#i just want you to look at these because i love them so much and they are so specific!

[squipa]

baby, i want some of your love

aka how you healed him

———

jason todd wears glasses now.

jason never really took care of himself after dying. his body was so hopelessly out of rhythm, everything slightly wrong and out of place. his bones creak underneath his skin, his muscles, which had nearly rotted and decayed, could never quite figure out how to relax. sometimes he’d forget to breathe, or blink, the actions no longer involuntary, and before you? he didn’t have it in himself to care. his health had fallen to the least of his worries.

but you were always so worried about him. you noticed things about himself he hadn’t even realized, how he winced when he chewed with the left side of his mouth, how he squinted at street signs whenever you went on walks, how his muscles were always tense until you massaged them into relaxation. you pointed them out, pouting whenever he’d shrug it off. to him, it was nothing, he was used to the pain, the inconvenience; he didn’t consider his own wellbeing important enough to pay any mind to.

to you, it was torture. watching the man you loved so dearly treat himself with so little care had you ruined. all you wanted for him was happiness and safety, for him to have what he had given you so freely, what he guarded himself from so intensely. he didn’t realize how much you cared until he noticed how much you finally pushed him to treat himself better.

“i scheduled you a dentist appointment.” you said, matter-of-factly setting down a few documents in front of him begging his patient history. he looked up to you, eyebrow raised, entirely confused. you answered his question before he could even think to ask it. “you wince when you chew.”

he wouldn’t say no to you. despite his disdain regarding the idea of a check up, he went. you came with him, fiercly speaking a language of medicine he didn’t understand. when he left the dentist, you gave him a lollipop. “i’m not five.” he ate it anyways, savoring the taste between strawberry-stained lips as you drove him home.

he stopped noticing when you made him appointments to get shots, or when you subtly slipped the card of a dermatologist behind the picture of you he kept in his wallet. he started actually caring about what he did to his body— gut health and all that. yes, he was jacked, his body had been built like a machine ever since it had patched itself back together in the lazarus pit, but he couldn’t remember the last time he ate a piece of fruit.

he didn’t realize how much better he felt until dick pointed it out for him. “you got glasses?” he asked, pointing to the thick black frames that sat on the bridge of his nose.

he nodded. he does wear glasses. he has silver caps on two of his teeth. he has a nice layer of body fat covering his muscles because he eats three well-balanced meals a day. he has a standing appointment with a chiropractor every other wednesday at two, and another with a therapist on mondays at one. he gets a checkup every six months and goes to the dentist every four, he’s been to the dermatologist three times in two years, he has all of his shots up to date, he takes vitamins in the morning and he sleeps at least five hours every night.

he cares about himself. he puts effort into making sure he stays healthy— and at first it was for you. only for you, to ease your constant worry about him. but now it’s second nature, your guiding hand has healed him, made him want to stay alive and healthy and whole, not for just you, but for himself.

the moment the realization washes over him of just how much you’ve given him, he rushes home and tells you in no less than a thousand ways just how grateful he is to have your love.

———

[rin-may-1103]

Aspiring Escape Artist

(DCxDP) | Masterpost | Next

"Alright, Mr. Fenton," his newest social worker started, turning in her seat so she might actually get him to look at her. Danny continued looking out the window and up at the gigantic building they were parked in front of.

"This is your last chance before the system declares you unfit for foster homes and sends you off to juvie. And before you get all uppitty about it, know this is as much your fault as it is the system's."

Danny rolled his eyes, watching as shadows rushed past windows too tinted to actually see into. Another shadow darted past a lower one, dragging his eyes down and toward the door. The shadow was quickly followed by three more, one of them waving something over their head.

Allowing his hearing to spread out from its usual range, Danny listened as muffled shouts filled the air, quickly turning into clear words.

"GET THE MASK, GET THE MASK!"

"SHIT!" fallowed by a thump and the sound of a large piece of furniture tipping backward and landing.

"I GOT IT!" another voice cried.

"HEY, I HAd that, you little shit-"

Danny quickly pulled his hearing back, not wanting to listen anymore. He already knew he was going to hate it here.

"Now, Mr. Wayne has taken in a lot of kids and has been very gracious to open his home to you. Make no mistakes, young man. You will listen to what he tells you, and so help me, if you cause this man any trouble whatsoever, you will regret it. Stay in the car until I tell you you can get out. I need to go over your file with Mr. Wayne first."

She was acting like Danny was some delinquent picked up fresh from a gang fight. He was half tempted to act like it just to spite her, but bit his tongue and continued looking around the place.

The large garden surrounding the building was obviously well taken care of, the green hummed happily as the (what Danny's gathered) rare sunlight and clear sky.

His control over plants still needs work, but he's gotten good enough to connect to the green and get the general feelings. Like how the man who just walked out the front doors was greatly loved by the plants, which meant he was the one taking care of them.

"Are you even listening to me?" the lady huffed, unbuckling herself and shoving the car door open. She was already standing and greating the old man before Danny could respond.

"Hello, Mr. Pennyworth, was it? Hi, I'm Ms. Clance, I'm Danny's social worker. Is Mr. Wayne home?" she slammed the door shut and held her hand out for a handshake.

The older man eyed her hand but otherwise ignored it, instead turning to look at Danny, who was still in the car. "That is correct, Ms. Clance. Master Wayne is in his study; he'll be down in a moment to discuss any last minute things you need to cover. Now, why don't we get Mr. fenton inside and aquanted with the others?"

"Hold on for just a moment," Ms. Clance cut in, sending Danny a nervous glance. Danny raised his brow, but continued to pretend he couldn't hear a word they were saying, 'waiting' for her signal to get out of the car.

The front door opened behind them, three heads popping out in an obvious attempt to eavesdrop on the conversation. There was an older guy, maybe in his mid to late twenties, a blond girl, still in her teens, and a guy with eyebags. Though Danny's were definitely worse, he might have Tucker beat. which was worrying, because what could this guy possibly need to pull three all-nighters for?

"I would like to speak with Mr. Wayne before letting the kid settle in. No offence, but I want to make sure Mr. Wayne is serious in wanting to house the kid. We've already had three other families agree to take him on and then drop him in less than a month."

"I see," Mr. Pennyworth hummed, studying Danny with a sharp eye. Danny studied him back; he had good posture, and his graying hair was slicked back. He had a mustache but no other facial hair, so he obviously kept himself well-maintained. Jazz said people like that were more likely to be well-disciplined and lean toward being blunt and honest.

His stance didn't lean toward classic butler, though; it leaned toward fighting and alert. He had experience in the army or something then, which meant Danny would have to keep an eye on this guy. he probably was the one running the house when Mr. Wayne wasn't around. which meant he'd be the one watching Danny the most.

"I still believe the young man should come inside, master wayne doesn't go back on his word, and he'll unlikely do so now."

Ms. Clance warily glanced at Danny, then back at Mr. Pennyworth, a fake smile plastered on her face, before one of the three spying on the cut in," yeah! I want to meet the little guy!"

The door swung open, allowing even more people to crowd around and watch the scene in front of them.

"And you will," Ms. Clance agreed, turning to face the growing group. "Once I speak to Mr. Wayne. We have to go over a few things in Daniel's file before I can sign off on all of this."

"Like, what?" the blond one asked, her eyes meeting danny's as she skipped down the stairs. Danny could just tell she'd be down for all sorts of chaos. And he could also tell she'd be glued to his side until her interest died, which would take only clockwork knows how long.

Instinctively, Danny reached out and grabbed the door, just as someone tried opening it. Glancing up and to the side, Danny met gray eyes. It was the other girl he had spotted wandering the garden a few minutes before.

She stared at him for a moment before smiling and stepping back. 'You can come out,' she signed. Danny glanced back at Ms. Clance, then back to the girl before sighing and getting out.

Her eyes lit up once he closed the door and turned back to her.

"You know sign," she asked, her voice quiet but not obviously disused.

'absoltly not', danny signed just to be a little shit. Turning back, he stared at his social worker, who was watching them in confused frustration.

"Daniel, what did I say about staying in the car?" She looked ready to march over and smack him.

"I thought you decided I wasn't listening?" Danny pointed out, crossing his arms and leaning back against the car. If she wanted to waste time, then that was perfectly alright with him.

"Never mind," she huffed, turning back to the butler. (he had to be a butler; he looked just like the one at Sam's place or the one his parents employed when they had made that deal with the GIW. And the fact that he referred to Mr. Wayne as master wayne.)

"You never answered my question," Blondy cut in, smiling sweetly at the frustrated woman.

"Like the plethora of misdemeanors?" Danny asked, watching as everyone turned to look at him. (probably because he wasn't supposed to know what the question was, considering he was literally just in the car.) The gray-eyed girl had slowly made her way back to join the others, though she still looked happy for some reason.

"no," ms. Clance huffed, obviously starting to get overwhelmed for some reason. she needed to take a step back and breath, there was literally no reason for her to be this agitated.

"More like we need to go over how many times you snuck out, got seriously injured, seriously injured someone else, and sent your last foster parent to a mental facility."

"All classified as misdemeanors, so obviously not that bad," Danny waved off, rolling his eyes. "And Mr. Thompson deserved it."

"You drove that man insane!" she hissed, swatting a piece of her hair out of her face.

Danny blinked at her, tilting his head to the side in confusion, "He was already insane before I got there, though?" which was actually quite annoying. Danny's dealt with enough insane people at this point; he'd rather hug Vlad than deal with another one.

