Hinata smirked, his face lowering until his nose brushed against yours. "Guess I had a growth spurt."

His lips hovered just above yours again, his breath fanning against your skin.

"Want me to show you just how much I’ve grown?"Hinata’s smirk deepened at your flustered expression, and before you could even think of a response, he moved.

Slowly, deliberately, he dipped his head down, his lips barely grazing the sensitive skin of your jaw. A sharp inhale slipped from your lips, your fingers curling into the sheets as he trailed lower, so achingly slow it sent shivers down your spine.

Then—a kiss. Right at the base of your neck. Soft. Testing.

And then another.

Hinata exhaled against your skin, his breath warm, his lips pressing more firmly this time. A soft hum of satisfaction rumbled in his chest as he felt you tense beneath him.

"Sho—" You bit your lip, your hands twitching, unsure where to place them as he continued his path downward.

Then, he sucked.

A startled gasp escaped you as his lips latched onto your neck, his teeth barely scraping against your skin before he soothed the spot with his tongue. His hands gripped your waist, holding you steady as he worked another mark just a little lower.

He wasn't stopping.

Another kiss. Another slow, teasing graze of his teeth. Another deep, lingering press of his lips, leaving behind warmth and a faint sting.

Your head tipped back, your breath uneven. "Hinata…"

He hummed against your skin, his lips curving into a knowing smile. "You called me Sho earlier," he murmured, pressing another kiss just below your ear. "I think I like that better."*

Hinata’s fingers ghosted beneath the hem of your shirt, his touch featherlight yet searing against your skin. Slowly, deliberately, his hand slid higher, tracing the curve of your waist before stopping just below your breasts.

Your breath hitched, your body tensing ever so slightly. He hesitated, amber eyes flickering up to meet yours, searching—asking a silent question.

You swallowed, your pulse pounding in your ears, and after a moment, you gave a slow, tentative nod. Something in his gaze darkened, but his lips curved into the softest, most reassuring smile.

"Okay," he murmured, his voice warm, steady.

Then, with aching slowness, he pushed your shirt higher, his fingers skimming over your skin, sending shivers down your spine. He took his time, almost as if savoring the moment, before finally slipping the fabric over your head and tossing it aside.

Hinata’s breath caught. This was his first time seeing you like this.

His gaze roamed over you, admiration flickering across his face—like he wasn’t sure whether to blush, stare, or touch.

"Wow," he whispered, more to himself than to you. And just like that, the heat in your cheeks spread all throughout your body.

"Sho… I’m nervous," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. Instinctively, your hands moved to cover your bare chest, a flush creeping up your neck.

Hinata’s gaze softened as he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek before cupping your face gently. "Hey," he murmured, his thumbs stroking soothing circles against your skin. "You’re beautiful. Inside and out."

Your heart fluttered in your chest.

Before you could even process the warmth pooling in your stomach, he leaned in, pressing soft, open mouth kisses along your jaw, trailing lower—down the column of your neck, across your collarbone, his lips leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

Your breath hitched when he dipped even lower, his hands tracing along your sides before his fingers grazed your sensitive nubs. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine, a quiet gasp slipping past your lips.

Hinata paused, his warm breath fanning against your skin. "Tell me to stop if it’s too much, okay?" he murmured, his voice low, almost hesitant.

And then—an experimental flick of his tongue.

A sharp inhale. Your fingers curled into the sheets beneath you as a quiet whimper escaped before you could stop it.

Hinata stilled for a moment, watching your reaction with something unreadable in his gaze, before he smiled.

"Guess I’m doing something right," he teased, his voice husky, before leaning in again.

Your cheeks burned, and you opened your mouth to respond—to say anything—but any words you had were lost when he dipped his head again, sucking teasingly as his other hand simultaneously twisted your sensitive nubs between his thumb and index finger.

"Nnnm!" you moaned, your whole body tensing as his tongue glided over your sensitive flesh as his fingers tugged at the waistband of your shorts. Your head fell back, your nails digging into his shoulders as another shudder rolled through your body. When he looked up at you, his eyes held something softer now.

"You okay?" he asked, searching your face as be slipped one hand in your shorts.

You swallowed, your fingers reaching up to thread through his messy orange locks. "Yeah," you breathed, your heart hammering as he trailed against your heat while maintaning eye contact with you. "You’re being really sweet, you know that?"

Hinata chuckled,"Well… it’s you," he admitted with a sheepish grin. "Of course I want to take my time and make sure your okay."

Hinata’s words sent a whole new kind of warmth rushing through you—one that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the way he was looking at you. Like you were something precious. Like he wanted to memorize every single detail.

"aah–" a whimper escaped your lips as he slipped a finger inside. The sound and the sight made hinata groan as he felt his own dick twitch in his pants. fuck

He slowly slipped off your shorts while pumping his index finger in and out of you, trying not to rush things because fuck, he wanted you to have the most pleasure since he knew this was your first time. But god –dammit—his cock was getting harder by the second as he watched you squirm underneath him. The slight hitch in your breathing, the way your body trembled in his hands.

"mmhm shoyo.." Hinata bit his lip, his breath hitching at the soft, unfiltered sound that slipped from your lips. His grip on your thigh tightened as he increased his pace.

Your fingers curled into the bedsheets as his finger pumped in and out, one hand slipping higher along your side, grazing over your chest in a way that sent a shiver down your spine.

Then, just when you were about to come undone, he suddenly stopped.A whimper of protest left your lips before—

A sharp gasp.

Hinata pressed two fingers against your sensitive bud, applying just enough pressure to send a jolt of pleasure through your entire body. Your back arched off the bed, head tilting back as a strangled moan slipped past your lips before you could stop it.

"You’re incredible," he murmured, his voice husky, filled with something that made your skin burn. "I could do this all night."

Hinata hovered above you, his gaze searching yours, his breath slightly unsteady. His fingers traced soothing circles against your skin, as if grounding both of you in the moment.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked as he positioned himself, his voice softer now, tinged with both anticipation and concern.

You held his gaze, taking him in—the flushed cheeks, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath, the warmth in his eyes that made your heart stutter.

Then, slowly, you nodded. "I want this," you murmured, voice steady despite the rapid beat of your heart.

A breath you hadn’t realized he was holding escaped him, and his lips curled into the faintest, almost relieved smile. "Me too," he whispered, leaning down to brush his lips against yours—soft, lingering, like he wanted to savor the moment.

"But wait a min—" Hinata scrambled off the bed, ruffling through his nightstand drawer with frantic determination. You propped yourself up on your elbows, watching with a mix of amusement and curiosity as he dug through the clutter—receipts, old keychains, a half-empty pack of gum—before his fingers finally curled around a small foil packet.

Your eyebrows shot up. "Wait…" You sat up, pointing at the item in his hand. "You actually have one?"

Hinata turned to you, looking almost too proud of himself. "Of course I do!" he said, puffing out his chest slightly. "Gotta be prepared, right?"

You narrowed your eyes at him, crossing your arms. "Uh-huh. And just when exactly were you planning to use it, Mr. Innocent?"

His confident facade instantly crumbled. "Wha—no! It’s not like that!" His face turned a deep shade of red as he waved the packet around defensively. "I just… I mean—it's been in there for a while! I didn’t even know I still had it!"

You raised a skeptical brow, lips twitching. "So you're telling me you've been hoarding a condom like some kind of secret treasure?"

"I- wasn’t hoarding it!" Hinata groaned, rubbing a hand over his face before shooting you a playful glare. "Are we really gonna have this conversation right now?"

You giggled, shaking your head. "I just never thought my best friend was so...prepared. "

Hinata huffed, throwing himself back onto the bed beside you. "Yeah, well," he muttered, shooting you a side glance, "you never thought we'd be here either, huh?"

Your breath caught, heart skipping a beat at the weight of his words. He wasn’t wrong. Hinata sat up, still slightly flustered but determined as he held the small packet between his fingers. You watched as he brought it to his mouth, gripping the edge with his teeth before tearing it open with an effortless pull.

Your eyes widened slightly. "Oh."

Hinata glanced at you, amusement flickering in his gaze as he tossed the wrapper aside. "What?" he asked, voice laced with playful confidence.

You blinked at him. "Nothing…" You paused before raising a brow. "Just didn’t expect you to look so—" You waved a hand vaguely, searching for the right word. "…experienced."

His cheeks tinted pink, but he smirked anyway. "Told you I’m prepared," he teased.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes with a small laugh. "Yeah, yeah… just get over here, ‘Mr. Prepared.’"

Hinata grinned, placing himself before your legs again, slipping the latex over his throbbing dick. "gladly" before he pushed in slowly, letting you get comfortable first.

You leaned your head back against the pillows, relaxing your jaw and eyes closing as he gently thrust forward—slow, deep

The next day you woke up to the feeling of something lightly brushing your face. Your eyes fluttered open to find hinata already awake.

"sorry, did I wake you up? you can sleep more if you want" he said caressing your cheek.

"hmm..give me a few minutes" you hummed in response.

Hinata let out a soft chuckle as you burrowed closer, your warmth seeping into him like the morning sun filtering through the curtains. "Take all the time you need," he murmured.

Hinata’s fingers traced lazy patterns along your back, his touch featherlight against your bare skin. The warmth of his body pressed against yours, the sheets tangled around you both, a quiet reminder of everything that had happened last night.

Your face heated at the thought, and you instinctively curled closer, hiding in the crook of his neck. He let out a soft chuckle, his chest vibrating beneath you.

"Shy now, huh?" he teased, his voice still raspy from sleep. "You weren’t like this last night."

Your fingers twitched against his skin, and you groaned, lightly smacking his shoulder. "Don’t remind me."

"Why not?" He tilted his head slightly, his lips brushing against your temple. "I think it was kinda cute how you—"

"Sho!" You cut him off, reaching up to cover his mouth with your hand, your cheeks burning.

Hinata laughed against your palm before gently pulling your hand away, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Alright, alright, I’ll stop," he said, though the smirk on his lips told you otherwise.

As you lay in his arms, wrapped in the warmth of the morning, you hesitated for a moment before finally whispering, "This was my first time, you know…"

Hinata’s hold on you tightened slightly as he looked down, his expression softening. "Yeah?" he murmured, brushing his fingers against your cheek.

You nodded, feeling the heat rise to your face. "And I’m glad it was you."

His eyes widened slightly before a warm, boyish grin stretched across his face. "That’s kinda unfair," he said, voice laced with fondness.

You blinked. "Huh?"

"You keep saying cute things and expect me to just stay normal?" He chuckled, pulling you closer as he pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Now I feel even luckier."

Your heart swelled at his words, but curiosity got the best of you. "Wait… what about you?" You hesitated. "Did you, um, y’know… with someone in Brazil?"

Hinata paused for a moment, blinking at you. Then, just as you were about to clarify, a sly smirk crept onto his face.

"Mmm… maybe," he hummed, stretching lazily. "There were a lot of pretty girls over there, you know…"

Your face immediately scrunched up, and without thinking, you grabbed the nearest pillow and whacked him with it. "You idiot!"*

"Ow—hey!" He laughed, shielding himself as you rained soft blows down on him. "I was kidding! I was kidding!"

You huffed, arms crossed, glaring at him. "Not funny."

"It was a little funny," he grinned, reaching for your wrists to stop your assault. "And for the record," he pulled you closer, his expression turning sincere, "you were my first too."

Your frustration faded as your eyes met his, warmth bubbling in your chest again. "Really?"

Just as you were about to relax again, he smirked. "And, well… you’re about to be my second time too."

You blinked. "Huh?"

Then you noticed the way his gaze darkened, a familiar heat behind his eyes as they trailed lower. That same look from last night—mischievous, wanting, hungry.

And that’s when it hit you.

In the middle of your little pillow fight, you had completely forgotten you were only wearing his unbuttoned shirt. And now that you were sitting up straight… you were practically on full display for him. Hinata swallowed hard, his shameless gaze lingering.

"Stop staring, you perv!" you yelped, grabbing the pillow again in a weak attempt to shield yourself.

But Hinata only laughed, effortlessly plucking the pillow from your grasp and tossing it aside. "Can you blame me?" he murmured, shifting closer, his hands finding your waist as he pulled you into his lap. "You’re literally sitting here, wearing nothing but my shirt, and you expect me to just—" He exhaled, resting his forehead against yours. "..not want you all over again?"

Your breath hitched.

Hinata’s hands moved up, fingers tracing light circles against your back, sending tiny sparks up your spine. You gulped, suddenly very aware of how close you were—his bare chest pressed against yours, his breath fanning against your lips, the way his grip on you tightened just slightly.

"Sho…" You whispered, your heart pounding in your ears.

He hummed in response, his hands sliding lower, squeezing your waist gently. "We don’t have to, y’know," he said, voice softer this time. "I just… really like being close to you."

Your fingers curled against his shoulders. "I… I like it too," you admitted, cheeks warm.

Hinata grinned, pressing a lingering kiss to your cheek before murmuring against your skin, "Then let me hold you a little longer."

And just like that, you melted into him, letting yourself fall into the warmth of his embrace.

#haikyuu #haikyu x reader #haikyu #haikyuu hinata #hq hinata #haikyu hinata #hinata shoyo #hinata shoyo x reader #hinata shouyou #hq x reader #hq smut #hinata shoyo x you #hinata smut #haikyuu smut #hinata shoyo smut #honeyscara works #soft sex #hinata x reader

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writingmeraki · 2 days ago

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take me back — c.sc ft k.mg (TEASER)

❝ in which with some people you meet, you learn they are better off as memories.