"He was not," Ms. Clance sniffed, trying to straighten herself out.

"he definitely was," Danny argued, pulling his backpack tighter against his back in annoyance. "The dude thought locking me in a room and feeding me white rice once a day was perfectly fine."

Danny ignored the sudden stilted silence at his words, choosing to instead focus on the man slowly making his way outside and over to them.

"Would you stop making things up already?" Ms. Clance huffed, "We've already gone over this. There wasn't a lock on your door, and there was plenty of food in the pantry."

Danny rolled his eyes, going back to studying the gray-eyed girl. The happy sparkle was gone, and she was making hand signals that the others around her were focused on. It wasn't a dialect of sign he knew, most likely a self-made code then.

"Don't need a lock to lock someone up," Danny grumbled, turning back to Ms. Clance, "and if that doesn't count as insane, then talking to the shadows on the wall and claiming to be immortal does. Do you know how many times that man tried jumping in front of cars or out of a window? Way too many. So yeah, he deserved to go to the mental institution, where he'll get some actual help."

"right," ms. clance waved off, turning to continue talking to Mr. pennyworth. danny cut in before she could, "so, do you guys make it a habit; lingering back and listening to conversations?"

The rest blinked, then turned to see who exactly he was talking to, their eyes following his as they finally spotted the man they were all waiting for.

"ah," mr. wayne chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, "sorry, I didn't want to interup. it sounded important."

"Right," Danny huffed, glaring at the man. Honestly, all the eavesdropping and being loud as hell was turning out to be a regular thing based on the fact that no one else was acting like it wasn't.

Yeah, he was going to hate it here if that was true.

Next

[no-144444]

the fuck up- o.piastri

꩜summary: the silence has become loud in the mclaren garage now they're back from their week-long break. what's making oscar so miserable? lando wants to get to the bottom of it...

꩜pairing: oscar piastri x ex! single mom! fem! reader

The sun began its descent over the flat city of Miami as Oscar and Lando sat to eat. Oscar did not want to eat with Lando. Lando very much wanted to eat with Oscar. Both of them had their reasons. Lando’s were; Oscar had been miserable since they got back from their week off, and he was too nosy not to ask. Oscar’s were; he’d had been miserable since they got back from their week off, and Lando was too nosy not to ask.

“How’s Magui?” Oscar asked, trying to make it seem casual. He’d never once asked about Lando’s dating life, mostly because he didn’t care. Lando smirked at him like he knew what was going on, and Oscar continued drinking his wine with a blank look on his face. 

Lando giggled lightly and sighed. “Oh Oscar… Oscar, Oscar, Oscar… sweet, young, naive Oscar,” Lando took a breath as Oscar rolled his eyes, this was getting repetitive already. “This is about Y/n!” He pointed a finger in his face and all he got back was that same blank expression, but inside Oscar felt that sting in his heart. “You’re missing her!” 

Try as he might, he couldn’t deny that. But that wasn’t the main issue. You’d been great. Mia was great. Oscar was the outlier. Well, Beth was the outlier. 

He huffed. “I miss my daughter,” he corrected. “And no, that’s not a crime.” 

“You’ve known your daughter for two months,” Lando scoffed. “You were in love with Y/n for years.”

“And I broke up with her,” Oscar shot back. 

Lando grimaced. “Don’t remind me. You were almost bearable for a moment there.” 

Oscar scoffed and crossed his arms, levelling Lando with his eyes. “I just don’t understand why you care so much.” 

Lando mirrored his position and realised how close he was to the answer, the true answer. Whatever was bugging him so much. “Because I was there for Y/n?” 

“And I wasn’t,” Oscar nodded, a self-deprecating smile on his face. “And everyone keeps reminding me of that.” 

Lando shook his head. “It’s your own failing-”

“I know that!” Oscar’s hand hit the table so hard it attracted the eyes of a few other tables. He cleared his throat as Lando did the same, offering apologetic looks to the other tables, then turned his attention back to the man in front of him. “I know that,” he repeated, like he was trying to convince himself of it too. “But I didn’t know,” he added. “I couldn’t have known-”

“You would’ve if you didn’t put your racing career before yourself,” Lando shrugged and it knocked the wind out of Oscar’s lungs. No one had ever framed it like that. That he’d sacrifice himself for his career. The story always was that he’d sacrificed his relationships, his schooling, his regular life- which was all true, sure. But no one had ever reminded him of the fact that he gave up the most important thing to him, because he thought it would make him quicker. Even with no way to prove it, he knew losing you had never been good for him, or his career. You had been the one thing he had for himself. The one thing that nothing in the paddock could touch, he wouldn’t let it. His racing brain switched off around you, and he gave that up for being an Alpine reserve driver. “Simple as, mate,” he added. 

Oscar was quiet for a moment. “What do you want me to say to that?” 

“I want you to tell me what happened last week because Y/n won’t,” Lando leaned in, almost putting his chin on the table, batting his eyelashes and trying to make Oscar tell him. Oscar rolled his eyes. 

“It wasn’t a big deal,” he shrugged. 

“Beth showed up, didn’t she?” Lando mused, biting his bottom lip in suspense. Oscar sighed and Lando’s jaw dropped, though his hands raised in victory, and quickly dropped back down again. “Holy shit. What happened?”

The early morning sun of Monaco was truly breathtaking, and Mia seemed to love it too. It was your first time in Oscar’s old place, the apartment he was lending to a friend while he set up base in London with you and Mia. He had offered to bring you both to Monaco so Mia could ‘see where he’d been all these years’, and so that you could get a break. 

“It’s beautiful,” Mia whispered, her tired voice small as she curled up into your side in front of the floor-length windows. You chuckled as she cuddled into your lap, falling back to sleep as you people-watched. You spotted the cars going past, the people walking their dogs, the people going for runs, the people going to work. You adored the just… watch the world pass by. You were so engrossed in it, you didn’t see Oscar come up beside you. 

“What do you think?” he whispered. You startled, but kept still enough to keep Mia asleep. He chuckled, as did you. His eyes fell to Mia in your lap, though you knew he was listening. 

“Struggling to understand why you left this place for London,” you answered, and he laughed. This was so… normal, but strange. It was all so domestic, and you’d trained yourself to not think that. You wanted him gone, out of your life and mind. You thought back to all those mornings and nights you spent with Mia as she grew, imagining Oscar beside you. Imagining him feeding Mia a bottle as the sun rose, when she was just new. Imagining him playing with her in the park. Imagining her cuddling into his side while you watched movies at night. Imagining him taking some of the load off your shoulders. You’d always pushed it to the back of your mind, reminding yourself that he wanted nothing to do with you. 

And here he was. Wanting everything to do with you. 

“London has you two,” he shrugged. “Monaco doesn’t.” 

“But it has nice weather and a pretty killer view,” you teased. 

“You two are a pretty nice view,” he said before he knew what he was saying, and the air changed. You shifted your position. He cleared his throat and did that thing he always did when he was nervous or made a mistake, that ‘resting his chin on his hand’ thing. “And London’s not bad. Cheaper than here.” 

You chuckled. “You’re a millionaire,” you reminded him. 

He nodded and turned his attention back to the view. It was pretty stellar. “It’s nice, but I’d miss her too much.”

“Course,” you nodded, threading a hand through her hair. “I understand.” 

“Thought you would,” he chuckled. 

Knock knock. 

“Who’s here so early?” you questioned. “Are you expecting someone?” 

He shook his head as he stood. “Shouldn’t be,” he walked over to the door and (stupidly) opened the door without checking the peephole. Bad choice. 

Beth. 

“Where the fuck have you been?!” she demanded, loud enough to wake Mia in your lap, and you were genuinely too panicked to really know what to do. Who the fuck was this strange woman? Were you safe? How did she know Oscar? “I have been calling and texting you for weeks! Are you alright? Have you fallen off the face of the earth for some unknown reason?!” 

“Beth,” he said, his voice hushed. “Can we talk another time?” 

“Fuck no!” she scoffed, pushing past him at the exact moment you chose to jump up, trying to remove yourself from the room. Bad timing. She gasped louder than you’d ever heard. She was a woman who looked kind of like you… it was freaky. She stared at you for a moment, then turned her attention to… Mia. In your arms. The kid. The kid that looked like Oscar. 

Her gasp was even louder that time. “YOU HAVE A FAMILY?!”

“No! It’s not what it looks like-” you started, then cut yourself off. “Well.. yes, it is. But not like that. Oscar and I broke up years ago and I only realised I was pregnant afterward, we’d blocked each other on everything, and he only found out about this a few months ago. I don’t know who you are, and I’m just going to head-”

“Y/n-” Oscar’s voice called out, but the look you gave him made him shut up. You collected up your and Mia’s things and went for the door as Beth paced around the apartment. “Y/n, at least tell me where you’re going?”

“Lando’s, probably,” you answered before hastily leaving the apartment, and leaving him with the problem he’d been ignoring for weeks. 

“Her name’s Y/n,” she stated, her jaw open. “And you said it didn’t mean anything.” 

Oscar cringed. Ok, maybe he’d said your name once (or twice) during sex. Maybe he’d pretended it wasn’t a big deal, and that he was just naming famous people in his head to stop himself from cumming prematurely. Maybe he’d lied. 

“I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I know I’m an asshole-”

“Understatement of the century,” she interrupted. “Go on. Just break up with me now.” 