( or growing up you thought the one who you considered your dearest would stick with you till the end of time but turns out life doesn't work that way and along the way, you find solace in the least expected of places and people perhaps. )

pairings : seungcheol x reader, mingyu x reader, best friend seungcheol, enemy mingyu. genre : angst, romance, bits of humour, fluff, coming of age. warnings : mentions of alcohol and getting drunk, cusses, lots of relation issues, people are mean too,crisis (plenty) about life and all its ugly ( as well as good) points, lots of cameos from svt members and my loml @etherealyoungk :) inspired by — the night we met by lord huron. a/n at end, pls do read <3

w.c : 1.1k for the teaser | estimated 15-20k for final. | note : in "[__]" are the ages !

❝ I HAD ALL — seven to fifteen.

[ begin : seven ]

You knew it was always a wonder how you'd end up becoming friends with him. Even though he was your age, same class, similarly missing teeth, unruly hair, and curiosity that would annoy impatient adults (those who had a longing for their now gone childhood) about how you wanted to know everything about the humongous world and all its tidbits.

Choi Seungcheol. The dimple, wide eyed boy who you found a little suspicious the first time you saw him. He looked a little too happy for someone sitting in the math class early in the morning. Or maybe it was just you who disliked the subject hence you were not as happy as usual having to study it first thing in the morning.

Then again, he was a new student too. After the class ended, everyone seemed to be enticed with him and rushed forward to be his friend, perhaps best friend too.

You were too focused on packing your bag, making sure not to forget your favorite purple pen that you didn’t see who stood in front of you.

“Hi!” Startled, you dropped it on the floor and frowned as it rolled beneath the desk. Annoyed, you looked up at the person, eyes narrowing more once you saw who it was.

“You scared me.” When his smile dimmed down, so did his dimples disappear and he sort of looked like your grandma’s puppy when he would get scolded which made you feel bad for him, in this situation, you felt bad.

“Sorry I didn't mean to, I just wanted to ask if we could be friends.” He murmured to you as he bent down to pick up your pen and handed it to you. “Here. Oh, pretty color!”

Surprised at his words and even more at his compliment, you couldn’t help but grin back at him and nodded, “Isn’t it?! I have more like this and the red is even prettier with sparkles!”

“Woah, red is my favorite color!”

“Mine too along with purple of course!”

You gasped as your eyes widened, all feelings that may have arised of annoyance disappeared.

“What’s your name?”

You said your name, the grin on your face not leaving.

“Can we-can we be friends then? I don’t know anyone except you now.”

And with a nod, you raised your hand for a handshake,

“Okay, new friend.”

Both of you giggled as you shook hands and that day, you went home with a new friend to introduce to your dad.

[ intermission : fifteen. ]

Seungcheol became captain of the boys soccer team and you honestly couldn’t be more proud of him. You were someone who knew about his love for soccer since the very first day and even were someone to help him practice at times so it was no surprise to you he’d become the captain.

But with this newfound title, also came the new friends. Friends you did not expect but you couldn’t say you didn’t like them.

Joshua was sweet actually, as sweet as a fifteen year old boy can be. Probably the nicest out of the whole bunch. Jeonghan was annoying but nonetheless he knew when to shut up if it got too much. Vernon and Soonyoung were petty and pesky and you think one of these days you might just ‘accidentally’ put green dye in their shampoos. The worst was surprisingly not these two but Mingyu. He downright had a distaste and was always clear about it.

And one thing your father thought you was to treat people the way they treat you, so if he was going to be a bitch to you, you’d be a bigger one. He played the part of being a dog almost too well, his floppy hair and puppy eyes at times convinced you he was likely one in his past life. Too bad he also carried the personality of one to this lifetime.

But still, Seungcheol was your best friend. The others, well they were your friends ( you doubted that with Mingyu) but not the type to just greet you, you guys hung out and had fun, except when Mingyu picked fights with you, but it was still fun.

Does knowing someone longer in your life automatically make them of more importance than someone who comes later?

Perhaps it was why you were not able to declare anyone else your best friend because indeed you knew him the longest.

“Okay cut it off you two.” There he finally came, arm over your shoulder and he looked between his two best friends fighting.

Your arms were crossed as you continued to glare at the boy in front of you. He decided to pick a fight and while you were trying not to lose your patience.

You looked up at Seungcheol and he was smiling at you, shaking his head lightly.

“Why are you both always at each other's neck?”

“You mean why is Mingyu so obsessed with me that he can't help but intervene in every thing I do?”

You smirked and blinked innocently, turning to look at Mingyu whose face twitched in annoyance as he rolled his eyes and pushed back his hair.

“Yeah right as if anyone would even want to keep up with you.”

“Mm but see Cheol has…for almost eight years now.”

You mocked him, childishly poking your tongue out. He glared at you, ready to retort as fast as you finished the sentence.

“Again? Knock it out, come on.” Seungcheol cut him off before another screaming match would happen. You truly wondered how the heck did he even become friends with that.

He came after you, he became friends just because of a sport and somehow he was a good friend, dare you say a best friend of his.

Maybe you were petty for feeling like that but you couldn't help it.

You knew him longer. Mingyu came afterwards.

“You two are my best friends, it's sad to see you not get along well.”

You paused. Stopping in your tracks and then you realized that you'd both been walking already with Mingyu trailing along.

Best friend…friends?

“What's wrong?” Seungcheol asked concerned as you blinked up at him as if you'd heard wrong and he looked at you in confusion wondering if he said something wrong.

You pretended to ignore the faint murmur of the word everything falling out from the boy who was beside Seungcheol.

“It's getting late…I should uh…go, Dad will get worried.”

It was as though those three words seemed to affect you. Maybe you were being overdramatic.

But, all the years you made friends, you only declared one of them your best friend. A title you thought was supposed to be reserved for one person.

You learnt that, perhaps knowing someone longer did not mean they would hold more importance than those who came after.

They would hold the same. Or less.

And maybe, that title itself did not have to be held for one person, having more than one didn't seem all too bad…right?

perm. taglist ( open ! ) : @mansaaay ; @gyuguys ; @toplinehyunjin ; @cherrylovescheol

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a/n : thank you to my biggest motivator @etherealyoungk for helping me and motivating me to write. i love you so much. and yes this is my comeback fic HAHAHA, i decided if we're gonna be back, might as well be something huge!! this fic means a lot to me and by releasing this teaser i'm hoping it gives me the motivation to fully finish this. i promise u it will get so much better :") i just dk how teasers work im so sorry :") looking forward to writing again and i truly missed you all. mwah <3

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i7nn8a · 9 hours ago

Text

You were always running away.

The first time Sukuna saw you was on a Sunday night. The city was already asleep, and the air was cold. He had gone out alone for a walk, trying to clear his mind from the increasingly torturous business matters, when he realized he was being followed.

His work had always taken priority over his personal life. Running betting houses, nightclubs, and a few trafficking schemes, Sukuna had always had many enemies. It wasn’t often that he got to go out alone, so when he did, he cherished those moments. Which only made him want to kill whoever was following him even more.

Trying to lure his pursuer into a more secluded area, he walked toward a dimly lit alley. But as he approached, he heard a low murmur, almost inaudible, and heavy breathing. When he looked inside the alley, he saw you. Sitting with your knees pressed against your face, rocking back and forth, crying. Frantically. Your fingers were covered in bandages, as was one side of your face.

It took you a while to notice him there, but when you did, you didn't waste a second. You got up from the ground and ran away before he even had the chance to say anything.

The moment you disappeared without a trace, he looked around and realized there was no longer any sign of the person who had been following him. He decided to call his men, ordering one of them to figure out what the hell had just happened.

The second time Sukuna saw you was near a bar. He was meeting with a powerful criminal who owed him certain information. When he left, he spotted a familiar figure turning the corner. You.

Driven by curiosity, he followed you to a small park until you suddenly turned around and looked straight at him. You were about 500 meters apart. Neither of you spoke, just stared at each other, until your eyes landed on something behind him. Your eyes widened in fear, and you took off running. Fast.

Sukuna didn't even have the chance to go after you.

When he turned to see what had scared you, there was nothing. Just empty space.

The third time he saw you, he was already in a foul mood. The police had intercepted a valuable shipment of weapons he had already sold. He did everything he could to shake off the anger—punched a few things, took it out on the idiot responsible for the failed plan—but nothing helped. At least he could say he tried.

When his brother took him to one of their family's nightclubs, he thought he might finally relax. But less than two minutes after stepping inside, someone bumped into him, spilling some kind of liquid all over him. His rage was already boiling over. When he looked down, there you were.

Your right arm was bandaged, and you held a half-empty plastic water bottle in your left hand. Your eyes met his, and he swore he had never seen emptier eyes. Not even in the faces of those he had just killed.

Before you could run, he grabbed your uninjured arm and led you to the bar. Saying nothing, he bought another bottle of water and handed it to you before pulling you outside. The two of you stared at each other, neither knowing what to say, until you finally broke the silence.

"Thank you." You spoke so softly he almost didn’t hear it.

"What’s your name?" he asked, momentarily forgetting about the stolen weapons, his soaked shirt, or the fury still burning inside him.

"I…" Before you could answer, something flashed in your eyes. You focused on a point behind him and started trembling. Without looking at him again, you bolted, terrified.

Sukuna didn’t hesitate—he started chasing you.

You ran like your life depended on it. You kept running, running, and running until you reached a busy street. Far too busy for that time of night. And just like that—you were gone.

More furious than ever, he called one of his men with clear instructions: Get the nightclub’s security footage and identify the woman who had been with him. Simple.

The fourth time Sukuna saw you wasn’t in person—it was in newspaper headlines from eighteen years ago. They all reported a horrific kidnapping of a seven-year-old girl taken by a thirty-one-year-old man. From the photos, he could tell it was you. Your face was almost the same, just a little older. According to the articles, you had been missing for a month before they found you. Your kidnapper was arrested but was released five years ago and was still out there.

With the right connections, it didn’t take him long to pull up your records. Your name was [Name]. Your parents had died when you were sixteen, forcing you to live with your grandmother. You worked nights at a diner and lived in a tiny apartment in the city’s poorest area until your grandmother passed away when you were eighteen. After that, you disappeared.

Digging deeper, he found a medical record. It was the last time you had seen a psychiatrist. No data beyond that. Your name was listed alongside a diagnosis:

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

Post-Traumatic Psychosis.

The fifth time Sukuna saw you, it was nothing short of premeditated. Of course, he hadn’t expected it to happen like this, but you had proven to be increasingly unpredictable.

He had eyes everywhere in the city. It wasn’t hard to have all his men on alert, ready to notify him the moment someone spotted you. What he didn’t expect was that when that day finally came, you would be at the police station.

Apparently, you had a psychotic episode and attacked someone.

Getting you out wasn’t hard. Sukuna knew exactly what to do, and he had more than enough money to make it happen. When you were finally released from your cell and approached him, looking at him with curiosity, he knew something had changed for him.

"Did you get me out?" you asked, almost shyly.

Terribly adorable. He was completely doomed.

#jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #sukuna #sukuna jjk #sukuna ryomen #sukuna x reader #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x you

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zepskies · 2 days ago

Text

So much angst in this one, right? 😅

the fact that this is how he sees their story, yet he's still chosen to be a dirty lying no good scoundrel really grinds my gears. like he needed to forget his name? I could smack him with a frying pan rapunzel style for the same effect lol

IKR? Piece of shit for real. lol I condone the Rapunzel treatment. 🍳

my immediate thought was well try harder 😭 and i did feel bad for a second, then I finished the chapter…i stand by my statement 😅

lolllll I don't blame you for that instinct honestly. He's not showing us that he deserved even an ounce of his wife saving his life and staying by his side.

so real lmaoo her inner conflict tugged at my heartstrings, i'm just glad she's giving herself some grace at least <3 it’s a difficult situation all around the flowers!!! 😩 oh dean :( and michael is truly a classic douche like sir you cannot just magically make it better with some flowers and dinner 🙂‍↔️🤚🏽

Haha Dean certainly gave her a reason to smile. 😏

Yeah she has to work through the complicated cobwebs of this situation in her mind and in her heart, poor thing. 💙 Same thing for Dean too with those flowers, especially when he runs into Michael. Exactly his point too! 😮‍💨

it’s bad enough he’s sleeping with a floozy on the regular but to take his wife’s money as well to fund that is actually beyond ballsy and insane. i hate them, justice for my girl fr 🫶🏽:(

RIGHT?! That would've sent me into contemplating murder loll.

ngl I had to put my phone down for a moment and yell into a pillow because dean, what the hell man 😩

LOL you kinda wanna choke the shit outta him, don't you? (not in the good way) 😝

oh dean, getting stabbed would’ve probably hurt less

lmfao facttts. Dean was not his best here, but yes at least he didn't let her stew in this misery and actually apologized and tried to comfort her, even if it was a bittersweet goodbye. 🥲

oh they’d work on me for sure 😭

Oh SAMe. 🥺

my heart aches, this chapter was so sad 😩 (not in a bad way!!🫶🏽) I feel for all three of them 😔🤍

I warned you guys about the heartbreak in this chapter. 🤭 I'm so sorry to do this to you, hun, but I promise there's a happy ending in store here 💙💙💙

ahhhhhh the cliffhanger! i’m guessing he found something illegal and/or dangerous 🤔 the preview is making me anxiousss, he better not hurt her! 😩

Big cliffhanger, again I'm so sorry! loll But you're getting very warm...

this was a wonderful chapter, very excited to see the drama unfold!!💗💗

Thank you so much, friend!! I'm very glad you enjoyed it despite all the heartbreak, but I can't wait to bring you guys the grand finale next week! 🥰💕

BETWEEN THE CITY & THE STARS - Part 4

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: In the fall of 1945, Dean is having a difficult time assimilating back into civilian life after the War. He’s visiting his brother Sam in New York City, where he’s beginning to build up his law firm. At two minutes to closing time, you interrupt their evening to solicit a solicitor. Your request? You need help in order to divorce your husband.