Oscar’s breath caught in his throat. “Do I really need to say it…?”

“Wow. So we literally meant nothing at all?” she asked, and he could see how upset she was. He didn’t deserve her, and he definitely didn’t deserve you, but if this wasn’t the universe giving him a chance at everything he’d ever wanted, he’d be damned if he didn’t take it, and Beth just wasn’t part of that. “I won’t let the door hit me on my way out, fuck,” she sighed as she pushed past him. “Y/n deserves better, you prick!” 

He knew she was right. He knew he should’ve just… he didn’t even know what he should’ve done. He just couldn’t stay done with you. 

“That bad, huh?” Lando nodded. “You really are a heartbreaker, holy shit,” he chuckled. Dinner had come and gone, and they were on their last sips of their drinks. 

“I’m a prick,” he nodded. “And Y/n has been so dry texting me, so I don’t even know if her and Mia are coming this weekend, or next.”

“They are,” Lando assured him. “Y/n might just… be a bit off. Shits happening at work and obviously not the best intro to your ex’s girlfriend.” 

“I broke up with Beth,” he corrected. Lando frowned. 

“Yeah, I know that. Y/n doesn’t. She thinks she’s medeled in your relationship and fucked it up for you, duh,” Lando shrugged. “Are you sure you know Y/n?” 

Oscar faked a laugh and flipped him off. “You’re so funny,” he added, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I know that. I just need to talk to her. And Mia. I mean, I know I’m not winning parent of the year, but all I did was fucking stand there, Y/n got her out of there. I couldn’t even stop Beth from coming in-”

“I hate to break your self-hatred rant, but we are in fact exiting my field of expertise,” Lando interrupted. “And dinner’s done. Call her tonight, see if she’s in Miami yet. If she is, go over there and hang out with your daughter. If she’s not, offer to pick them up whenever they get here. You’ll get through this, don’t worry mate.” 

Oscar wasn’t so sure.

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[adorekento]

Thinking about Nanami Kento who started eating pineapples because he read somewhere that says it makes your cum taste better.

Yes. That’s all it took. One article.

He swore by it like it was gospel. And he’s definitely the type to believe anything he sees on social media—he once showed you an AI-generated video of a cat breakdancing with the most serious face and asked, “How do they train them to do this?”

You love him. Truly.

But sometimes, your man is a little too earnest.

At first, you didn’t think much of it.

“Pineapples?” you asked, brows raised as you pushed the grocery cart down the aisle, glancing at him with suspicion. He nodded, stepping beside you to help push the cart toward the fruit section.

“I’ll eat it. Don’t worry.” he said with the most nonchalant tone.

You snorted. “Ken, you never eat pineapples. Don’t play with me.”

He shrugged casually, reaching out for a ripe one. “Just trying out new things, darling.”

You didn’t press. You just smiled and kept shopping.

But then it became a pattern.

He started slicing pineapples right after breakfast. Drinking pineapple juice after lunch. Eating pineapple rings straight from the fridge after dinner. You’d find him standing by the counter at night—shirtless, towel around his waist, wet hair from the shower—cutting up fresh chunks like it was his new religion.

“What’s gotten into you, Ken?” you asked one night, leaning against the doorway in one of his old shirts. “Is this part of some new diet?”

“Don’t mind me, dear..” he said smoothly, offering you a slice. “Want some?”

You declined, shook your head, and walked back to your shared bedroom.

Then came the requests—“Can you pack me some pineapple slices for lunch, love?”

“Could you make me a pineapple smoothie before I head out?”

“Do we still have those pineapple popsicles?”

Now you were suspicious.

And then... you understood.

“O-Oh... Ken!”

You gasped, your voice muffled as he held your hair tighter, his other hand gripping the edge of the couch cushion. He was on the couch, legs spread, breathing ragged as you took his cock deeper into your mouth.

His hips rolled up slowly, purposwfully, guiding you with control and need. “Yes... darling... mhm—just like that...” he groaned, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated through your core.

You moaned softly around him, and he twitched against your tongue.

“Fuck... your mouth feels so good, baby.” he hissed, head falling back, golden brows furrowing in pleasure. “So pretty like this. So good for me.”

You hollowed your cheeks, slow and steady, letting your tongue trace every ridge and vein as his hips bucked slightly, losing composure.

His jaw clenched, brows drawn together, and his abs tensed under the golden glow of your bedroom lamp. He looked so perfect—hair damp, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in quiet awe as if you were divine.

Then his breath hitched. He cursed—low and deep—before he came, faster than usual. Hot, thick, with that slight tang you’d started noticing lately.

Your lashes fluttered, heart pounding as you stayed there, taking it all—tasting him, claiming him.

You closed your eyes for a second, letting your breath fan against his sensitive skin, before pulling off him slowly with a soft, wet pop. His chest rose and fell hard, like he’d just sprinted a marathon in your name.

Still catching his breath, He lookwd down at you, flushed. “is it… better?” he asked, a little hopeful, a little shy, like he’d just asked for validation on a science fair project.

You blinked up at him and raised a brow. “Mhm. It felt good, baby.”

“I’m glad,” he murmured, voice still thick with pleasure. But then, not too long.. “That’s all?”

You tilted your head. “What do you mean, Ken?”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting away. “Well… I... read this article—it says if you eat pineapples regularly, it… um… makes your... release taste sweeter.”

You stared at him.

He cleared his throat. “So I’ve been… keeping track. Just curious if there's some change..”

You blinked again.

Then laughed. Loudly. Almost doubled over, laughing into his thigh.

“Oh, Ken.” you said through your grin, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye. “You’ve been training for that? You do know you don’t have to, right? Your cum already tastes good.”

He flushed. Actually flushed. “I just thought... maybe it’d be even better.”

“You’re ridiculous.” you giggled, crawling up his body and pressing kisses to his jaw. “And weird. But… weird in a sweet, earnest, completely MY boyfriend way.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

“You should. I love you.”

“I love you more.”

Later that night, you found him watching a video titled “5 Signs Your Boyfriend Hates You”, his face set with that same intense seriousness. He nodded along, mentally ticking off the signs to make sure he wasn't doing them with you. You didn't even bother to say anything. You just grabbed his collar and kissed him, harder.

a/n: it doesn't make ur cum taste sweet btw 🥀 ALSO I'm writing some long ass shit plz WAIT 💔

© [ adorekento ] do not steal, repost, or translate my work.

[maskedbyghost]

Hear me out, possessive reader plays a prank, or maybe to see how it would work out and starts acting wayyy less possessive, to the point of being a normal partner..

I NEED SI REACTION

Anon, I love your fucking mind. I had the best time writing this, literally giggling and kicking my feet while imagining Simon spiraling because his crazy girl went "normal mode" on him and he couldn’t handle it for even a second. BASED ON THIS IDEA

You barely looked at him when the waitress called him handsome.

You just smiled to yourself and kept sipping your drink, didn’t glare at her, didn’t grab his hand and lace your fingers through his, didn’t scoot closer in your seat or wrap your arms around him like you used to, and Simon sat there blinking at you like he’d just been slapped across the face.

And then when you walked past a group of girls at the grocery store and one of them giggled and said something about his arms, you didn’t even flinch, didn’t even frown, didn’t even murmur something low and territorial under your breath the way you always did, and Simon actually almost tripped over the cart trying to get a reaction out of you, heart hammering so hard.

You used to get pissed if he so much as looked at another woman too long, used to give him that smug little smirk when you caught someone staring at him, used to lean into him and press your mouth to his ear and mutter "mine" so dark and low that it left him shivering for hours, and now? Now you were just... chill.

Way too chill.

He caught himself thinking insane things like maybe you were losing interest, maybe you were getting ready to leave, maybe you finally realized he wasn’t enough for you, maybe you were pulling away slow and silent to make it easier when you walked out for good, and by the time you got home, Simon’s brain was working overtime, replaying every interaction, every glance, every smile you had given that wasn’t just for him, every time you hadn't touched him when you should have.

You didn’t steal his hoodie when he tossed it on the couch.

You didn’t scroll through his phone and make snarky comments about the girls who liked his photos.

You didn’t pull into his lap when he sat down to watch TV.

You didn’t tell him to shower because he "smelled like other people," which he always secretly loved, even though he rolled his eyes and grumbled about it every time.

You just... existed next to him.

Detached.

Simon sat there on the couch while you scrolled on your phone, completely casual, legs tucked under you, not touching him at all, and he was spiraling so badly he almost convinced himself he could physically see the relationship disintegrating in real time, piece by miserable piece.

He thought about asking if you still loved him.

He thought about proposing on the spot just to lock you down before you could change your mind.

He thought about texting Johnny and asking him if it was normal to feel like your entire world was slipping out from under you because your girlfriend wasn’t being a possessive lunatic for five seconds.

Finally, when you stood up and stretched and said, "I'm gonna head to bed" without even glancing at him, without even saying goodnight or trying to drag him with you, Simon couldn’t take it anymore.

He launched off the couch and followed you, heart pounding like he was about to get left behind at the airport or something, stomach twisted into a knot.

You climbed into bed and flipped onto your side, facing away from him like it was nothing, like you hadn’t spent months curling around him like a vine the second he lay down.

He just stood there at the foot of the bed, breathing way too hard for a normal human being, feeling an honest-to-God panic attack brewing in his chest.

"Love," he said, his voice way shakier than he wanted it to be.

You didn’t even roll over. "Hmm?"

He swallowed hard, hands fisting at his sides. "You don’t want me anymore."

You snorted. Actually snorted. "What are you talking about?"

Simon clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. "You—you’re not even—you didn’t get mad when that girl flirted with me. You didn’t steal my hoodie. You didn’t call me yours even once. You’re acting like we’re—" his voice cracked and he cursed under his breath, "—like we’re normal."

You turned slowly, propping yourself up on your elbow, and the look you gave him was so infuriatingly calm he almost burst into tears on the spot.

"You mean," you said, so evenly it made his eye twitch, "like a normal girlfriend who trusts her boyfriend?"

He stared at you, chest heaving, entire body screaming at him that something was wrong.

"You’re gonna leave me," he said, absolutely sure of it, absolutely certain this was the beginning of the end.

You blinked at him for a second, like you were trying very hard not to laugh in his stupid, panicking face, and then you moved so fast he barely had time to react—you were grabbing him by the front of his shirt, hauling him down onto the bed, straddling his hips, and pinning him there with your thighs as your hands locked around his neck, firm but not tight, just enough to make him shut up and listen.

"Listen to me, you stupid, beautiful man," you said, voice low and furious in that way that made every nerve in his body light up, "you need me just as much as I need you. You belong to me. You hear me? You are fucking mine. I’m not going anywhere; I’m never fucking leaving you. I don't want normal; I want you wrapped around my fucking finger where you belong. Don’t ever doubt that again."

You leaned in closer, your nose brushing his, your hands still gripping his neck just enough to keep him pinned under you, and you added, your voice dropping even lower, smug and wicked, "And maybe I wanted you to lose your fucking mind for a bit. Wanted you to see how much you love it when I’m unhinged about you."

Simon just exhaled like he’d been punched in the stomach and kissed at the same time, his whole body sagging against the bed.

He groaned, almost whining, burying his face against your chest with a muffled, desperate, "Fuckin’ hell, don’t ever do that to me again, you psycho."

But his arms were wrapping around you like steel, holding you so tight, and when you laughed and tugged his hair gently, he actually sighed in relief, like his whole world had finally clicked back into place.

"You’re crazy," he muttered again, not even trying to sound annoyed, his voice almost grateful.

"You love it," you said against his hair, grinning wide enough your cheeks hurt.

"Yeah," he breathed, voice raw and low and real, "yeah, I fuckin’ do. I need you crazy. Need you to ruin me a little. Keep me yours."

You kissed the side of his head, smug and sweet and savage all at once, and Simon just kept breathing you in, letting that awful gnawing terror bleed out of him one slow second at a time until there was nothing left but you, your hands, your voice, your body wrapped around him like armor, pulling him deeper, anchoring him exactly where he belonged.

And he was fine, better than fine actually, and exactly where he needed to be.

-----------------------------------------------

i can't even explain how much i love this idea...

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6

[orphicmeliora]

LETTERS UNSENT

SUMMARY: You have shared too much with Caleb— your childhood in middle school, your restless teenage years in high school, and the sleepless nights that came with training at the DAA. Through every phase of your life, you’ve loved him. Quietly. Desperately. While he loved someone else.

So you learned to endure it.

You swallowed your feelings and tucked them away in secret letters never meant to be read—letters inked with heartbreak, feverish longing, and fantasies too raw to speak aloud. From crooked handwriting to elegant script, each page was a confession of the love you hated to carry, the ache you never outgrew. And when Caleb vanished from your life after graduation without a word, you buried those letters in a box, and the box deep within yourself.

Years later, fate intervenes.

Caleb returns—broader, bolder, devastatingly handsome. And strangely focused on you. His touches linger too long, his eyes see too much, and his smile says he knows exactly what you’ve been hiding. He looks at you like you’re the one he’s been waiting for—and you can’t tell if it terrifies you or tempts you more.

You try to pull away. You’ve spent too many years surviving without him to fall now.

But Caleb doesn’t let go.

Because now that he’s seen the truth—every broken sentence, every filthy fantasy, every whispered ‘I love you’ you never dared say out loud—he’s not just here to catch up.

He’s here to chase you down.

And he won’t stop until you’re his.

WORD COUNT: 9.1k

NOTES: Takes place after the Main story supposedly ends. This happens far in the future. Caleb is older here, 28–29 maybe. Reader is NOT mc, keep that in mind. In this scenario mc is with another LI.

You used to love love.

Not just the idea of it—but the ache of it. The promise of it. The giddy, schoolgirl butterflies and the midnight hopes whispered into your pillow. Love was the secret language of your world, threaded through songs you hummed under your breath, the romance novels dog-eared to your favorite passages, the ink-stained pages of letters never sent.

You believed in love the way children believe in magic.

But you grew up.

And love? It grew fangs.

Now, you love to hate it.

You hate how it made a fool of you. How it made you wait and yearn and burn in silence, hoping he’d look your way and see you. Not as a friend, not as a childhood companion, but as someone worth reaching for. Worth choosing. But he didn’t. He never did. Caleb’s heart was always spoken for.

So you buried your own.

You’ve become good at pretending. You laugh at romance now, scoff at declarations, dismiss affection with a curl of your lip and a joke that lands just bitter enough to be believable. You’re not heartless—you’re just tired. Of hoping. Of hurting. Of wanting things that were never yours to begin with.

You fill your time with things that don’t require soft emotions. You keep your hands busy and your mind busier. You hum lullabies to yourself when the silence grows too sharp. You sleep with the light on sometimes—not out of fear, but because the darkness reminds you too much of waiting for someone who never came back.

And still…

Despite it all…

Sometimes, on quiet nights when your guard slips, you wonder what it would be like to be loved out loud.

To be wanted so much it’s terrifying. To be chosen first.

You don’t dare admit it aloud. You barely let yourself think it.

Because if love ever finds you again…

You’re not sure if you’ll run away from it—

Or straight into its arms.

You hear his voice before you see him.

Low. Smooth. A little deeper than you remember. It cuts through the background noise like gravity pulling everything toward it—pulling you toward it. You freeze mid-step, your spine going taut like a wire drawn too tight. You know that voice. You’ve heard it in dreams. In memories. In the echo of unsent letters you’ll never admit you still read.

You turn slowly.

And there he is.

Caleb.

Older. Sharper. Beautiful in a way that feels almost unfair. His body is broader now, sculpted with strength and silent discipline. His jaw is dusted with scruff. His posture, relaxed but alert. And those eyes—still storm-silver and searing, but steadier somehow. Knowing.

He sees you.

Really sees you.

And for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you standing there like a collision waiting to happen.

A beat passes.

“...It’s been a while,” he says, and God—he smiles.

That same crooked, devastating smile that used to undo you in a single heartbeat. But there’s something different now. Less boyish charm, more… reverence. Like he’s looking at a relic he thought lost forever and can’t quite believe is real.

You swallow, throat tight. “Yeah. A while.”

There’s so much you could say. So much you want to say. About the years. The distance. The versions of yourself that broke and rebuilt in his absence. But your mouth is dry and your thoughts scatter like startled birds.

Caleb steps forward—close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint scent of metal and pine and something unmistakably him.

He looks you up and down slowly, like he’s taking inventory of everything time tried to steal.

“You look…” His gaze softens. “You look like trouble.”

You scoff—too sharp, too fast, your defense mechanisms kicking in like old habits. “And you still talk like you’re trying to land a date in a bar.”

His grin flashes wider. “Would it work if I was?”

God, he’s flirting.

Like you weren’t just background noise to him once. Like you didn’t spend years trying to scrape his ghost off your ribs.

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you here, Caleb?”

He leans in, the air between you charged, crackling. His voice drops—lower, rougher.

“Because I missed you.”

You blink. That wasn’t the answer you expected. Not from him. Not with that look in his eyes—part hungry, part haunted, all real.

And just like that, the careful walls you’ve built start to shake.

You hear the door creak open behind you before the sound of his footsteps catches up.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Caleb says, his voice deeper, richer than you remember. “You look... different.”

You don’t turn around immediately. The skyline looks safer than his face.

“Yeah, well. Years pass. People change.”

“Some people stay exactly the same,” he murmurs. “You still lean to the left when you’re uncomfortable.”

You whip around, heart doing a traitorous little jump when your gaze lands on him.

God. He’s unfair. Broader shoulders, sharper jaw, that golden tan that makes his white shirt look criminally good on him. His smile has mellowed into something more potent—less boyish charm, more devastating man.

You cross your arms. “You’re observant now. That’s new.”

He chuckles. “I’ve always been observant. You were just too busy avoiding my eyes to notice.”

Touché.

He walks closer—too close—and you catch a whiff of his cologne, spicy and dark, like danger disguised as comfort. His gaze drops to your lips for half a second too long before returning to your eyes with a glint that spells trouble.

“How long has it been?” he asks softly.

“Since you ditched our entire friend group without a word? Or since I gave up hoping for a message you never sent?”

His jaw tenses. “I deserved that.”

“You did.”

There’s a beat of silence between you, thick with all the things you’re too proud to say and all the things he suddenly looks desperate to.

You retreat into the safety of the couch, motioning for him to sit across—but no, of course not. Caleb drops beside you, hip pressed against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“What about Emcee?” you ask, biting the inside of your cheek. “You two live happily ever after or what?”

His brow furrows. “Emcee? God, no. That was over before it ever started.”

Your heart skips. “Oh.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not.” Lie. “Just surprised.”