AN: Now we get into the aftermath of the night before, with all the insecurity and heartbreak to go along with it. 💙

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Historical Epic

Song Inspo: “Danke Shoen” by Wayne Newton

Word Count: 4K

Tags/Warnings: Mentions of cheating, angsty angst, trauma/PTSD, and a cliffhanger…

✨ Series Masterlist

🎵 YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Part 4: Complicit

Sam would give Michael one thing. The guy damn well knew how to drink.

He didn’t stop all night, throwing back whiskey like it was cheap beer. His words began to slur, his movements sloppy, but he was still coherent. When he got up to visit the men’s restroom, Sam got up as well. Maybe he could get Michael talking.

Sam stopped the other man from tripping into the urinal. The two laughed it off, with Michael thanking him before he unzipped to finish his business. Sam did the same.

After washing their hands, Sam looked over and noticed Michael’s gaze lingering on his own reflection in the mirror. It was becoming a rough sight—his blonde hair no longer neatly coiffed, purplish rings under his eyes, the stench of alcohol clinging to his skin and clothing.

“You all right there, Milligan?” Sam asked.

Michael ran a hand over his face, sighing when it didn’t get any better.

“Fine,” he replied. “So, Winchester. What did you say you do for work again? Something about your own business?”

Sam nodded. “I started up a law firm.”

That much, he had to be honest about. It was all too easy for someone to look up his name in the directory.

“Sounds like a good outfit,” Michael said, with an incline of his head. “Every lawyer I know wears a Rolex.”

Sam chuckled, glancing down at his father’s watch. “Well, I’m not quite there yet.”

“Someday soon, I’m sure,” said Michael. He bumped Sam conspiringly on the shoulder.

“And you?” Sam asked. “What’s keeping the lights on at your place?”

Michael raised a hand to sort through his unruly hair, a dirtier blonde in this unflattering light.

“Well, you could say I’ve inherited a business of my own,” he said. “I run a meat packing plant down in the district.”

Sam’s attention piqued. There had been a meat rationing during the war, even some rumors and propaganda about “meatleggers,” black market operators.

“How’s it been with the rations?” Sam asked. “Been hard to even find a good carton of eggs lately.”

Michael gave him a slight smile. “Been on the turnaround, actually. I’ve been able to make some connections with vendors outside the city. A little grease on the palms makes a little go a long way, if you catch my drift.”

Sam slowly smiled and nodded. A little grease on the palms, huh?

“Do what you gotta do in the times, ‘s what I say,” Sam agreed.

Michael snorted. “Now you’re talkin’. That’s all we can do, you know. Try to make a thing work, with whatever scraps we get. Try to stay afloat.”

“Try to stay alive,” Sam rejoined.

Michael made a low sound of approval. He became more contemplative, crossing his arms as he once again glanced at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Sam’s gaze on the other man was perceptive, gaining ever closer to what seemed to be eating at the very core of him. Whether Sam actually believed what he was saying or not, each of his words was a test, a subtle nudge.

“You know,” Michael said. “I was shot down in France.”

Sam sobered further. Leaning against the counter, he retrieved two cigarettes and a lighter. He didn’t often smoke, but he thought it might keep the other man talking. He handed one over to Michael, and he took it gratefully. They lit up together and coiled musky tobacco smoke into the air.

“Where?” Sam asked.

Michael snorted, huffing a bit of smoke. “Lord knows. But when I woke up, I had stitches from here to here.”

He gestured to the back of his head, all the way to above his brow. It explained a small, but noticeable scar near his temple.

“And I had an angel standing over me,” he added, his eyes growing heavy. Guilty. “A bona fide angel. She’d stitched me up, she told me. She also told me I was lucky to be alive. The doc wanted to toe tag me and be done with it, but she thought I still had some fight left in me.”

Michael shook his head. “The next chance I got, I married her.”

Sam’s brows rose. He knew you had been a nurse, but he hadn’t known this part of your story.

“A wartime romance, huh?” he said. Michael quirked a smile.

“She was my anchor,” he said. “After it was all said and done, she followed me here, held my feet down to the ground. Sometimes she had to hammer me down, ya know.”

He hesitated, his eyes somewhat glazing over. He stared over Sam’s shoulder at something only he could see.

“But sometimes…sometimes an anchor just feels suffocating,” he said. “Sometimes, you need to forget your own damn name. Forget that your entire life and mortgage is in a warehouse that might as well be a freezer full a’ dead cow meat. And still, it smells a hell of a lot better than lying on a dirty cot—where the last guy who had your spot probably got his leg sawed off.”

Michael considers the cigarette in his hand for a long while before he takes another puff.

Sam exhales smoke as well. He spent the last three years behind a desk, but he sees the same shaken core in Michael Milligan that he too often sees in his older brother.

“You know, Winchester, there’s two kinds of men,” Michael said, just a hint of a slur in his voice. “The ones who pray to live…and the ones who beg for it to be over.”

“And what kind of man are you now?” Sam asked. His tone was loose, but his gaze was sharp.

Michael snorted. He dabbed the butt of his cigarette on the inside of the sink before he threw it away.

“I’m the guy who can’t die,” he muttered.

He rolled his shoulders, as if to let the weight of his words and everything that came along with them to roll off his back. Then he pushed his way out of the bathroom, leaving Sam considering more than just half a cigarette.

That night after Dean left, you slept in the guest room instead of your bed. You couldn’t even bring yourself to sleep next to Michael when he stumbled in at four in the morning, especially now that you had seen his game with your own eyes.

However, you also felt complicit yourself the next morning. You felt…ashamed. You took your vows seriously. You had never in your life thought you would be someone so brazen. You never thought you would dishonor your husband as well as yourself.

And yet. All while you got ready for work, hearing Michael’s snores from the other room, your mind was filled with warmth and memory—of Dean. His smile, his voice, his eyes, his lips, and of course, his hands. You couldn’t decide which of them was your favorite, but his hands were high on the list.

You shouldn’t have let him in, you reminded yourself. You nibbled on your lower lip while you prepped the coffee maker. You should have told him goodnight at the door and saw him off. You should very well not have invited him up to the apartment, let alone drank with him, or let him touch you…

You paused while the sound of percolation and the smell of fresh coffee filled the kitchen. You looked up at yourself in the small mirror that hung on the wall. The woman looking back at you was conflicted at best.

Yes, you felt guilty. But at the same time, you didn’t. Was it really betraying your marriage if your husband had been doing far worse, and for God knew how long?

No. This wasn’t a marriage. This was a sham. A mockery of the very thing.

You frowned angrily and almost slammed the carafe on the counter when the coffee was done. Forcing yourself to take a few steadying breaths, you allowed that hate and anger to slowly drain out of you, and you smiled.

You marveled that you could smile at all, but it was only thanks to Dean Winchester.

What the hell am I doing?

Dean stared at the two bouquets of flowers. One was a bound bunch of red roses, the other was wildflowers and other colorful ones he didn’t know the names of. He was having a hard time deciding, namely because he didn’t know what kind of flowers you liked.

Because after all, he barely knew you.

He sighed down at the roses. They were pretty, but expensive. He could imagine your surprise, followed by your smile—the one that actually lit up your eyes and changed your whole face, made you sweeter, almost shy.

I’m buying flowers for a married woman.

The thought managed to make him pause, with a rough exhale of breath. The truth was, he’d crossed the line with you. More than once.

The hard part about it was, he didn’t really care. He did wonder if you cared.

He wondered if you’d be embarrassed to see him again. He wondered if you wanted to keep last night a memory, and nothing more. He wondered if he was better off booking his train home now, and leaving some kind of note for you with Sam. Dean didn’t think he wanted to see that look of mortification on your face, the whiskey finally cleared from your mind to see what he really was: a man with no job, no commitments, and very little prospects on the horizon.

“Ah, ‘scuse me,” a young man said from Dean’s left side.

“Oh, sorry,” Dean said, making way for the guy. He wasn’t quite as tall as Dean, lithe, blonde, and blue-eyed. He grabbed an arrangement of blue and yellow iris flowers from the case and took it up to the front. The florist seemed to recognize him.

“Oh, Michael! Been a while since I’ve seen you,” he said.

When the florist asked about you as well, the mention of your name rang between Dean’s ears. A feeling like inky claws raked through his chest; he raised his head from the roses and finally recognized Michael Milligan. He was the same man Dean had spotted in your wedding pictures hanging on the wall last night, right in the foyer.

“She’s all right,” Michael chuckled. “Truth be told, I’ve been working late this week. Hoping to surprise her tonight, take her out to dinner. Somewhere nice, you know.”

“Oh, really? Why don’t you take her to that nice steakhouse off of Broadway…” the florist twittered on as he continued to ring up Michael’s order.

Anger and disgust prickled under Dean’s skin, his fists clenched at his sides. More than anything, he wanted to turn around and lay your husband out flat. If he thought one little bouquet and a Salisbury steak was going to wash him clean, then he was an idiot as well as a selfish bastard.

But Dean knew, deep down, that Michael would be just as justified to throw a swing right back at him.

So Dean left the flowers, the flower shop, and the entire busy street and all its blaring sounds behind.

During your lunch break, you quickly made the trek over to Sam’s office. He’d called you this morning with a story that only confirmed everything you’d inherently felt, and yet, some of it still managed to shock you.

You didn’t even have the patience to wait until after work, but when you got there, he reassured you. It had taken him a few rounds of poker and discreetly following Michael and Dolores after they exited through the back of the club…but Sam had gotten the evidence not long after. They weren’t exactly discreet in the alley. Or in the nearby motel.

You had the envelope in hand filled with the pictures he’d developed from his camera.

“You don’t have to look,” he advised. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“No, I want to see it,” you said. You took the pictures out, and your expression didn’t change as you look through them all. Each position captured was more compromising than the next between Michael and Dolores Daye. Apparently, he was paying most of her bills as well with your combined household funds. So part of your own money was financing his exploits.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said. He was sincere, with those hazel eyes of his.

You nodded and gave him back the envelope. “What’s next?”

“I went ahead and filed the petition. I’ll take this right to the clerk’s office myself.”

“How long will it take to be over?”

“As long as Michael plays along, should be quick. A few months at most, after he’s served the divorce papers and signs them,” Sam assured.

A few months? That wasn’t quick enough in your book, but you agreed with a nod. You got up from the chair opposite his desk. You hesitated there.

“Oh, I meant to ask…how’s your brother?” you said.

Sam began to smile, but he tempered it. “He just called before you came in. He let me know he was stepping out for a walk.”

“Oh, really? Did he happen to say where?”

You not only found Dean in Central Park, but close to the very same bench you two had sat on yesterday and talked the night away. He was surprised, but he smiled when he saw you. Your pace quickened, until you were hastening over to him. He welcomed you into his arms. He bent his head towards yours, stopping just shy of kissing you. Instead, he pressed his forehead to yours for a moment.

“Well, look who’s here?” he teased. “How’d you find me?”

“I stopped by Sam’s office,” you said, holding onto the lapels of his coat. A cold November wind pushed at you both, ruffling your clothes. “The paperwork is on its way. Soon enough, I won’t be a married woman anymore.”

He tucked a wild strand of hair behind your ear and smiled, but it didn’t altogether reach his eyes.

“How soon is soon?” he asked.

“A few months, according to your brother.”

Dean nodded, taking a deep breath. “That’s good…but, I need to head home for a little while.”

That made you pause, tilting your head in confusion. Though you supposed it made sense. He was only here visiting his brother. He was planning on going home eventually.

But surely, that was before we… You lowered your gaze.

“Back to Lawrence?” you asked. Again, he nodded.

“I need to take care of some things, figure out my next move,” he said.

You pulled away from him to brace yourself, and not just against the cold. “Well, when will you be back?”

He stayed quiet, worrying you even more. There was a deep pit forming in your stomach, churning with unease.

“Dean?” you prodded.

He stepped back in to grasp your arms gently.

“Sweetheart…the truth is, I don’t have much to offer you,” he said. “I don’t have a business to inherit from my folks. I don’t even have a job. I’m a man who was about as useful as a jackhammer, until the war ended.”

You frowned, resting a hand against his chest. “Dean Winchester, that’s not all there is to you.”

“Really. When did you figure that one out, in the whole week you’ve known me?” he asked. It was harsher than he meant to be, but he couldn’t help the words that were spilling out of his mouth. “Didn’t that get you in trouble the first time? I’d a thought you would’ve learned your lesson by now.”

You snatched your hand back, hurt filling your eyes. You turned to walk away before he saw your tears. You should have known. You should have known a man like him would never be serious. Not about you.

As soon as he let the words go, Dean realized what he was doing. Yeah, he was frustrated, but it wasn’t aimed at you. It couldn’t be aimed at you.

God knew he didn’t want to hurt you, or for you to hate him. He really couldn’t stomach either thought, so he relented and reached out to grab at your hand, before you could get too far.

“Wait,” he said, managing to pull you back to him. “I’m sorry.”

You tugged your hand to try and free yourself from his grasp.

“You know what, maybe you’re right,” you said, your voice wobbling with anger, dismay, and tears. “Maybe I ought to stop letting a man get even an inch into my heart. At this point, it’s my own fault.”

“Stop,” Dean demanded. “No, it’s not.”

He pulled you back into him, but you looked away from his imploring gaze. Your breaths grew shallow while you tried in vain to stop yourself from crying. It damn well broke his heart.

“It’s not your fault. I’m just an idiot,” He cupped your cheeks and wiped your tears as they fell. “But you…you deserve to be happy. With a man that can take care of you, protect you. A man who has a little more of his life figured out.”

“You’re just saying that so you have an excuse for toying with me. So you can keep chasing skirts,” you said, pushing at his chest. “Yes, your brother told me about all your little exploits.”

Dean took the blow, both proverbial and physical, with a raise of his brows. He guessed he couldn’t blame you for that one. Still, the disdain behind your words stung. He allowed you to break free of him.

You stepped back and straightened your clothes. You took in a deep breath that did nothing to calm you, and you uttered a humorless laugh.

“I suppose it makes sense. Why would you want anything to do with me?” You gestured down at yourself with a dismissive hand. “A-a walking mess. Even when I am divorced, that’s how people will see me. Damaged goods. I don’t even know how I’m gonna tell my parents.”

You covered your face against Dean and the rest of the world, and after weeks and months, you finally allowed yourself the one thing you hadn’t since your first inkling that your husband was being unfaithful. You finally allowed yourself to break.

The first sob shuddered through your body, followed by hot tears. You squeezed your eyes against them and wiped at your face in vain.

Dean broke too, in his own way. He gathered you into his arms, where he shushed you gently and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“I wasn’t giving you an excuse,” he said.

Despite how much you wanted to push him away, the deep, steady timbre of his voice pierced you and soothed you at the same time.

“I meant every word I said. I may not be the right guy for you, but don’t you dare take a scrap of what anyone else might say, you hear me?” he said firmly. “You’re beautiful. You don’t suffer fools like me, and you’re better than that sad sack excuse of a man deserves.”

You looked up at him with watery eyes.

“You’re a lot of things, Dean Winchester, but you’re not a fool.”

He shook his head, not wanting to argue with you anymore. He just kissed you, deeply, thoroughly, the way you always imagined a kiss should be.

Except that you realized…this was goodbye. So you took advantage of every second of it.

You met him with as much as he gave and reached up to touch his cheek. It felt a little rough under your fingers, just like you remembered. You would probably always remember that feeling, long after you left the park.

That evening, you packed as many bags as you could. You put together the savings you’d been collecting for a few months. It had been at your coworker Jess’s advice, ever since you started feeling the inkling that something wasn’t right in your marriage.

After you were all packed, you took one last, long look at the space you had tried to make your home. With one last tear trailing your cheek, you stepped out of the apartment. You took the bus uptown, where you later checked into a hotel.

When your husband finally got home from work, he would find a one-page letter written in your own hand.

For once, Sam was actually home in his apartment. He was helping Dean take his suitcase to the front door after calling a taxi to come shortly. Sam wasn’t happy about it though.

“You don’t have to go so soon, Dean,” said Sam.

Dean gave a humorless laugh. He grabbed his coat from the rack and threw it on.

“I’ve gotta get back to the house. It’s already been empty too long,” he said. Three years too long. “Fact is, I’m just getting in your way here.”

He couldn’t quite meet Sam’s eyes as he went to the door, but Sam stopped him with a pressing hand on his arm, tugging him back.

“Hey,” Sam said, his brows furrowed. “That’s not true. Where’d you get that idea?”

Dean raised his brows. “You mean the way you’ve haven’t been home more than a few hours a night? The way the only time I see you is if I go find you at that office. You should open up a Bed n’ Breakfast there. You’d make a double killing in this town.”

Sam wilted. “Dean, we opened the firm barely a month ago. I’m just trying to—”

Dean laid a hand on his shoulder, relenting.

“Hey, look. I’m not judging you, Sammy. I’m not,” he said. “You’re building something. I know that. I just need to go figure out how to do the same, whatever that means for me.”

Sam stared back at him, still with that frown. His guilt and reluctance to see Dean go was reflected in his eyes; those sad puppy dog eyes that used to get him out of almost any punishment with their parents when the boys were young. Before.

The corner of Dean’s mouth kicked up into a smirk.

“Don’t worry. I’ll see you again soon,” he said.

“How soon is soon?” Sam asked. It was something their mother used to say to John whenever he called late, promising he’d come home after long days in town buying supplies for the farm.

“The divorce papers will be served to Michael Milligan,” Sam added, pointedly raising his brows. “She…could use your support.”

Dean’s smile faded at the mention of you. His hand slipped from Sam’s shoulder.

“She’s got a strong head on her shoulders. She’ll be all right,” he said. He heard the honk of the taxi outside. He grabbed up his hat, set it on his head, and took up his bags. He turned back to Sam at the last moment. “I’m sure you’ll look out for her.”

It was somehow both a question, and an imploring charge. Sam sighed, but he nodded in agreement. His brother could be so very stubborn. Once he got an idea of what he thought he needed to do, there was almost no talking him out of it.

Sam opened the door for him and walked him out to the car, helping him with his bags. Before Dean could get into the cab, Sam stopped him. Their gazes met, but in that moment, no words were needed.

They pulled one another into a firm hug.

I’m sorry. I should’ve been there more for you.

Don’t worry about it. It’s already forgotten.

Dean released him first with a smile, and a heavy pat of Sam’s shoulder. He turned and climbed into the cab’s backseat. Afterwards, Sam watched the yellow cab take his brother away to the train station, feeling a weight in his heart that wouldn’t subside.

He would never know that Dean felt exactly the same way. Except that impossible weight felt a lot like your hand, gently laid over his heart.

Dean took up his suitcase as the train pulled into the station. He stepped up onto the platform and retrieved the ticket from his pocket, but he paused, hearing a familiar voice shouting his name.

He turned his head and saw Sam rushing to meet him at the platform.

“What’s the matter? What’re you doing here?” Dean asked in surprise. He didn’t like the wary apprehension written across Sam’s face.

“I just took a closer look at Milligan’s finances,” he said. “Before you go, there’s something you might want to know.”

AN: Come on, we needed at least one cliffhanger in this series! 😘 What do you think Sam rushed over to tell Dean? What did you think about their "goodbye," as well as her and Dean's goodbye? ...And are you ready for all the drama that's about to go down? lol

Next Time:

Except the loud, insistent knock on the door broke you out of your thoughts. Straightening up with a frown, you set down your glass and went over to the door. Maybe it was Housekeeping coming up to bring you the fresh towels you asked for. The ones that had been laid out in the bathroom smelled musty.

You opened the door to a tall frame taking up room in the doorway. It was Michael, standing there both disheveled and steaming mad. He held your letter crumpled in his left hand.

“Michael, what—what’re you doing here?” you gasped and stepped back. He followed you inside the room and slammed it shut. He looked around at your open suitcases in disbelief, then finally at you.

“What’s this supposed to mean, huh?” he demanded to know. He shook the flimsy piece of paper at you.

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rwshfordgirl · 3 days ago

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Can I request a fic where reader and Hector are uni roommates and she has a crush on him but she thinks he’s dating someone else cuz he keeps talking about a girl but turns out it’s his baby cousin and it’s angsty af but then fluffy af?

Thank u in advance and I really like your writing please keep feeding us mother 🛐

BABY COUSIN

all images were taken from pinterest.

a/n: I feel like I could have developed it more but I rewrote this fic twice lol but I have high expectations for the second part of it ;) thank you very much for the request and I'm happy to know that you like my work.

hope you like it!

Hector had just woken up from a nap when I saw him stopping in front of me at the kitchen counter. "Did you get much sleep?" He nodded and I smiled. "Hey, do you mind going to the grocery store for me today?" I glared at him before taking a sip of my juice "I don't mind, but did something happen?" He denied as he rubbed his eyes "I'm going to take my mother to see Lucia."

Lucia, a name I started hearing frequently four months ago. I remember well that when I moved into this apartment, on my first night he came home late and said he had just met her.

He visits her often, talks about her almost all the time, but I've never seen her. He's never shown me pictures of her and never brought her here.

It's strange because I feel jealous of him going out to someone I don't even know and it makes me a little upset knowing that Hector doesn't feel for me what I feel for him, but I can't force him to do or feel anything.

I already knew Fort before I came to live with him in the college accommodations, we were in the same year but in different classes at school and I couldn't take my eyes off him. I'll never forget a mutual friend's birthday party we went to and while playing spin the bottle, I ended up giving him my first kiss.

But we were never close, not even after the kiss. And time passed, we changed schools and I only remembered the kiss we had shared. I didn't imagine that I would have a falling out with my old roommate and be forced to change accommodation at the beginning of the third semester. I also didn't imagine that boys and girls could live in the same apartment, much less that Hector goes to college here. And he seemed so happy to have me as a roommate.

And I found myself again at twelve years old, in love with Hector. He managed to improve what was already good, every day more beautiful, every day more thoughtful, more funny and more special. Lucia is lucky.

"Oh, is she okay?" I asked politely, trying to hide something strange I felt and didn't know what it was.

"Yes, but my mother really wants to see her and so do I, to be honest." He smiled at me. "Have a nice trip then." I said as I walked towards the kitchen exit "See you later."

I left the apartment with only one thought in mind. "I have to forget about Hector." even though it's impossible since I share an apartment with him. But I went to the market praying that someone as perfect as him would appear in my path.

But it was the return home that left me completely in shock, in the notification bar of my cell phone it appeared that there was a message from Hector, a photo. I opened it, maybe I was going to see Lucia for the first time.

I stopped in front of the building, bags on the floor and my mouth open. Lucia is a baby, Lucia is a beautiful baby. My God. Lucia is a baby. I laughed nervously while mentally cursing myself for being jealous of a baby.

I went home, left the groceries in the kitchen and laid down on the couch, still in disbelief that Lucia was a baby. I felt relieved even though I knew that I would probably not confess my feelings to Fort now. But I kept wondering if at some point she had already mentioned that she was a baby and I hadn't paid attention.

I laughed at myself while opening again the photo he had sent, in the caption "Lucia.❤️" and in the photo he was holding her on his lap while smiling at her. I think I would melt if I saw this in person.

The sound of the front door opening made me jump off the couch and put my phone aside. Hector approached me smiling. "Did you see the picture of me and Lucia?" he asked. "Yes, you two are very cute! But you didn't mention that she was a baby." I told him "My baby cousin." he replied "Your baby cousin?" Lucia continues to surprise me "Yes! She's four months old." I smiled "Hector, every time you talked about her I imagined a girl of our age." He laughed "But Lucia is such a cute baby, I want to meet her in person one day."

#football imagine #football x reader #football one shot #footballer imagine #football blurb #ol imagines #hector fort blurb #hector fort x y/n #hector fort fluff #hector fort imagine #hector fort x reader

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albatris · 2 days ago

Text

snippet sunday.....

sunday snippet.....

oOoOo mysteries abound

“And his name…?”

“Robert,” she said. “Robbie.”

Alex pried and she answered. What was Robbie like as a person? How did he find out about the job at March Pharmaceutical? What drew him to the company? Despite her obvious distaste for the situation, she was surprisingly obliging.

“He was fresh out of uni with a Bachelor of Pharmaceutical Science,” Amelia explained. “The job was advertised as requiring minimal experience. The pay was insane. Nothing else seemed off about it at the time.”

Amelia went on to say that Robbie had always been a bit isolated and odd—he’d had some pretty severe mental health struggles—but things got markedly worse a few weeks into the job. He was coming home late, his speech was becoming bizarre and increasingly vague, and he reported strange gaps in his memory. This in particular piqued Alex’s interest.

“What do you mean by strange gaps?” it asked.

“He couldn’t remember what he was working on,” Amelia replied. “He could describe to me the building he worked in, the cubicle, and he could tell me he spent a day writing reports, or a day in the lab, but… the actual details always escaped him. He would talk in circles, avoid the question.”

“Did he seem distressed by this?” Alex asked. “Did he know he was forgetting things?”

“Sometimes it bothered him,” Amelia said. “But you have to understand… it was like he was drugged. He was so listless and vague. It was like all the emotion had left him.”

“And you were concerned with his safety?”

“I was. I thought he might have been having some kind of depressed or psychotic episode. But whatever it was—it was tied directly to March Pharmaceutical. I’m sure of it.”

Occasionally Robbie would stay out all night. And soon, the odd night or two absent turned into the odd week or two.

“It would have been easier if he’d just been cheating,” Amelia said. “But I knew it was something far more sinister.”

He’d come home with mysterious bruises and punctures in the crook of his elbow. The longer he was gone, the more frantic Amelia had grown, but the police told her he wasn’t a missing person so there was nothing they could do. He always came home.

Until he didn’t.

“By that point he’d been missing for three and a half weeks,” Amelia said tiredly. “I was used to it, so I hadn’t flagged it with the police. By the time I realised he wasn’t coming home again… well, I suppose the trail had already run cold.”

“Run cold?” Alex pressed. “How could it have possibly run cold? Did they investigate March Pharmaceutical?”

“March Pharmaceutical told the police he’d quit weeks ago, and they had the paperwork to prove it.”

“You think they’re lying?”

“I know they’re lying.” Amelia set her jaw. “What they did to him at that place… that wasn’t my husband anymore. I don't trust a word out of that Reuben March's mouth.”

#snippet sunday #meet amelia montez! a random bit character #whose husband met an unfortunate grisly end

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bears-sillybasement · 3 days ago

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How do Bear and Lyney Meet?

How do they get together?

Do they have any pet names for each other?

OHHH MY TIME HAS COME..(thanks now I'm going to use you to throw out a lot of stupid info..AND WITH SILLY PICTURES. because, uh I like to draw)

this..looks like it's going to be longer than I planned..oopsuwu

can't guarantee that I've written everything correctly...my english is a nightmare.

ACTUALLY (🤓☝🏻), both of them met a few months after Bernadette arrived at Fontaine, however they did not speak to each other.

The two began to cross paths frequently, especially since some children related to Lyney started going to listen to Bernadette's stories. (he's a storyteller)

Lyney was the one who started talking to him, small dialogues and exchanges of words every time he went to pick up the children in his care,, sometimes he just stayed to listen the stories from afar.

Despite Lyney's personality and casual attempts to maintain some sort of bond, it actually took quite a while for Bernadette to begin to reciprocate in any way.

Though his personality seems intense, he has never been a very open person and prefers to avoid unnecessary stuff, like anything that makes him feel too observed...naturally trying to cut the conversations and leave.