“Good,” he says, leaning in, his voice a husky whisper. “Because I didn’t come here to talk about her. I came here for you.”

Your breath catches. You laugh, shaky and forced. “Wow, Caleb. You’ve upgraded your flirting. What happened to your legendary cheesy pickup lines?”

He grins. “I could still use one, if you’re nostalgic. But I figured you’ve grown out of tolerating my bullshit.”

“Smart of you.”

And yet, the way his knee brushes yours every few seconds isn’t helping. Neither is the way his hand hovers just a little too close to your thigh when he reaches for his coffee.

You’re not sure what’s worse—that he’s this charming now, or that it’s working.

Later that night, after he leaves with a promise to “see you soon” and a gaze that lingers like heat, you retreat into your sanctuary.

Your room. Your old dresser. The box tucked under the drawer like a dirty little secret.

The letters.

Every one of them stained with years of aching want and unspeakable need. A catalogue of your descent into hopeless longing, from childish hope to fevered fantasy. The kind of thing no one should ever read.

Especially not Caleb.

But fate, of course, doesn’t care what you want.

The first time he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, it's under the guise of helping you with groceries.

“I’m perfectly capable,” you snap, snatching the bag from his hands.

Caleb just laughs, leaning in. “I know. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to help.”

His knuckles graze yours. You pretend not to notice. He pretends not to notice you pretending. Bastard.

—

The second time, you’re at your favorite café, the one with the uneven chairs and the cinnamon drinks he used to gag over. You’d brought him there as a joke, once. Now he takes you there seriously.

He’s seated too close, his thigh pressed against yours like a quiet claim.

“So,” he says, turning his head toward you. “No boyfriend? Fiancé? Star-crossed lover waiting in the wings?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s a no, then,” he says smugly, sipping his drink.

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “Why are you asking?”

“Just making sure I’m not stepping on any toes,” he murmurs, then adds, “when I kiss you.”

Your heart slams into your ribs. You scoff, rolling your eyes so hard they might get stuck. “You’re not kissing me.”

“Not today, maybe,” he says easily. “But eventually.”

You hate how warm your cheeks get. You hate him a little more for noticing.

—

The third time is worse.

You’ve both had a bit too much wine. Not drunk, but soft around the edges. He’s on your couch, lounging like he belongs there, like the time between now and then never happened.

He watches you over the rim of his glass. “Why do you keep flinching when I touch you?”

“I don’t flinch.”

“You do. Like you’re scared I’m not real.”

You take a sip of your wine and stare straight ahead. “I’m just trying to figure out what you want.”

His voice goes quiet. “You.”

The word hits you like a punch.

“You wanted Emcee for years.”

“I was stupid for years.”

You meet his eyes. They’re clearer than they’ve ever been—focused, almost painfully sincere.

“That’s convenient,” you say coldly.

He sets his glass down, leans in. “No. It’s fate finally letting me try again.”

His hand reaches up, brushes your cheek with maddening tenderness. He’s so close you can feel the heat of his breath.

You freeze. The ache in your chest roars to life again. This is everything you ever wanted—but you don’t trust it. Not yet.

You turn your head. Just barely.

Caleb’s jaw clenches, his hand falling away.

He sits back without a word.

—

The fourth time, it’s raining.

He brings you a coffee, his hair damp, his hoodie soaked at the shoulders.

“You didn’t have to walk in this weather,” you mutter, taking the drink anyway.

“I wanted to.” His smile is lazy, but his eyes are sharp. “You’re still not letting me in.”

“Would you trust someone who vanished for years without a word?”

His smile falters. Then, to your surprise, he nods. “I wouldn’t. But I’d want them to fight for the chance to be trusted again.”

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a familiar-looking charm—a bent paper star you made him in high school.

“I didn’t forget you,” he says, voice low. “I tried to.”

That might be the worst thing he’s ever said. Because it means he felt something. Because it means you weren’t the only one suffering in silence.

Because it means he’s telling the truth.

You excuse yourself before your throat gives way to the sobs you refuse to let him see.

He doesn’t follow.

But he waits.

He always waits now.

And that’s more dangerous than any of his old pickup lines.

You agree to go with him to the observatory.

Big mistake.

It’s late, the sky smeared with stars and promises, the air just crisp enough that Caleb offers you his jacket before you can even pretend to be cold.

You don’t take it.

So, naturally, he just drapes it over your shoulders anyway, like you’re his.

“It looks better on you,” he says, voice quiet as your fingers clutch at the sleeves that still smell like him.

“Don’t start,” you murmur, but there’s no real bite to it.

“Start what?” His smirk is all mischief. “Being nice? Can’t help it. You bring it out of me.”

You roll your eyes and turn your gaze to the sky, but he keeps watching you like you’re the constellation he’s been chasing all his life.

“I used to come here when I missed you,” you admit without thinking, and immediately wish you hadn’t.

The silence that follows is so sharp it could cut glass.

“When you missed me?” His voice is different now—serious. Dangerous. “How often did that happen?”

You laugh, tight and brittle. “Only every time I breathed.”

His head tilts slightly, like he’s not sure he heard you right.

Then: “Say that again.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll use it against me.”

He steps closer, slow and purposeful, until your back meets the cold railing. His hands cage you in, one on either side of your body, his expression unreadable but intense.

“Do you really think I’d take something that precious and weaponize it?”

“I don’t know what you’d do anymore.”

“Then let me show you,” he says, and for a terrifying second, you think he’s going to kiss you.

But he doesn’t.

His lips hover just beside your ear, the warmth of his breath teasing your neck.

“I dreamt of you too, you know. Every damn night.”

Your knees nearly buckle, but pride is a stronger drug than longing.

“Then why didn’t you do anything?” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes burning. “Because I was stupid. And I thought you didn’t feel the same.”

You snort. “Well. You were wrong.”

“I know,” he growls. “I know that now. And you’re still keeping me at arm’s length.”

“Damn right I am.”

His smile is tight, hungry. “Fine. You want to make me work for it? I’ll work.”

“I want to be chased, Caleb. Not collected.”

He steps back, hands raised in mock surrender, but his grin is pure trouble.

“Then run, sweetheart. I’ll catch up.”

You hate him for knowing exactly how to undo you.

And maybe you hate yourself more for wanting to be caught.

It’s late. The kind of late where even the shadows seem to sleep.

The old piano room is still your secret solace—dusty, dim, filled with forgotten echoes and dreams you never dared to say out loud. The acoustics are perfect. No one ever comes in here anymore.

Except for one person.

You don't hear him at first. You’re too wrapped up in the song, the way your voice trembles on the high notes, the keys trembling beneath your fingertips. It’s the kind of melody you never intended anyone to hear. Especially not him.

I didn't opt in to be your odd man out

I founded the club she's heard great things about

I left all I knew, you left me at the house by the Heath

Your voice breaks. You close your eyes, breathe, keep going anyway.

I stopped CPR, after all it's no use

The spirit was gone, we would never come to

And I'm pissed off you let me give you all that youth for free

Silence. One, two, three beats of it. Then—

“You always did sound beautiful when you were sad.”

You jump.

Caleb leans against the doorway like he owns the place. Like he owns the air in your lungs. Like he owns you.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he adds, smile lazy, eyes sharp. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

You blink. “You heard that?”

“I always do.”

Of course he did.

You feel your cheeks burn as he strolls in, gaze never leaving yours. “That song… it’s new?”

You clear your throat, try for nonchalance. “Just something I was playing around with.”

He hums. “Right. Totally not about anyone in particular.”

You bristle. “Did I say that?”

“Nope. But you don’t have to. You forget—I know your voice. I know when it’s for fun. And when it’s ripping you open.”

You glance away, fingers tapping nervously on the ivory keys. “You're being dramatic.”

He kneels beside the bench. Just like that, he’s too close again. Always too close.

“You used to do this all the time,” he murmurs. “Sneak away to sing where no one could find you. You didn’t know I followed.”

Your heart stutters. “You never said anything.”

“Why would I ruin it?” His gaze darkens. “Hearing you like that—it was the only time I ever got to feel like you needed something.”

“I didn’t sing those songs for you,” you lie.

Caleb tilts his head, eyes locked on yours. “Then why are your cheeks red?”

You shove away from the piano, muttering, “You're insufferable.”

He follows, not missing a beat. “You’re blushing, songbird.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You stop. He almost slams into you.

You glare up at him. “You think you’re so clever.”

He leans in, smirking. “No. I think I’ve waited too long to be this close to you, and now that I’m here, I’m not backing off.”

The worst part? Your hands are trembling. Your knees are weak. And still, somehow, you want more.

But pride wraps around your tongue like a noose.

“You heard the song,” you say, voice low. “That’s enough.”

His eyes flick down to your lips. Then back up. He’s not smiling anymore.

“No,” Caleb whispers. “It’s not.”

You should have locked the damn drawer.

You don’t even know what made you check—but something prickled at the back of your neck the moment you stepped into your apartment. Like something sacred had been disturbed. And when you see the box in Caleb’s hands, your heart stops cold.

No. No.

His head lifts as the door shuts behind you.

And your world implodes.

He’s seated on your couch like he’s carved from stone, the soft golden lamp beside him casting long shadows across the muscles in his jaw and the heartbreak in his eyes.

He’s holding your soul in his hands.

The letters—dozens of them, hundreds, years of ink and agony and lust and grief—you recognize the crooked childhood handwriting, the shaky, angry teenage confessions, the flowing script of your adult longing. Pages of you. Laid bare.