Still, Lyney was NEVER pushy about anything in particular, letting things go at their pace. slowly the greetings turned into small talk, then long conversations. then outings together, a little help here and there...and they became friends.

HOW THEY ENDED UP TOGETHER IS A COMPLICATED STORY.

Lyney for his part was very open with his feelings, but at the same time he kept a lot of his personal life secret, afraid of harming him. and Bernadette simply denied feeling anything at all. He's not good at processing intense emotions, so not having anyone to talk about it just isolated him.

Oh, and of course, the

"why should I tell you anything about MY life if YOU won't?"

delayed things a little..

The moment that felt like a confession was in a late night conversation they had in secret. It wasn't formal. In fact, the subject wasn't even broached. But it was intimate enough to create a great silence.

(I'm not going to say what it was because in my head I have a whole comic for that OKAAAY??)

Still, after that there was a formal confession, but it was only as a final confirmation.

(the conversation was started by Lyney, the formal confession was made by Bernadette.) (technically my bear did the easy thing) (He already took it for granted so) (yeah)

After they started dating, the first week was funny to watch..Bernadette was as petrified as a scared goat. (If you don't know how goats look when they get scared, I swear it's funny)

He's not the type of person who reacts extremely SWEET to displays of affection, at least not in a conventional way (he will probably show his affection by making you fall straight to the ground every time you try to walk)

So,, the first few days he looked like a shy kid with his first girlfriend in kindergarten.

That mood didn't last long (though unlike Lyney, Bernadette is much more cheesy in private....Lyney seems to forget when he's in a public space)

(this was just an excuse to draw bro being the cuddly one) (leave me alone)

OH AND THE PETNAMES.........

Lyney seems to have a shotgun full of those, Bernadette responds more to the word sweetheart than to his own name at this point..All the cheesy shit that comes to your mind, whatever you think Lyney probably said it.

and Bernadette..sometimes uses petnames, BUT he has the habit of just calling him Lyney in a softer tone. he loves his name and thinks it sounds cute enough.

(also calls him honey) (haha its fun, because) (he's a bear) (haha) (haha guys why arent you laughing)

and following on from what I said, this also took him quite a few weeks to do it naturally..Lyney can still VIVIDLY remember his boyfriend of 2 weeks staring at him, in silence, after 4 long minutes of preparation to say something like "hey love" and ending up being a "hey dude"

I'm sorry to whoever is reading this, I got carried away LOL

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nekoyin · 2 days ago

Text

so I saw this at class, did it, thought I posted it, turns out I didnt so TAKE TWO

ty for the tag <3 I'm gonna do my husband of almost a decade now Poe Dameron

1. Was there any specific point / any specific moment that suddenly made them your Blorbo, or did you slowly grow to love them more and more until they became a Blorbo to you? lowkey fell in love with that pretty ass face from the start THEN HE OPENED HIS MOUTH AND WAS SASSY??? also love me a man who'd punch a person in power that's hot

2. What’s the thing you love the most about your Blorbo? uh uh uh yes (if I had to choose, his passion and want to free people from the First Order/the fact he's a revolutionary)

3. What's the thing you dislike the most about your Blorbo? the fact he's not real and kissing me rn :( (and that he risks his life a lot of the time to try and save as people as he can, it's noble, but it worries me ;;;;)

4. If you could talk to your Blorbo, what would you say to them? I love you. I'll always support you no matter what UNLESS YOU GO ONE SOME STUPID SUICIDE MISSION DON'T DIE I'LL CRY :(((

5. What's the one thing the fandom gets wrong about your Blorbo? I think that Poe being a flirt is a thing, but I don't see him being like this fuckboy that lays with people and doesn't care/forgets names afterwards. He seems the type to remember everyone's names, whether or not he is friends with them enough to sleep with them if that makes sense.

6. Is your Blorbo an introvert or extrovert? Extrovert

7. Describe your Blorbo in 3 words. pretty, brave, dumb (affectionate)

8. If your Blorbo were real, would you trust them with your life? Yes. Absolutely. He seems the protective type so I am SAFE

9. Do you talk to your family or in-real-life friends about your Blorbo? THEY ARE SO FED UP WITH ME YAPPING ABOUT HOW MUCH I LOVE HIM LMFAO

10. Is there any crime, any wrongdoing your Blorbo could commit that would make you stop loving them and remove them from your hyperfixation entirely? Nah bro i lowkey like my men a lil insane so

11. Do you like seeing your Blorbo suffer? Mixed. Cuz I like angst, but I need a happy ending.

12. Do you ship your Blorbo with any character? ME DUH (and kinda Finn but I relate to Finn a lot so what that say bout us)

13. If your Blorbo is from a live-action media, are you also a fan of the actor who plays them? YAH he was my introduction to Oscar Isaac

14. Would you still love your Blorbo if they were real? YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND. HOW BAD. I AM TRYING TO GET A REAL LIFE POE DAMERON TO DATE. PLEASE UNIVERSE ONE CHANCE ONE-

15. Is your Blorbo a victim of badly written script / bad plot / character assassination in the hands of canon? Yes imo and it makes me so so sad :(

16. If you could change one canonical thing about your Blorbo, what would it be? I think I'd change the fact that he tried to get back with Zorii, I don't mind her existence, but she was literally abusive POE BABY WHY ARE YOU ASKING TO KISS HER YOU SHOULD BE KISSING ME :(((

17. When you first discovered your Blorbo, did you realize from that moment that they would become your Blorbo? Oh I was torn between him and Kylo initially, but I knew I'd like Poe more for longer… didn't really expect this long though HAHAHA

18. Do you gatekeep your Blorbo? / would you want more people to know about your Blorbo? I TRY TO BUT HE'S TOO POPULAR :( People are like “oh I'm his biggest fan/spouse” and I'm like GET OUT YOU JUST JOINED THIS FANDOM IVE BEEN HERE SINCE DAY ONEEEEE /hj

19. Has a fanfic about your Blorbo ever made you cry? Thinking about him can make me cry. I'm trying to write a fic rn that the PREMISE made me cry (I’m sensitive)

20. Do you think this character will still be your Blorbo three years from now? I'VE BEEN HERE ALMOST TEN YEARS BABY IT AIN'T EVER STOPPING

uhh idk who to tag but @latenightbrawler pookie look at the thoughts about my husband

20 Questions

BLORBO ASKS GAME

reblog if you’d like people to send you asks about your Blorbo

was there any specific point / any specific moment that suddenly made them your Blorbo, or did you slowly grow to love them more and more until they became a Blorbo to you?

It was immediate. Watching Steven flounder then discovering the tragedy that is Marc. I started on the show, then began collecting the comics.

what’s the thing you love the most about your Blorbo?

I loved the representation of DID, autism and childhood trauma.

what’s the thing you dislike the most about your Blorbo?

We barely got any Jake in the show, and he’s such a fantastic character in the comics. Comic Jake is the only way I can imagine him. Moustache and all.

if you could talk to your Blorbo, what would you say to them?

Not a thing. He’d get a damn hug.

what’s the one thing the fandom gets wrong about your Blorbo?

I think every adaptation is unique to that person and they’re wonderful for sharing. I’m a hoe for every crumb I’m not even sorry.

is your Blorbo an introvert or extrovert?

Depends who’s fronting. Steven’s an ambivert: extroverted to avoid the feeling of loneliness, introverted in his hobbies and day-to-day. Marc’s a huge introvert and doesn’t like many people, how Frenchie puts up with him I don’t know. Jake is a natural extrovert, it comes easy to him to find a friend in anyone.

describe your Blorbo in 3 words

Damaged hot mess

if your Blorbo were real, would you trust them with your life?

Most likely… kinda. Squinting real hard at you, Khonshu.

do you talk to your family or in-real-life friends about your Blorbo?

My partner can’t get away from my obsession. My brother brought me the same MK action figure Marc's holding in the asylum. It was really unexpected and touching. They let me drag them all over the city stopping in as many comic stores as I could visit.

is there any crime, any wrongdoing your Blorbo could commit that would make you stop loving them and remove them from your hyperfixation entirely?

Mean to animals would make me very sad.

do you like seeing your Blorbo suffer?

Every damn day of the week.

do you ship your Blorbo with any character?

I ship him with anyone and everyone, it’s such a problem. I love all ships in all shapes and sizes. All the new ships coming out of Marvel Rivals has sustained me well lately.

if your Blorbo is from a live-action media, are you also a fan of the actor who plays them?

Oscar Isaac is one of the best humans alive. I love his face, his personality—everything. He made it easy to love the characters he plays.

would you still love your Blorbo if they were real?

Probably. I’d always be rooting for him that’s for sure.

is your Blorbo a victim of badly written script / bad plot / character assassination in the hands of canon?

Kind of. How they handled Jake suucked.

if you could change one canonical thing about your Blorbo, what would it be?

Make comics Jake canon!

when you first discovered your Blorbo, did you realize from that moment that they would become your Blorbo?

I didn’t expect to go down as bad as I did. It wasn’t until I started writing him in 1x1 & group roleplays was where I truly fell down the hole.

do you gatekeep your Blorbo? / would you want more people to know about your Blorbo?

No gatekeeping allowed in this house! I am thrilled anytime more people discover MK by any means. It’s so much fun seeing new people arrive and interact with the fandom.

has a fanfic about your Blorbo ever made you cry?

Not a fanfic, but episode 5 made me ball. Hit close to home. I’m not one to cry easily so have yet to find a fanfic that will.

do you think this character will still be your Blorbo three years from now on?

Probably, I still have a lot more to write and explore.

Questions posted below empty for easy copy paste:

was there any specific point / any specific moment that suddenly made them your Blorbo, or did you slowly grow to love them more and more until they became a Blorbo to you?

what’s the thing you love the most about your Blorbo?

what’s the thing you dislike the most about your Blorbo?

if you could talk to your Blorbo, what would you say to them?

what’s the one thing the fandom gets wrong about your Blorbo?

is your Blorbo an introvert or extrovert?

describe your Blorbo in 3 words

if your Blorbo were real, would you trust them with your life?

do you talk to your family or in-real-life friends about your Blorbo?

is there any crime, any wrongdoing your Blorbo could commit that would make you stop loving them and remove them from your hyperfixation entirely?

do you like seeing your Blorbo suffer?

do you ship your Blorbo with any character?

if your Blorbo is from a live-action media, are you also a fan of the actor who plays them?

would you still love your Blorbo if they were real?

is your Blorbo a victim of badly written script / bad plot / character assassination in the hands of canon?

if you could change one canonical thing about your Blorbo, what would it be?

when you first discovered your Blorbo, did you realize from that moment that they would become your Blorbo?

do you gatekeep your Blorbo? / would you want more people to know about your Blorbo?

has a fanfic about your Blorbo ever made you cry?

do you think this character will still be your Blorbo three years from now on?

Inspired by the wonderful @psycheetamore Hitting a few others I'd love to see do this! @mystra-midnight @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @faretheeoscar @moonbeammist @therapardalis @weheartchrisevans @silvermoon343

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salsedinepicta · 2 years ago

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Draw the brother, and now the sister: Maren Hawke, repressed mage extraordinaire and fan of political scheming.

Plus some teenage angst:

#what's the point of being 1. a nouveau rich 2. literally named hawk if you don't actually do some hawking #and kudos to myself for having perfect references from real life and forgetting to use them 🤡🤡#i did try to animate the wisp but the quality was hideous so enjoy the stillness yayy #clip studio paint #dragon age #dragon age fanart #da fanart #da2 #dragon age hawke #da hawke

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izloveshorses · 3 days ago

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Okay, one more chapter, i promise

last update. they need some emotional closure before we let this one go. read on ao3 or under the cut <3

“Okay, how about, ‘Where is the dance club?”

“That’s an easy one,” Anya said. “Où est le club de danse?”

“Où est… la club…”

“Le club. It’s masculine.”

“Le club…” Dmitry was scribbling down the words in a little notebook, where he’d been diligently recording all the little French phrases she had been teaching him this afternoon, “dance.”

She let out a giggle. “De danse. You keep forgetting the articles.”

His cheeks were pink and he rubbed his face, hiding his smile. “This is a stupid language.”

She grinned. Her head was propped on her elbow on the back of the chaise in their suite, feet tucked under her. “You have to learn it, stupid or not.” He looked up at her, still smiling, slouching to the point of reclining. “I don’t want you to be completely unprepared for when I’m not around to translate everything all the time.”

She said it lightly, a playful and teasing spar, but his face fell, eyes serious and sad. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”

The softness of his voice, the earnestness of his words, made her need to take a breath. Lately he had been the cause of an emotion stirring in her gut that she couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t the lust, it wasn’t the hunger, even though both of those things were very much there and present. It was something that made her chest a little tight, an ache somewhere deep and unfindable, a longing for something she didn’t even know. The ache of missing something she never had in the first place.

That gravitational pull between them was drawing her head toward his— just leaning down over his lips, and considering crawling into his lap so they could explore this feeling in a less wordy way right here on this chaise— when the door of their suite rattled open. They sprung apart without even looking up.

Vlad was making theatrics, sighing and whistling away while he removed his shoes at the door. “Anyone home?” he called. “Or did you both kill each other?”

Dmitry answered, “In here,” and fiddled with his lighter, cigarette dangling from his beautiful lips. Anya tore her gaze away from him to the book she had impulsively snagged, though she couldn’t process the words on the page.

“Well,” Vlad eased himself into the side chair and propped his socked feet up on the coffee table. “What did I miss? Anything interesting?”

Anya shrugged. “Just wandered around, saw some sights.”

Vlad made a disinterested hum and Anya dared a glance over at Dmitry, who was barely keeping his smile from widening. To keep herself from giving anything away she stared down harder at her book.

The sightseeing was partially true. They really did wander the city yesterday and this morning, snagging lunch and eating dinner under the Eiffel Tower, touring one of the museums, stopping at the monuments. She just omitted the part about how they held hands the entire time. Or how they spent their morning sharing the bathtub. Or how they woke up tangled in each other's arms between her bedsheets two mornings in a row.

A lilt in his voice, Dmitry skillfully redirected the attention, “Did you get up to anything interesting?”

Vlad scoffed but was clearly very pleased to be asked about his reunion with the Countess. “I was being productive, that’s what I was up to.”

“Oh?”

Anya smiled down into her book. She enjoyed her alone time with Dmitry, obviously, but she did miss listening to the banter he could carry with his friend, the way they bickered like an old married couple.

“Yes as a matter of fact,” Vlad went on. “Lily will arrange an audience with the Dowager at the ballet on Monday.”

Anya’s head snapped up, heart in her throat. “Monday?” That was so soon.

“Monday! Not to worry, dear. Your dress will be ready soon enough.”

Dmitry rose to face the window, puffing on his cigarette like a desperate man, hand in his pocket. A few days ago she would’ve taken that as bored indifference, but now she knew better. He was hiding his reaction. Vlad kept going on about tuxedos and arranging a cab and the opera house’s architecture, but Anya only stared at Dmitry’s back, the hair growing over the nape of his neck, his tense shoulders.

They didn’t go to the club again tonight, as Anya had anticipated would happen when Vlad finally returned. But they did eat at the restaurant downstairs for several hours. Which meant they had to continue the mild ruse that they weren’t sleeping together, ignore their feet touching sensuously under the table, and not lean into him as gravity commanded when his fingers grazed her knee. Which was… a challenge, to say the least, after their two nights of living open and freely and affectionately around each other. But thankfully Vlad didn’t seem to notice, too happy and content after his weekend with the Countess, delighting in the food and narrating the wonders of French cuisine.

In the room they played cards— Vlad was desperate to teach Anya how to cheat at poker— and otherwise the evening was uneventful. Dmitry kept flicking cigarette ash in a tray, the same way his sad and baleful eyes kept flicking away from hers if she caught him staring. Like he was watching a train leave the station. Like he wasn’t allowed to look at her.

Vlad was still up reading when Anya went to bed. Dmitry was obviously waiting for Vlad to retire first, but the man was still quite content, so she decided there was no point in trying to outlast him. And she figured that would be it for the night. So she said her goodnights, took the pins from her hair, slipped into her silky new nightgown. With her lamp on she was able to focus more on reading her book. Without Dmitry there as such an obvious and rewarding alternative.

Anya hadn’t really let herself think about the endgame of this. This… new development with Dmitry. But now she let her thoughts wander to the boy just two doors away. To the warmth he had provided. How he may have cured her loneliness. Last night and the night before were starting to feel like a dream. But it had absolutely happened, if her soreness or the smell of sex still in the sheets was anything to go by. There was something very mammalian about it. How they were acting on their instincts and urges and innate wildness without much thought. She never imagined this could happen to herself. But here she was.

A quiet rap on her door startled her out of her thoughts. Puzzled, she lifted the blankets and set her book aside and padded across the way.

Part of her was surprised when Dmitry was on the other side of the door. And part of her realized she had been waiting for him. Him and his pleading eyes.

When she let him in and let the door latch shut he was on her in seconds, mouth melded to hers, hands on her face and in her hair. She should’ve expected this. That he would need to work out some emotions this way.

“This okay?” he whispered against her lips.

“Uh huh,” was all she could say, with his tongue licking into her mouth. She knew he would stop if she asked, so she didn’t mind. Welcomed it and even craved it, actually, with the same intensity he was feeling. “But you need to be quiet.”

All he did was smile and kiss her again. His hands were everywhere. On her neck and hip and back and ass and chest. Already she could feel herself trying to mold her body around his, fusing soft flesh to soft flesh. His hands clung to her waist when she stood on her toes to get closer. They bumped into her bed and they were slanted, poised between standing and laying, when she finally gave into gravity, pulling him down with her.

That’s what they were. Gravity.

Something that transcended time and space. Something that was so natural that when it vanished, she would feel untethered and lost, drifting away.

“You thinking about me?”

Anya snorted. “Not everything is about you.”

“You sure?” His fingers rubbed between her legs. “Not even this?”

She smirked. “Especially this.”

He carefully pulled her panties down, slipping them off her legs, and she shivered. She had yet to grow used to the feeling of his hands on her skin. His mouth tasting her wherever he wanted. At this rate, she didn’t think she ever would. Even just the gentle graze of his lips on her knee made her lose her mind.

Anya wanted to stick every single body part she could think of into his mouth, just to see what it was like for him to be able to taste all of her. She even wanted him to slowly unzip her skin, however possible, so he could taste each and every one of her organs, even the unsexy ones, like her intestines or spleen or something. She wanted him to run his tongue over her heart or gnaw her ribs. Because she knew he would do it in that tender and gentle and careful way he did everything, and he would savor every bit of it and understand the importance of it all. And then she wanted him to crawl into her skin and zip them both back up, as one would a sleeping bag, until they were both cocooned in her flesh, just so he could feel what it was like to exist in her broken body, so she wouldn’t be so alone anymore. So no one would ever hurt him again.

None of this was possible, of course. But Dmitry would hold her as close to him as he could, his fingers digging into her flesh, his mouth hungry and curious and patient, that this was just the same. She couldn’t replicate the nightmare that was her mind for him. But he acted like he wanted to know what went on in her head, and maybe that was more than enough. Maybe that was all she needed to not feel so alone.

Her hands found the hem of his undershirt and pulled it up until it was over his head, and now she had access to the hills and valleys of his front. She ran her mouth along his chest, along all the scars scattered over his skin, tongue and teeth playing intermittently, her hands running up and down his stomach, and he sighed when she mouthed at his nipple. His hand found the nape of her neck and he angled her head so he could kiss her mouth. All the while his hands were running up her thighs, bunching up her nightgown at her waist.

They kissed for a few minutes, palming flesh and biting lips, and Dmitry ended up on his back, with Anya straddling his torso. He gleefully tugged at her hips. “You should sit on my face.”

Her eyebrows rose. “I don’t want to suffocate you,” she said, even though the idea was making her blush like a virgin.

“But what a way to go, right?” He was still pulling her forward so she was now sitting on his chest, eyes locked between her legs. “Please.”

“You sure?”

“I can handle it.”

So she gripped onto the headboard for balance and straddled his head, slowly lowering herself until his open and hungry mouth met her. She gasped, her hips involuntarily jerking forward, and he hummed in delight.

“Anya,” he murmured against her, “you can sit more, I promise I’ll be okay.”

With some hesitation— she really didn’t want to suffocate him— she allowed her weight to fall a little more on him, and the feeling did make all the difference. His hands were on her ass, guiding her back and forth, while he practically feasted. His tongue was flicking around inside her and the feeling was so divine she had to let her head fall back and eyes shut. He was as eager and attentive as he always was, but she was in complete control here, and he seemed to like that, too.

Her hips moved a little faster against him and he matched her pace every step of the way. His brown eyes met hers, and she held onto his hair, watching him watch her. Why not give him a bit of a show? While she was still moving she lifted her nightgown off of her, now completely bare for him. He couldn’t exactly voice his approval but his enthusiasm was obvious enough.

With one hand gripping the headboard and the other in his hair, she fell apart above him, every nerve narrowing to where he was touching her. She sat back on his chest. He was panting hard, lips parted, staring at her in awe.

Instead of letting her recover, he moved her hips down, their centers touching. “Sorry, I just—” he sighed, shuddering, “need to be inside you.”

A few minutes ago he had been teasing, playful. But now he was almost desperate. Even though her thighs were burning with strain she still lifted herself enough to fish him out of his pants and angle him against her. “I know, Dima.” As she sunk around him she ran her hand down his face, thumb catching on his parted lip, down his chest, down his stomach, propping herself up with her other hand.

He thrusted his hips up, forcing himself the rest of the way in, like he would die if they spent another second apart. “You’re so good for me.”

She hummed softly, trying to find the right angle. She could feel him everywhere. His hips kept moving up, sliding in and out of her, hitting her so perfectly she had to bite back a moan.

“I know that feels good.” He was letting out broken breaths, just as eager, just as needy. Her thighs burned but he felt so good and he looked so handsome like this she powered through, moving faster. “That’s it. You know what to do.”

She pressed her palm over his mouth. “You have to shut up.” He was being so noisy.

His tongue swiped over her palm mischievously, but his smile didn’t meet his eyes. “You just feel too damn good. Can’t help it.”

“But you don’t want— our neighbor to know what’s—” she had to let out a breathy exhale when he was thrusting faster, spurring her to pick up the pace, “to know what’s going on.”

His hands were all over her, guiding her hips and squeezing her breasts and gripping her thighs. Like he couldn’t decide the perfect way to touch her. “Need you to come on me, okay?” he whispered. “You feel so good when you do.”

“Dima, I don’t know if—”

“You can. Please, come on.” She was so tired, but his voice was so soothing, so persuasive, so addicting. “I know you’re close. I got you.”

She bit her lip, moving harder against him. His hand tightened around her hip to steady her and he met her thrust for thrust, knowing exactly where she needed him, like he knew her body better than she knew it herself, watching her attentively. She was braced above him, hands on either side of his face, her hair cascading over her shoulders, eyes locked with his. Her legs were so tired but… there. She could reach this peak, like this, with him helping her along.

But it wasn’t until his fingers found between her legs, like he couldn’t wait any longer, that she shattered, fell apart. This would never get old. She could let herself fall apart like this because she knew he would always be there to put her back together.

His arms came around her spine, her pelvis, her neck, kissing her hard. And then she was on her back with him still hard and needy inside of her. “Sorry, I just—” he was braced above her, already thrusting in and out. “I need too—”

Dmtiry was unable to finish, too overcome with need. “It’s okay,” she whispered, breathing hard, her hands holding his face. “I got you, Dima.”

He was pistoning in and out of her like a machine, eager to reach his peak, too, now that he had permission. There was a bit of darkness in his eyes, in the force of his hips, but she held him all the way, toes curling at the feeling of him, knee hooked over his hip. This was how he was working out whatever was bothering him. And she had to admit it felt good to be needed. To be loved. Even like this.

They hadn’t said it, that word. Not out loud anyway.

But she could pretend, right?

Finally, with a great thrust and a broken exhale, his hips locked with hers, filling her in every way. He kept moving a little, one thrust for each twitch of his body, for each wave that crashed over him. And the world stopped moving for that mere slip of time.

He wouldn’t meet her eyes as he pulled out, almost sullen, and then he relaxed, half on top of her, leg between hers, arm over her waist. He was panting hard into her neck.

Anya ran a hand through his hair, recovering herself, thinking hard. He was still a difficult man to understand. But if she learned anything from the past few nights, it was that the only way to understand him was to test her theory.

“Dima… you’re not going to lose me.”

He stiffened, holding his breath. There it was, then. She was right.

Maybe she understood Dmitry more than she thought.

Finally, he responded, “You don’t know that.”

“I do, though.” She wove her fingers between locks of his hair, her other hand resting above her head. “What makes you think I would let that happen?” she asked. He pressed his face into her chest, hiding, breathing deeply in the skin between her breasts. “Come on, Dima. Talk to me.”

He let out a heavy, long sigh. “I’m afraid,” he finally whispered, “of what will happen after you meet the Dowager.”

“Yeah?” Her fingertips scraped his scalp. “Like what?”

“I don’t know.” His nose was brushing against the scar cutting through her chest, her longest one. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t mean to become such a distraction— you’re the one with the toughest job coming up, I’m sorry. I should be helping you.”

“Dmitry, don’t— keep going. Keep talking. Please.” He was deflecting, being stupid, being stubborn and selfless. She tried to joke, “I’m not even nervous about it with you around to keep me company, anyway,” but it didn’t land the way she wanted. He just pressed his face even harder into her sternum. Like he was trying to bury himself. “Is it… do you think this… you and I… will end?”

He took another heavy breath. “I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again.”

She let that hang in the air for a minute. Of course she had wondered the same thing, before she knew how Dmitry felt about her. A month ago she would’ve taken that as he didn’t want to see her again. But she knew better now. That it was some deep insecurity branded into his mind he had to work through. She whispered, “Don’t you think we deserve a say in all of that?”

“Maybe, but why—” his voice was muffled with his face pressed against her like that— “what would someone like you want with someone like me?”

“Hey, don’t talk like that.” She found his face with her hands and held his cheeks so he would look at her. His eyes were wet and it broke her heart a little bit. “Hey, Dima, hey,” her voice softened and she smoothed his eyebrows, and he nuzzled into the heel of her palm. This was who Dmitry was, deep down. A boy with his heart out on his sleeve and patches in his pants and too much pride in his chest and too much insecurity to consider that maybe she could adore him. A lost, broken, thoughtful, loving boy. Her boy.

Dmitry looked like he was already saying goodbye. “What if the Dowager doesn’t accept me being with you?” he asked. “What if you find something better on the other side?”

“What if she doesn’t accept you, what if she doesn’t accept me?” she challenged. “What if the con falls apart? What if the sky falls, what if the Seine floods, what if what if what if!” she shook her head in fond exasperation. One of her hands trailed down his neck, his shoulder, thumbing at one of the bullet wounds that had healed over. One of their twin scars. “Do you ever stop thinking?”

His lips twitched, as if in spite of himself. He was always so self-deprecating. And then he was looking at her with his wet eyes and upturned eyebrows. “You make things feel quieter,” he admitted. “You make it all go away.”

She swallowed at this confession. Her knuckle brushed a tear from his cheek. “Then fight for it.”

His jaw clenched and somehow his eyes got even sadder. “I just don’t think dowager empresses like street rats in their house, Anya.”