Your breath catches. Your throat closes.

“I—That’s not—You weren’t supposed to—” Your voice cracks. Your knees are trembling.

Caleb stands, the box still in his grip. He looks wrecked.

“I read every single one,” he says softly.

“Put them away,” you whisper, voice hollow. “Please, just… put them away.”

“I can’t.”

You turn to bolt, pure instinct.

And that’s when gravity betrays you.

A weight presses against your body—not crushing, but firm, immovable, inescapable. His Evol. 

Your hands fly to the walls, to the floor, anywhere to push back, but you’re floating. Held in place. Suspended in the moment you never wanted him to witness.

“Caleb—!”

“I need you to hear me,” he says, moving closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like approaching a wounded animal.

Your back hits the wall.

He stops just inches from you, eyes devouring every inch of your face. His expression is ravenous, pained, like he’s starving and terrified that the meal in front of him will vanish if he breathes too hard.

“I didn’t know,” he says, his voice ragged. “I never knew.”

You shake your head. “You weren’t supposed to.”

His hand lifts. Hovers near your cheek. “I’ve been walking around blind, thinking I lost you back then. But you never stopped… You loved me. You loved me so much it hurt.”

Tears gather hot and fast in your eyes. “Caleb—don’t—”

“And I was in love with you,” he breathes. “All this time I thought I was chasing someone else, but it was you. It was always you.”

You look away. “You didn’t want me. You wanted her. You chose her.”

“I didn’t choose anyone,” he growls. “I was a coward. I ran. I shut you out and let you carry all that alone. I thought I was protecting you.”

“You weren’t,” you whisper. “You were destroying me.”

The look in his eyes breaks something in you.

“I memorized your words,” he says quietly, his forehead leaning gently against yours. “Every line. Every wish. Every desperate, filthy, aching thing you wanted to say. I felt all of it. Like I was there with you, through every goddamn year I missed.”

You tremble, caught in his pull, aching with the need to believe—but terrified to let yourself fall.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you whisper.

“I’m not asking you to,” he murmurs. “Not yet.”

His fingers trail lightly over your waist, your hip, anchoring you. The Gravity around you loosens just enough for your feet to touch the floor again, but you don’t move.

His mouth brushes against your temple.

“I just want to earn you. All of you. Like I should’ve from the start.”

You don’t kiss him.

But you don’t pull away either.

You can’t.

Because suddenly, you're not cold anymore.

You’re burning.

He stays.

Even when you tell him to leave—quietly, then louder, then with trembling fingers pressed to his chest like a warning—Caleb stays.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, not meeting his eyes.

“I should’ve been here years ago,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get it? I’m not leaving again.”

You shove him.

He barely budges.

You shove him again.

This time, his hands catch your wrists mid-motion, fast, firm—calm.

You freeze. His skin is warm against yours, calloused where it should be gentle, familiar where it should feel foreign. Your pulse spikes in your throat.

“Let me go,” you say, breathless.

“No.”

Your breath hitches.

“No?” you echo.

His voice drops. “Not until you stop pretending you don’t want me to stay.”

You glare up at him, furious. “You think a few words and a couple of pretty promises erase everything?”

“No,” he says again. “But I’ll keep proving myself until they do.”

You twist out of his grip—nearly—before he suddenly pulls you in.

And for one terrible, brilliant second, your bodies align like they’ve been waiting for this moment your whole lives.

His eyes search yours.

And then, Caleb whispers, “Tell me to stop.”

You open your mouth.

But nothing comes out.

So he kisses you.

Not a soft, hesitant brush of lips.

It’s a claiming.

It’s all the years you spent alone, writing down your agony like confessions to a God who never answered. It’s every fantasy you denied yourself, every moment you watched him look at someone else and wished it were you. It's him—finally, truly, desperately—here.

Your fingers fist in his shirt like you’re angry, like you’re clinging to something you swore you’d never need again.

And when you break apart, gasping, forehead pressed to his, you say—

“I hate you.”

He smiles, soft and ruined. “I know.”

“I hate how much I wanted that.”

“I hope you did.”

“I’m still not making this easy.”

Caleb’s lips trail down your jaw, his voice a low rasp. “You’ve never made anything easy, sweetheart. That’s why you’re worth everything.”

And still—

Still, your heart trembles with the weight of old wounds, and you pull back just enough to see the truth in his eyes.

“You’ll have to fight for this,” you warn him.

His hand finds the back of your neck, possessive and reverent. “Then prepare to be relentlessly pursued.”

You never agreed to date him.

But apparently, Caleb’s taking “relentless pursuit” as a blood oath.

He shows up at your place the next morning with coffee—your actual order, down to the way you like the foam. He doesn’t say how he remembers. You don’t ask.

That night, he texts you at 2am.

Bastard: Thinking about that song you sang. Thinking about your lips too, but that’s not important (it is).

You throw your phone across the bed.

The next day, he’s waiting outside your building. Leaning against his hoverbike, all long legs and low-lidded eyes and that grin. You think he’s here for some kind of mission.

Nope.

Just here to take you to lunch.

“Don’t say this is a date,” you grumble.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, offering his hand. “But hold on tight anyway.”

You hate how your fingers slide into his like they belong there.

—

Caleb doesn’t just flirt. He weaponizes charm like he trained for it.

He gives you compliments with the kind of intensity that makes it hard to breathe.

“I love your voice. Especially when you don’t realize you’re humming.”

“You roll your eyes the same way you used to when I beat you in training. It’s kind of adorable.”

“You don’t have to pretend around me. I know what you sound like when you're honest. I miss that sound.”

He touches you too often. Hand brushing your lower back when he walks past. Fingers grazing yours when he hands you something. Sitting just a little too close on your couch, his thigh pressed against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You hold strong—for a while.

Until he stays over one night, after watching some late-night sci-fi re-run and falling asleep on your couch like a smug golden retriever with abs.

You try to nudge him awake.

You fail.

Hard.

He catches your wrist in his sleep, pulls you down half-on top of him, murmurs your name like it’s a secret prayer, and buries his face in your neck.

You don’t sleep.

Your body is screaming.

But your heart?

It’s terrified.

—

When morning comes, you wake to him cooking in your kitchen like he belongs there, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair a mess, singing your song under his breath.

You freeze in the doorway.

He sees you.

And smiles.

Like you’re not the one who spent ten years hiding a love that almost broke you. Like he’s not here to crack it wide open.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Caleb says softly. “Stay.”

You almost do.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

You think you're doing a good job keeping him at bay.

You’re not.

Because Caleb is everywhere now.

He’s in your kitchen again, humming off-key as he steals bites from your cooking. He’s draped across your couch like it’s his favorite place in the world. He’s in the way he looks at you like you invented gravity, like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

You keep your walls up.

But he keeps coming.

Like he knows you’re lying every time you act unaffected.

—

One night, after a long mission and even longer silence, he shows up unannounced. Eyes shadowed. Mouth grim. Shoulders tense with something unspoken.

You open the door.

He doesn’t say a word—just walks past you, breath ragged.

You follow him into your living room. “Caleb?”

“I thought I lost you again,” he says, voice low.

Your stomach drops. “What?”

He turns to face you, and it’s like the air shifts. Thickens.

“I heard your name over the comms. Brief moment of static. No confirmation you made it out. Just radio silence.”

You cross your arms. “I made it out fine.”

“I didn’t know that,” he snaps. “And for a second, I thought—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight.

You exhale. “I’m used to people not checking in.”

“I’m not people.”

He stalks closer.

You step back.

He follows.

“I don’t care how many times you push me away. You don’t get to disappear on me.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” you throw back. “Pretend like none of this hurts? Like I didn’t bleed for you in silence for years while you played hero somewhere else?”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Your voice cracks. “Because I can’t let myself fall again, Caleb. Not if you're just gonna walk away when it gets hard.”

He grabs your wrist.

Not rough. Just certain.

“Look at me.”

You don’t.

So he tips your chin up with two fingers.

His eyes are burning.

“I am not going anywhere. I don't care how long it takes. You can scream, you can run, you can tell me you hate me. I’ll still be right here.”

“Why?” you whisper, eyes glossy. “Why now?”

“Because I’ve loved you longer than I even understood what that meant,” he breathes. “And I’m done pretending I don’t want every single part of you.”

His other hand slides to your waist, slow and reverent.

Your breath hitches.

You can feel his heartbeat through your palm. Fast. Desperate.

The heat between you is unbearable.

One tilt of your head and you’d be kissing him again.

You want to.

God, you ache to.

But instead, you whisper, “This changes nothing.”

He leans in, nose brushing yours.

“Wrong,” Caleb whispers, his voice rough with restraint. “It changes everything.”

But he doesn’t kiss you.

Not this time.

He lets you go.

And it’s infuriating—because now you want him even more.

The first thing you notice is the light—soft gold spilling through your curtains, catching on floating dust motes, warming the edges of the sheets tangled around your legs.

The second thing you notice is the heat.

Not the weather. Not the blanket.

Him.

Your breath stills.

Because Caleb’s wrapped around you like he owns you.

Which—he doesn’t.

He shouldn’t.

And yet here you are, cocooned in his arms, his entire body molded to yours like you were sculpted to fit him. Your head is pillowed on his chest, right over the steady, heavy thump of his heart. One of his hands is buried in your hair, fingers gently tangled, the other gripping your waist in a possessive clutch that hasn’t loosened even in sleep.

You remember falling asleep with your back to him.

You do not remember signing up for this full-body cuddle trap.

Then there's his thigh—wedged between your legs like it lives there.

Your cheeks burn.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “Time to get out before you completely lose your mind.”

You try to slip away quietly.

You wiggle.

No movement.

You nudge his hand.

His grip tightens.

You try prying his fingers from your waist. It’s like wrestling a bear. A warm, unfairly smug bear.

You let out a frustrated sigh and attempt to roll away—but the second you shift, Caleb lets out a low, sleepy groan. His body shifts with yours, tightening the hold, his thigh sliding higher. His lips brush your neck, parting slightly—

And then he nibbles.

You whimper.

It betrays you instantly.

That quiet little sound. The one that escapes before you can swallow it.

Caleb hums. The vibrations rumble through his chest, into your cheek.

And then—

“Mm... morning,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and delicious.

You go still.

“Caleb,” you say, your voice a warning.

His lips find your pulse point. “You smell good,” he slurs, still half-asleep, tone thick with something dangerous.

His thigh rocks just slightly forward. Pressure, heat.

You squeak.

His arms tighten like steel bands.

He’s caging you in.

“C-Caleb, get off—this is—this is not appropriate!”

Another sleepy groan. His lips ghost along your jaw. “You’re so warm.”

Your brain short-circuits.

“You’re dreaming,” you say, trying desperately to breathe like a normal person. “This is a dream. You’re dreaming. Let me go.”

He chuckles—chuckles. A deep, lazy sound against your neck. “If I’m dreaming, I’m never waking up.”

Then his hips shift. Just barely.

But enough.

“Caleb!”

His eyes snap open.

You expect guilt.

What you get is heat.

Raw, focused, and dangerous.

He blinks once. Then twice. Then—

His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back. His nose brushes yours.

“I was trying to be good,” Caleb murmurs. “You have no idea how hard it’s been.”

You do, actually.

Because it’s been hell for you, too.

You’re seconds from giving in—completely, helplessly—when you shove at his chest with both hands and scramble out from beneath him.

You’re standing, heart racing, cheeks flushed, breathless.

Caleb just smirks from the bed, messy-haired and golden in the morning light. “What? You gonna pretend you didn’t enjoy that?”

You throw a pillow at his face.

“Out,” you snap.

He catches it effortlessly. “No breakfast first?”

You march to the door.

“Fine, fine. But next time?” He swings his legs over the edge and stands, gaze searing into yours. “You’ll beg me to stay.”

You slam the door in his face.

It doesn’t stop your knees from buckling.

It happens fast.

Too fast for logic. Too fast for the walls you’ve spent years constructing around your traitorous heart.

One moment you’re arguing—again. Another stupid quip from him, another reckless flirtation that turns your blood to fire. You’re trying to hold on to the last shred of distance between you, snapping something half-hearted and defensive—

And then Caleb moves.

He grabs your wrists, spinning you with dizzying ease, and slams them gently but firmly against the wall. Your back hits the cold surface. His body follows.

You gasp.

His eyes meet yours.

They are ravenous.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Caleb says, voice low, feral, shaking with restraint. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t want to devour you.”

Your breath catches.

And then he kisses you.

Hard.

Not sweet. Not tentative.

Possessive.

Like he’s claiming what was always his.

Your body jerks with the force of it, your wrists still caged in his hands above your head. You try to twist free—not to escape, but because it’s too much, all-consuming, desperate.

He doesn’t let you go.

He presses closer instead, chasing your mouth with his own, drinking in every gasp, every shuddering moan you try to swallow.

You break away for air—just for a second—and he follows, mouth trailing your jaw, nipping your throat, sucking a mark into the skin just below your ear.

“Caleb—” you manage, but it comes out a whimper.

His pelvis grinds into yours, deliberate and aching. The friction draws a strangled sound from your throat.

“Oh god—”

“That’s it,” he groans against your skin. “That sound. I’ve imagined it every night. Every. Damn. Night.”

His hands leave your wrists—only to slide down your arms, your sides, until they’re clutching your hips like he might fall apart if he lets go. He lifts you onto the wall, thigh pressing between your legs, grinding again.

Your fingers tangle in his shirt, yanking him closer even as your brain screams to stop this.

But your body?

Your body is already his.

“Tell me to stop,” Caleb breathes, forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving.

You don’t.

You can’t.

There’s no pretending anymore. No wall to hide behind.

Because the truth is—he touches you like a man starved, but worships you like you're divine.

His lips return to yours, slower this time but no less intense, and it feels like every missed moment, every unsent letter, every buried ache is burning through the kiss.

His self-control shatters.

And you let it.

Because there’s no going back now.

There’s a moment—barely a breath—after that kiss.

His forehead rests against yours, both of you panting like you’ve just clawed your way back from the edge of something too big to name.

Then he says your name.

Low.

Like a promise.

And then he moves.

Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, anchoring yourself to the only solid thing in the room—him. He lifts you with maddening ease, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your thigh so tight it borders on bruising. The kiss doesn't break—it deepens. Tongue sliding past your lips, breath and need mixing with no hesitation. He’s not asking anymore. He’s taking.

And you're letting him.

Because you’re tired of pretending you don’t want to be devoured.

He carries you, mouth never leaving yours, and slams the bedroom door shut with his foot. When your back hits the mattress, his body follows—pressing, claiming. His weight is heaven and fire, the grind of his hips against your core already making you tremble.

“You still gonna pretend you don’t want this?” he rasps, voice rough as gravel, dragging his nose along the curve of your throat.

Your only answer is a moan as you arch into him.

His hand slips beneath your shirt. Fingers splayed wide, reverent—like he needs to memorize the shape of you. He palms your breast through your bra, thumb flicking over the peak until you shudder. His mouth finds the skin just above your heart.

“Mine,” he growls, more to himself than you. “Always have been.”

He strips you slowly, deliberately—like he’s savoring every inch of newly exposed skin. His hands roam. His mouth follows. Down your neck, between your breasts, over your stomach, every inch worshipped like he’s repenting for all the years he stayed away.

When his fingers finally slip beneath your waistband, you gasp—your hips jerking up into his touch. He groans.

“So wet,” he mutters. “God, baby... how long have you needed this?”

You can’t speak.

Don’t even try.

Because his fingers know exactly where to press, where to circle, how to push you to the edge with maddening precision. It’s not just hunger—it’s intimacy, like he’s reading the language your body never learned to say out loud.

And when he finally takes you—when his body surges forward and fills you completely—it’s not just a snap of tension.

It’s a detonation.

You cry out, legs wrapped tight around his waist as he drives into you with smooth, powerful thrusts. His pace is brutal in the best way—controlled only by the desperation in his eyes and the grip of your nails digging into his back.

He kisses you through it.

Keeps whispering your name like a prayer he’s never going to stop saying.

And when you break—shattering beneath him, around him—he follows instantly. With a groan that sounds like surrender. Like salvation.

He collapses against you, breathless.

Sweat-slick and trembling.

But he doesn’t move.

Just holds you.

His arms like iron bands.

His face buried in your neck.

“This isn’t over,” he whispers against your skin. “I’m not letting you go now. Not ever.”

And you believe him.

For the first time, you really believe him.

You lost track of how long ago the sun set.

The air is heavy with heat and sweat, your skin slick against the sheets. You’re boneless, trembling, lips swollen from kisses too deep, too desperate. Every nerve is raw. Every breath you take shudders.

And Caleb?

Caleb is still going.

You're on your hands and knees now, your face buried in the pillows, eyes squeezed shut as he thrusts into you from behind—relentless, deep, so deep it feels like he’s touching places inside you no one ever dared.

Your moans have long since turned into wrecked sobs of pleasure, and yet—he doesn’t slow.

He only grips your hips harder, angling you just right, dragging a scream from your throat as he hits that perfect, devastating spot again and again.

“I can’t—Caleb, I can’t—” you cry out, arms shaking, your body trying to collapse beneath the weight of all the overstimulation.

But he’s not hearing you.

Or rather—he hears you, and it only spurs him on.

Your body starts to slip forward across the mattress, desperate to escape the flood of sensation. You try to crawl away on trembling limbs, instincts screaming for reprieve—

And then his hand shoots out, grabs your hips, and yanks you back flush against him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice is dark silk, wrapped around steel. Each word punctuated by a thrust that makes your toes curl.

“I asked you a question, sweetheart.”

You sob into the sheets, too far gone for words.

He leans forward, chest pressed to your back, breath hot against your ear. “You’re not going anywhere.”

His hand slips beneath you, down between your legs, fingers finding your clit with merciless precision.

“Not when you’re this wet. This messy. This mine.”

You scream.

The orgasm crashes through you without warning—your entire body seizing, writhing in his hold as the pleasure tears through you like a storm. You think that has to be the end, that your body can’t possibly handle any more.

But Caleb’s not done.

Not even close.

He stays deep inside, rolling his hips slowly, dragging out every aftershock until you're sobbing from the sensitivity. Your arms give out. You collapse onto your stomach, body limp, broken open from the inside.

And he follows—grinding into you again, pressing deep and staying there, his weight pinning you down, his mouth against your neck.

“I’ve waited too long for this,” he murmurs, voice raw with emotion. “Years. Dreams. Fantasies. You don’t get to run now.”

Your heart stutters.