She wasn’t sure how to describe it, this emotion storming in her chest, this emotion that was only invented for him. The enormity of it. It was rather scary how much she was already spiraling about him. How she was ready to scrap the con altogether, to just live like this with him, swanky hotel or no. How forever was starting to look like his smile and sound like his laugh and feel like his arms.

She wasn’t ready to voice all of that aloud, though. And she wasn’t sure if he would understand the bit about how she wants him to literally crawl inside her skin and stay there so she could keep him. At least, not right away.

So Anya would have to think of a more tangible way to make him believe her, then.

“First of all,” she started, “if this particular dowager empress doesn’t like you, then she certainly won’t like me. I’m just as much of a street rat as you are.”

He gave her a weird look.

“And if she doesn’t like you, well, then, I want nothing to do with her.”

“Anya…”

“I’m serious. If she can’t see…” she felt tears prick her eyes, surprised by the sudden emotion. Perhaps it was best for them both to leave that thought unfinished. “And at the end of the day, if we’re separated with no hope of reconciling, if something takes you away from me…” she rubbed at his cheekbones, still amazed by the structure of his face. “I’ll find you again.”

His eyes raked up and down her face, holding his breath, as if not daring to believe her. She pulled him down to give him a kiss. It was soft and gentle and simple, but by the time he pulled away, he was smiling again. His smile, the one that lit up the room, the one that met his eyes.

“You won’t lose me,” she repeated, keeping her voice stern and soft at the same time. “I promise.”

He kissed her again. Her mouth, her cheeks, her eyelids, her jaw, her neck. So much that she started silently giggling.

“I’m guessing you feel better?” she asked.

“Uh huh.” He met her eyes. “I don’t know how you do it.”

She sighed, touching his hair. “I know. I’m just so smart and wonderful.”

He laughed, too loud for this late in the night. “You are.” He wet his lips, swallowing. “Do you want me to go…”

“Absolutely not.” Her arms came around his neck. “Never.”

Dmitry smiled with half his mouth, then kissed her again. Slow and lingering and sweet and everything she could ever want. “Okay, Anya,” he murmured, settling to lay his cheek on her chest, tucked under her chin, “I’ll stay. As long as you’ll have me.”

Anya settled deeper into the blankets, understanding what he was saying. That he wasn’t just staying tonight, but for the foreseeable future. “Good.”

so no to the dancing

dimya one shot, canonverse, 5k, M, smut, jealousy 👀 some rough and possessive sex under the cut, but like in a feminist manner so it's okay don't worry about it. i posted this two weeks ago but i was embarrassed to link it here lol but whatever. here u go. have fun ladies <3 read on ao3 or down below!

Anya couldn’t figure him out.

Not when they met in a dusty palace, arguing on either side of a broken chaise, when she was about to pass out from hunger. And certainly not now, months later, in this crowded nightclub in Montmartre, with these glances they kept stealing, eyes burning brighter than the embers at the end of the cigarettes between their lips.

It’s not like Dmitry wasn’t… complicated. He was. He had a short childhood and a long life of hardship, he loved his city but hated his country, he revered his father but was too apolitical to follow in his footsteps. He was a walking contradiction, for sure. But she was usually pretty good at reading people. Figuring out their motive, their ticks. Nothing about Dmitry made any sense to her, though. All she had was a collection of data and observations that didn’t add up to anything. He would mess with his hair when the conversation lulled. He lit a cigarette when he was upset. He smiled a lot but she didn’t think he always meant it.

There was a time where she hated his guts, she had to admit. And then he confused her even more by revealing his past, how he came to be the man he was now. Anya couldn’t picture him as a child. Dmitry was just. A fully formed man from the beginning. A fully formed, certified asshole, in her mind.

Once they escaped Saint Petersburg and Russia herself she realized somewhere along the way that hatred had shifted into something milder, something fond. She found herself whispering with him in the dark, when neither of them could fall asleep, musing what they would do in Paris when they finally made it, all while Vlad snored softly on the other side of the fire she had built. He was good at telling stories. Since she had no stories of her own to tell, not with this empty gap in her memory, she clung onto his every word with white knuckles.

Somehow Dmitry had sort of become her best friend. Somehow he was sort of the person she trusted the most in this world.

And then they hit Paris, and something else shifted. It was almost like he was avoiding her altogether. Friendly touches reverted back to walking in wide arcs around her. Lingering smiles changed to eyes flitting away the second she looked at him. It made her feel foolish. Somewhere along the way she had thought… well, honestly, there was something… simmering between them. What that something was she hadn’t even had time to explore. But there had been a weight to his lingering gazes, a meaning behind his hand brushing her own. And now he acted like she burned him at the barest glance. A new form of loathing took shape within her.

She couldn’t decipher it. She already had so much on her plate, especially now that they were in Paris and their deadline was fast approaching— as soon as Vlad could get them an audience with the dowager empress they would all part ways. She didn’t mean to let her confused heart get mixed up in all this.

When Vlad insisted on going clubbing, Anya had welcomed the distraction, even if her feet ached from exploring the city all day. They had traded their tired Russian winter wardrobe for a spring Parisian chic, with light and flowy dresses and freshly pressed suits and stylish chignons. Anya didn’t look his way but she felt Dmitry’s eyes burning through her skin the whole way here, his hand like fire on her lower back as they stepped from the cab, the heat of his body beside her when they ordered their drinks.

Vlad found a dance partner impressively fast, Anya admitted to herself, and left the two of them to swim in their thick, simmering silence on their own. Fair enough. She would be sick of the pair of them, too, if she were in Vlad’s shoes.

“Want another drink?” Dmitry asked over the noise of the swing band without looking at her.

Damn, he really was handsome. Even if he wasn’t meeting her eye and his expression was entirely unreadable, he had such a remarkable profile, with the bump in his nose and his princely chin and his stern mouth. His new suit was tailored just right, broadening his shoulders and stretching over his chest. His hair was combed but one stubborn lock fell over his left eyebrow in defiance. Anya wet her lips. “I’m still working on this one, but thank—”

He wordlessly left her side, weaving his way through the crowd towards the bar.

All right.

It wasn’t difficult to piss her off, sure, but something about Dmitry would always bring her blood to a boil, and now was no exception. So when another gentleman approached her to ask for the next set, she felt no remorse when she set her half empty glass on the nearest table and accepted his hand, even if he looked a little wolfish and angular and not at all her type.

The gentleman was a good dancer. He waltzed her through one set, and then the next, and the next, without breaking a sweat or stepping on her toes. He even made her laugh once. She wasn’t sure if it was on purpose, but she still laughed all the same.

At one turn, though, her eyes found his: Dmitry was staring daggers at them across the crowded dance hall, sucking on a cigarette with a tight jaw. He downed his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before shouldering his way through the other wallflowers. Anya politely excused herself from her partner and did her best to escape the dance floor without stumbling.

Anya followed him all the way outside. She hadn’t realized how hot and stuffy it had been in the club, the air thick and stifling with other dancers, until she came out here, where the cool spring evening chill was welcomed. The club was tucked away in a deserted alley, with nothing but cigarette butts and streetlamps for company. This must have been some side entrance because no one, not even a bouncer or a server on their break, was around. Dmitry was about a dozen steps ahead of her. “Where are you going?” she called. He didn’t stop.

“Back to the hotel,” he said, barely over his shoulder. She was trying to catch up with him, but his long strides were difficult to compete with.

“But I’m not ready to leave.”

“You don’t have to.”

Her fists clenched at her sides. “So you were just going to leave me?”

“I thought you found better company.”

The words cut through her, searing. She finally caught up with him, walking side by side. He still only stared straight ahead without halting. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing, it’s whatever.” Dmitry took another puff of his cigarette and blew out plumes of smoke with his words. “It’s a dance club, so go back and dance, I don’t care.”

Anger flared up. She shoved at his shoulder. “It’s not like you were going to ask me to dance.”

“I said I don’t care!” he lifted his hands as if surrendering. His expression was still guarded. “You can do whatever you want. I’m not your mom.”

“What if I want you to care?”

For a brief moment that mask flickered, his eyes darting to hers in curiosity. But then that moment was over in a flash and he scrubbed his face clean of any emotion with his palm, leaving nothing but a cool neutrality behind. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Anya stayed planted while he was still walking away. An idea suddenly struck her, plain as day. A new angle to look at, a new method to unraveling the mystery that was Dmitry Sudayev. “He kept calling me cherie, by the way,” she tested, keeping her voice disinterested.

Dmitry froze in his tracks. And that was when she knew she had him. She was onto something.

Her heart raced. “He even invited me to come home with him tonight. Told me he’s got a penthouse suite right on the Champs-Elysees and everything.”

When Dmitry turned to face her his eyes were black. Smoking obsidian. “Well?” he said after a very measured breath. “Are you?”

She shrugged, as if nonchalant. “I can’t think of a reason not to.”

His nostrils flared, like he could fucking smell the man’s cologne on her still.

Anya lifted her chin. “Why?” she asked. “Does that make you jealous, Dmitry?”

That was it. She had him pinned. His ears went bright pink in the low lamplight and he had the audacity to laugh. Angry and humorless, but a laugh all the same. “Jealous? Really? You think too highly of yourself sometimes.”

“I think you’re fooling yourself if you believe that.”

He angrily snuffed his cigarette between his shoe and the cobblestone. “You can do whatever you want with whoever you want, just leave me out of it.”

“Do you want me to?”

His eyes snapped back to hers, weary, angry. “You don’t need my permission.”

“Do you want me to,” she repeated, more insistent. They were close now, not quite nose to nose, but too near each other for her to miss the way his chest rose and fell with each breath, like it pained him, and the way his eyes were a match about to burn down to fingertips.

His nostrils flared again, muscles in his jaw flexing. He slowly shook his head.

“No.”

No. Now they were getting somewhere. She pushed at his chest. Not enough to make him stumble away, but enough to get him to pay attention. The attention she had been wanting for a really long time, she realized. “No, what?”

His exhale hit her face. “I don’t want you going home with that guy.”

His tone was low, dangerous, a warning. Thin and brittle and about to snap. “Then give me a reason not to.”

Anya barely had time to suck in another breath before his mouth was on hers, crashing into her so forcefully she had to stumble backwards to catch her footing. But Dmitry didn’t let her fall, his hands pulling at her waist and the back of her neck, leveraging her against him.

Damn, Dmitry could kiss. It was messy and desperate and frantic but it was perfect, his teeth pulling at her bottom lip, bunching the skirt of her dress into a fist. The cold air made goosebumps erupt all over her exposed thigh. Her mouth parted and her tongue swiped at the seam of his lips, which he graciously allowed access, and when her tongue slid under his he let out a moan so sinful she had to cling onto his arms to keep her knees from wobbling. She landed hard against the damp wall, and even though he was being forceful and rough he still cradled her head so she wouldn’t hurt herself on the brick. He could play tough all he wanted, but deep down he was a softie.

“This what you wanted?” he asked, his voice still low and gruff. “Needed some attention?”

Now that he was all in her space, crowding her and mouthing at her skin, she welcomed this feeling pooling in her lower stomach, something she hadn’t paid much attention to in a while. Sure, she was no stranger to desire. But something was different about him. A strange, darker need, sprouting from how fiery they could make one another. Her hand came up to fold into his hair. “Maybe.”

Dmitry moaned a little when her fingers wove through his locks. Another discovery of the night. “You still gonna go home with him?”

No, absolutely not. Anya could barely remember what that guy even looked like. But she only smiled a little and said, in her best princess voice she could muster, “I’m thinking about it.” Her words had the desired effect— Dmitry let out a gruff noise and shoved his knee between her legs, giving her access to relieve some of the pressure that had ballooned up there.

“You don’t need him,” he breathed. “You don’t need anybody. Just ask me to take care of you and I will. Whatever you want.”

Her head tilted back, letting him cradle her skull, while her hips, nearly involuntary, thrusted back and forth, rubbing herself on his muscular thigh. “I think you’re smart enough to figure out what I want.”

His mouth cascaded down her neck, teeth scraping over the column of her throat. If they had done this earlier in their acquaintance they would’ve had to fumble with scarves and coats and wool to do all of this so she was grateful they had waited until now. Now all she had on was her thin, silky dress, and her new underwear, all of which the latest Parisian fashions, which tended to focus on revealing more skin than what was acceptable back home. More neck, more cleavage, more leg, which he was clearly enjoying, with his hand up her skirt and bruising her thigh and his mouth sucking on the base of her throat. Dmitry bit down at the junction between her neck and shoulder, something possessive and hungry, earning a surprised gasp. There was no doubt a bruise would bloom here in minutes.

“You’re so sensitive…” he swiped his tongue over the mark, as if to sooth it or maybe admire his work, she wasn’t sure, “how long’s it been since you’ve let a man touch you like this?”

Her heart was beating so fast against his, her chest heaving, face hot and flushed. His thigh between her legs wasn’t enough. “Too long.”

His hand cupping the nape of her neck slid forward until it was around her throat, not squeezing or anything, but angling her jaw so he could kiss underneath, and also holding her in place. “I could touch you more,” he murmured, his hand gripping her thigh loosening to slide between her legs, fingers rubbing at her over her panties. Somehow he had sensed her need. “If you ask politely.”

She squeezed the hair she was holding. “You’re in no position to negotiate.”

“Aren’t I?” His thumb pressed into the base of her throat at the hollow of her collarbone, just a little. She knew he would never hurt her. Not even this way. But the thought of him threatening her like this was arousing and, absurdly, a little funny.

Anya lifted her chin at him, meeting his eye, making sure he was watching her. “I don’t think this other gentleman would make me ask.”

His nostrils flared, eyes hooded and dark and flashing with something ominous, as predicted. He grabbed her wrists in one hand and locked them above her head, all in a silly show of dominance for this little performance, and his other hand started fiddling with her underwear. He was probably looking for things to untie or unbutton but all she had on was a pair of lacy french panties. His eyebrows rose in surprise. “So accessible.” He kept playing with the waistband of her panties, just to torture her. “These new?”

They were indeed new. She smiled a bit. “Bought them with the dress.”

Dmitry sighed. “Love this city,” he mumbled. “I could barely look at you since we got here, you’re too fucking irresistible.”

She frowned, struggling to escape his grip on her wrists. “But you’ve been ignoring me since we got here.”

“Because I can’t— I don’t think I can control myself around you right now.”

He was so fucking confusing. This was why he had been ignoring her? She was too attractive to him? That was it? “All it took was a bath and some new clothes for you to notice me, huh?”

“I’ve always noticed you,” he whispered. “Always. Driving me crazy since you walked into that goddamn palace all those months ago.” His lips twitched, like he thought of a joke. “But you do smell better now, I’ll admit that.”

This made her laugh, because it was true. “So do you—”

She gasped when his hand finally slipped down the front of her underwear all the way, cupping her, rubbing at her. “Jesus Christ,” he marveled, “no wonder you’re so— this all for me? Or for him?”

Anya bit her lip, pressing herself harder against his hand. “What answer will make you shut up and touch me more?”

In spite of everything, the bastard grinned, white teeth and everything, like he figured out her game and was absolutely delighted to play. “Need me to take care of this for you?”

His fingertips were making slow, sensual ovals, making her lose her composure a little. “Make me feel good.”

Two of his fingers plunged all the way inside her, making her gasp, while his palm rubbed at her. His hand was so large and perfect, fingers thick and round. His other hand holding her wrists loosened its grip and slid down one of her arms and she let out a keening noise when his thumb brushed her nipple over the fabric of her dress.

“So needy,” he dipped his head, pressing more hot kisses to her neck, “poor thing. All hot and bothered with no one to help.” His lips sucked around her pulse point behind the corner of her jaw. “You have needs, I get it. But why even bother finding someone else to satisfy you when I’m right here?”

He had taken on a softer tone, bordering on cooing at her, and for some reason this irritated her more than anything. “You piss me off so much,” she mumbled, trying to catch her breath.

He laughed a little, like he knew what she meant, like she pissed him off too. “Does arguing with me get you all worked up?”

Her hands tangled in his hair. “Does picturing me with another man get you all worked up?”

“No, it— it makes me fucking angry,” he grunted, his voice cracking. “Don’t like thinking about that.” His hand was moving a little more frantically now. Like this was how he proved himself. “You think that guy— anyone else— could make you feel this good?”

“How do you know he can’t?” she asked, just to piss him off. He all but growled in her ear.

“Just by looking at him— he’s a fucking selfish piece of shit.” His fingers were knuckle deep, knocking against what felt like every nerve in her body, with his palm rubbing at her. It was a little difficult to focus on what he was saying. “Wouldn’t know the first thing about how to touch a woman. He’d probably just fuck you until he was done, wouldn’t care if you were satisfied or not...” The rest of his sentence trailed off, but he didn’t need to finish. Clearly he knew how to pleasure her. His fingers inside her was evidence enough.

She thought of something else. “You know,” she started. “If I’m— if I’m really her— you know I’ll have a whole lineup of suitors, right?”

He nipped at the soft skin of her neck in warning. “No.”

“No?” she asked incredulously. “I absolutely will. That’s how this works.”

He lifted his head to look at her, his expression a calm satisfaction. “You know you won’t need them, don’t you?” He shook his head. “None of them could ever get you this riled up, not the way I do.”

That was true— she didn’t think anyone else existed with the perfect skillset to frustrate her so the way Dmitry Sudayev could— but there was no way in hell she was admitting that now. Even if her hips were wobbling against his hand, clenching around his fingers. “And you’d legally have to do everything I say.”

He gritted his teeth. “I don’t like being told what to do.”

A bold statement, considering he was right where she wanted him. Considering he had done everything she had asked him to so far.

His fingers were so long, buried deep inside her, pressing every sensitive nerve she had, and the heel of his palm was cupping her so perfectly, moving rhythmically. “Fuck, Dima,” she moaned, the name slipping from her lips. Her head tilted back against the brick and her eyes had to flutter shut. “Don’t stop.”

“Look at me,” he grabbed at her jaw, angling her face towards his. So she opened her eyes and glared at him. “I’m not loyal to princesses and kings, Anya. But I am loyal to you.”

His surprising sincerity, in the midst of how lewd and filthy he had been treating her, was a little confusing. He towered over her, surrounding her on all sides, cocooning her from the real world, eyes dark and alluring and honest. In a way, he was more protective of her than anything else. Her arms came around his shoulders and her fingers slipped into his hair again.

He bit at her shell of her ear. “You gonna come for me or what?”

She was so close. But she spat, “Make me.”

He growled in frustration. “You’re such a brat sometimes,” he hissed, “spoiled rotten. Mean as hell to me.”

She yanked hard on his hair. “If I’m a brat, you’re a bitch.”

He laughed, like he couldn’t agree more. “This mouth,” his thumb brushed over her parted lips, “don’t know how it hasn’t gotten you into more trouble.” When he pressed the finger over her tongue, like he was experimenting to see how much he could get away with, she bit him with her teeth, just hard enough to get him to react. He groaned. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Don’t I?”

A third finger slipped inside of her and it felt so good her vision went white for a second. Holy shit, she was so close. His hand covered her mouth entirely. “So fucking noisy,” he hushed. “Bet it pisses you off how good I’m making you feel right now.”

He wasn’t wrong. But she didn’t care— all of the bickering and the tension from the last few months was piling up and she was about to earn her payoff for all of it.

But then he suddenly slipped his fingers out of her, entirely stopping. The loss of momentum was that of tripping while running downhill.

“Fuck you!” she hissed. All he did was laugh, sucking each of his fingers clean. “I wasn’t done.”

“We’ll finish this up at the hotel,” he cooed.

She shoved at his chest. “No, we’re finishing this here.”

He still wasn’t taking this seriously. “No.”

“It’s now,” she tugged at his pants, popping the button open, “or never, Sudayev.”

When she started palming at him, his hips thrust himself into her hand, a new noise slipping from the back of his throat. “Dirty girl.” He let her fumble with undoing his pants, neither bothering with his jacket or vest or suspenders.

Dmitry lifted her by her hips and she scrambled to cling onto his shoulders, her back scraping on the cold brick, legs wrapping around him. His grip on her was bruising tight, but he had a forearm behind her head, protecting her from the hard wall. Suddenly she was at eye level with him and her breath caught in her throat. He really was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

He was breathing hard. “You wanna know why I’ve been ignoring you?”

He was inside her in one, sharp thrust, taking up every possible inch of space within and around her.

“It’s because I’m so fucking terrified of what’s gonna happen to me when I lose you,” he confessed. “Whether it’s to some suitor who wants Anastasia, or some gentleman at a dance club, or— or anyone who actually deserves you. And I knew if I let myself… I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to let you go.” He shifted her in his grip. “Didn’t want to frighten you off with how bad I wanted you.”

He was already moving. Clumsy and needy and messy, sure, but. She couldn’t breathe for a second. She could feel him everywhere, in her gut, in her toes, even all the way up to her throat. What could she even say to that, anyway? He was basically confessing this was more than just a fleeting moment of passion for him, confirming her suspicions. It was a lot to take in. Both emotionally and physically.

“How much?” She managed. “How much did you want me?”

His next thrust was particularly deep and hard, insistent. “So fucking much.”

He was so close to her, fingers sinking into her flesh, his front pressing into her own, like he was trying to actually climb under her skin in every way imaginable. “Like you said…” her nails dug into his suit jacket, waiting for him to meet her eye, “I don’t need anyone else.”

That flicker of insecurity vanished, replaced with his smug grin. “Damn right.”

They were moving a little more steadily now, not as clumsy. There was a ferocity to it, though, an animalistic haste and speed she didn’t expect from him. A sort of desperation that only starving men had. His fingers were bruising her thigh, holding her whole body aloft with ease, moving so fast she could hardly keep up. He mouthed at the side of her neck again and she couldn’t keep the embarrassing noises from escaping her throat.

“God fucking damn it, Anya.” His breaths came out in heavy huffs, a moan here and there. “You like it dirty, don’t you? Taking me so good out here in this fucking alleyway. Not some fragile grand duchess, huh?”

He was mumbling, babbling nonsense. And he had laughed at her for being noisy. “You’re one to talk.”

He nosed his way back up to her mouth, not quite kissing her but mostly just showing he was paying attention. His hips were pistoning fast, but also powerful, precise, like he knew exactly where she needed him out of sheer will. Not a single movement was wasted. Thrusting upwards, stretching her open.

“Didn’t take you for the jealous type,” she breathed. “If I had known I would’ve— tried this weeks ago.”

He scoffed. “Come on, as if the thought of me with someone else doesn’t drive you up the wall.”

She thought about it. Someone else getting to have Dmitry this way, being the object of his attentions. And she felt something sour in her gut. “The girls on Theatre Street?”

He met her eyes, lips twitching with a bit of mischief. “Maybe.”

Okay, she really hated that.

“See!” He was too breathless to laugh, but he was close to it. “Does that make you jealous, Anya?”

She tugged his hair and he hissed. Damn, they were so similar, down to every wire, it seemed. She thought of something else. “You know you don’t need them, right?” Her ankles locked around him, clinging on, keeping him close. Like no one else would get him this way, if she had a say about it. “You won’t want anyone else that’s not me.”

He smiled then. Like he knew her game. “I knew it— the moment we met,” he breathed. “You’re it for me.”

His hips snapped into hers at an ungodly pace now, as wild and desperate as she felt. Her heart was pounding. Dmitry wasn’t speaking anymore, just huffing and moaning and panting. Everything they’d been through— all of the angry bickering, the stolen glances, the lingering touches, the desperate dependency on one another for survival, was crescending to this. To his hands holding her aloft, his brown eyes hooded with something dark and hungry, the skin of his scalp under her fingernails, the stretch of him moving frantically inside her.

“Look at me,” she managed. She needed to see him come undone. His eyes were shining a little, a vein protruding from his neck, face flushed from his hairline down his chest, lips parted and red. She pressed a loose kiss to them. “Say it.”

“Fuck—” he groaned. Like she surprised him. “You’re mine.”

She was his. She knew it for a long time, how much she wanted to belong to someone, in one way or another. “And you’re mine.”

Dmitry nodded once. Apparently even when incapable of speech he would still take care of her. I’m not loyal to princesses and kings, he had confessed. But I am loyal to you.

He had already built a staircase for her to reach the end of this, so it wasn’t difficult to finally let go, to let this wave crest and wash over her. When she came all over him he let out the most obscene whimper she had ever heard and within seconds he froze, shaking. All without breaking eye contact.

Her hands came to the side of his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks. “You okay?” she asked.

He nodded and audibly swallowed, still breathing hard. Her makeup was smudged all over his face, his hair was going in all different directions, his shirt was wrinkled, his face flushed pink.

She had to bite her lip and tilt her head back. For some absurd reason she felt an urge to laugh.

“What?”

“I finally figured out how to get you to stop talking.”

He smiled tiredly and huffed another breath. Slowly his eyes came back into focus. “Fuck— did I hurt you?” He anxiously brushed a loose hair from her face, searching her eyes with clarity and concern. “I’m— I’m sorry—”

“Don’t,” Anya shook her head. “Never apologize to me. You’re fine.” Her fingers pushed his bangs out of his eyes. “You’re perfect.”

They just breathed together for a second, foreheads touching. When he carefully pulled out he exhaled slow and angled her hips with a strange sort of reverence. As he gently set her back down on her feet, he brushed a soft kiss over her mouth, helping her fix her skirt and panties, cleaning her up with the cloth tucked in his breast pocket. The gentleness and care was so different from the way he was moving in her just seconds ago. He had bit a bruise on her neck and left indentations of his hand on the flesh of her thigh but now he was kissing her forehead and wiping her clean with a tenderness she didn’t know he was capable of. And then he pulled his suit jacket off and carefully draped it over her shoulders, almost boyishly shy about it. Confusing and contradicting.

Dmitry Sudayev would continuously be full of surprises, it seemed.

“You still gonna go home with that gentleman?” he asked, half joking and half serious. As if, even after all that, she was still on the fence, as if it wasn’t always going to be him from the beginning.

She tilted her head up at him. “What gentleman?”

He grinned in obvious relief and bent down, mouth hovering over hers. “Good answer,” he whispered just before he kissed her. His hands were gentle around her waist, tugging her closer, his warmth as inviting as ever. “Would you like to go back inside for a dance?”

She fixed his collar. “How likely is it, do you think, Vlad will find somewhere else to stay tonight?”

“I don’t know. He did say he was looking for Lily, and if that’s anything how I think it’ll be…” he grimaced, like a little boy encountering his parents exchanging a kiss. “Why do you ask?”

He wasn’t getting it. Her hand slid down his chest as slowly and sensually as she could, finding his hand, intertwining their fingers. “Because in that case, we could have the suite to ourselves…”

His face lit up with understanding. “Oh!” His entire demeanor shifted, no longer weary with exhaustion, standing straighter and bouncing at the balls of his feet. When she started tugging him down the alley towards the street, he was practically skipping. “Got it. So no to the dancing.”

She let out a giggle. “No dancing.” She held his arm. She was still a little wobbly on her feet, but he was steady next to her, so she knew he wouldn’t let her fall. “But yes to you.”

His face reddened, endearing and embarrassed to be so obviously complimented, but his eyes danced with something a little akin to the hunger he’d shown before. A promise of more. A promise that he was worth her time.

Dmitry would always be complicated and contradictory. But now Anya felt, with his hand in hers, she finally understood him a little bit.

#dimya #anastasia broadway #fanfiction #my writing #smutty saturday #i promise i'll shut up about this now #back to your regularly scheduled pathetic subby dima from now on

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