You’re overwhelmed.

You’re aching.

You’ve never felt more wanted.

And still—his hips move again.

You whimper. “Caleb—please—”

He kisses your shoulder. “One more, baby. Just one more.”

You know he’s lying.

And you let him.

Because the truth is—you’ve always wanted this, too.

Even if it leaves you utterly, completely undone.

You're floating.

Barely conscious, held together by the fragile thread of Caleb’s body wrapped around yours, his breath a soft rhythm against your neck.

Your limbs are jelly. Your thighs ache. Your lips are kiss-bitten and bruised, and your core is so sensitive that every inch of you shivers when he so much as adjusts beside you.

And yet—even now, even after hours—he won’t stop touching.

Not in the same feral, frantic way as before. No. Now it’s worship.

He kisses the curve of your shoulder, the back of your neck, your spine. His fingertips trace lazy, possessive patterns into your hips. He murmurs things—some unintelligible, some far too intimate.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers against your skin.

“I missed you.”

“I’ll never let you go again.”

You’re too tired to reply. Your voice is hoarse from screaming, from moaning his name over and over, but your heart responds like a bell rung too hard. It throbs.

Eventually, he gets up—only to return with a warm towel, water, a fresh shirt. He tends to you with gentle hands, murmuring apologies each time you flinch from how sensitive you are, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your temple, your knuckles.

When he finally slides into the shower with you, your body instinctively leans into his. The water is hot, soothing, washing away the sweat, the stickiness, the evidence of your complete and total unraveling.

But not the ache. Not the possessiveness.

He sits on the tiled bench and pulls you into his lap, your legs straddling him, head tucked under his chin. You’re exhausted, wrecked—and he’s still hard beneath you.

You give him a look that’s half horror, half disbelief.

He smirks, eyes dark and gleaming. “I told you, I’m not finished.”

“Caleb—”

“I owe you,” he says, voice dipping low. “For every year I didn’t touch you. For every time you cried over me in silence. For every word in those letters I should’ve read sooner.”

Your breath hitches.

And then his lips descend again—slow, tender, reverent. As if he’s trying to memorize this version of you, water-slicked and trembling in his arms, yours at last.

Back in bed, you collapse into his chest, body boneless, heart hammering.

And just when you think he’s finally done—

He shifts again.

Rolls you beneath him.

“You’re not going to let me sleep?” you rasp.

His fingers trail down your body, between your thighs, making you jolt.

“No,” he breathes against your ear. “You’re not sleeping until I’ve claimed every inch of you. Until you can’t think of anything but me.”

You should tell him to stop.

You don’t.

Because the truth is: every part of you belongs to him already.

And now?

He’s going to make sure you never forget it.

The morning after feels… dangerous.

Not because you’re in any real peril—but because it’s blissfully quiet, and the man who wrecked you within an inch of your life is humming softly in your kitchen, shirtless, wearing nothing but sweatpants slung far too low on his hips, looking like the devil himself in domestic drag.

You barely make it through the doorway, each step a careful negotiation with gravity and sore muscles. Your thighs ache. Your back aches. Everything aches. But the moment Caleb glances over his shoulder and smirks at your limp?

Oh, you want to punch him.

Or kiss him.

Or both.

“You’re up,” he says, voice as smug as the day is long.

“I tried to stay asleep,” you deadpan. “But someone kept me up all night.”

He chuckles—low and wicked—and sets a mug of coffee on the counter for you.

“Consider it payback.”

You squint at him. “For what?”

His eyes drop to your hips, the curve of your throat, the faint marks blooming on your skin like war medals.

“For every letter you wrote and never gave me.”

Your stomach drops.

The mug clatters slightly when you set it down too fast.

You’d almost forgotten. Almost managed to push aside the mortifying knowledge that he read everything.

And yet, here he is—utterly unbothered, possibly turned on, casually flipping pancakes like he didn’t spend the night wrecking you with the very fantasies you'd penned in lonely bedrooms and late-night heartbreak.

“You read them all,” you say, not quite a question.

He looks at you over his shoulder. “Memorized. Studied. Jer—”

“Do not finish that sentence, Caleb.”

He only grins wider.

You try to be casual, sip your coffee, lean against the wall like you’re not reliving every desperate, depraved word he’s now got locked and loaded in that beautiful head of his. But he’s already watching you too closely. Reading you like one of those letters.

“There's one you missed,” you murmur before you can stop yourself.

He freezes.

Slowly, slowly, he turns. “Where?”

You bite your lip.

“The drawer by my bed. Bottom one.”

He’s gone before you even blink.

The pancakes are burning.

And your heart is pounding.

By the time you stumble after him, he’s already sitting on the bed, letter in hand. It’s the last one. The one you wrote when you thought you’d never see him again. It was raw, feral— filled with longing so thick it could drown you.

He reads it silently. His jaw tightens. His Adam’s apple bobs hard.

When he finishes, he just looks at you.

You’re not sure what you expect.

But you do not expect him to throw the letter down and stand up like that.

“I’m going to ruin you again,” he says, voice low. “And this time, it won’t stop until you beg me to believe you’re mine.”

Your knees buckle.

But he’s already crossing the room.

“Run,” he commands, voice low, raw, as his fingers trace the curve of your jaw. “Run from me.”

You blink, confused for a moment, but then the hunger in his gaze makes your heart stutter. He’s not asking. He’s daring you.

And you’re the last person who can resist a challenge.

So you do.

You turn, heart pounding in your chest, and sprint out of the room, the sound of his footsteps following close behind you like a predator in pursuit.

You think you have a head start, but no. You’ve never seen Caleb move like this. He’s on you in seconds, and just when you think you can escape into the hallway, he catches your wrist, yanking you back, pulling you into his chest with a growl.

“You thought you could outrun me?” he snarls against your ear, his breath hot, his body pressed up against yours like a solid wall.

“Caleb—” you manage to gasp out, but before you can even finish the word, he’s lifting you effortlessly, throwing you onto the nearest surface—the kitchen counter.

You barely have time to brace yourself as he dives in. His hands are everywhere—on your hips, your waist, your thighs, your breasts—and all of it is a blur of sensation that leaves you breathless, exposed, desperate.

He thrusts hard, deep, as if trying to bury himself in you—like he’s trying to carve a piece of himself into your soul.

“No more running,” he growls. “You’re mine now. Forever mine.”

You cry out, body rocking forward with every savage thrust. His grip on you doesn’t falter. His hips slam into you with a force that makes your breath catch in your throat. There’s no gentleness now. No tenderness. Just pure, unrelenting desire.

“Tell me you want me, baby. Tell me you want it as much as I do.”

You can’t form words. You’re too lost, too gone, caught between the pleasure and the pain of it all. But your body tells him everything he needs to know.

His hands slide down to your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, pulling you back to meet him with each thrust.

“Good girl,” he growls, voice thick with satisfaction. “So fucking good for me.”

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. He’s relentless. He’s savage. He’s ruining you in the best way possible.

And you don’t even want him to stop.

But then, like a switch flipping in his mind, he pulls away—just enough to let you breathe, to let you feel the cool air between you.

You take a shaky breath, your body screaming for release. And then he looks at you, eyes dark, glinting with something feral, something possessive.

“I should have known,” he mutters, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, “you liked being chased.”

His hands slide down, gripping your thighs, pushing you back against the counter until you’re arching helplessly into him, your legs spread wide.

“You always did,” he adds, voice dripping with satisfaction, “even as a kid. Remember all those games of tag?”

You remember.

And you remember how he’d always let you win—just enough—before pulling you back into his arms with that sly smile of his, the one that made your heart race and your stomach flip.

But now?

Now there’s no escape.

Now, his hands are all over you, claiming you again and again. You scream in pleasure, your body trembling under the weight of it all. His thrusts are punishing, but you can’t find it in yourself to care.

“You think I’m done with you?” Caleb mutters, bending over you, his lips brushing your ear as he thrusts deeper, harder. “You’re wrong.”

You can barely comprehend what he’s saying, too caught up in the endless spiral of pleasure and pain, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t need you to understand.

He’s not finished with you. Not by a long shot.

You try to push him away, but he’s too strong, too determined, too hungry. The game has shifted. Now it’s a battle of wills, and you’re not sure you want to win.

With a primal groan, he pulls you back against him, his hands digging into your waist, his mouth trailing hot kisses down your neck as he takes you again—slamming into you with an unholy force that leaves you gasping for air.

You don’t stand a chance.

You think you can catch your breath. You think you can stop. But Caleb’s dark eyes—burning, unwavering—look down at you, and you know, with every fiber of your being, that there’s no going back. Not now. Not ever.

You try to squirm, to move away, but every time you think you can escape, his hands are there—pinning you down, forcing you to stay, to take him, to let him claim you in ways no one else can. The harder you struggle, the more determined he becomes.

“You’re not getting away from me,” he growls in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “I’m going to break you down until all you know is me. Until your body belongs to me. Forever.”

You can’t think. You can’t breathe. All you can feel is him—every inch of him buried inside you, his hips driving into you with an unforgiving rhythm. Your legs tremble, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your body completely surrendered to him.

He’s relentless. He moves faster, harder, deeper, and you can’t do anything but cling to him, feel the electricity of every touch, every kiss, every mark he leaves on you. The room is filled with the sound of skin on skin, the sharp inhale of breath, the frantic rush of your heart.

And through it all, Caleb’s eyes never leave you. He watches you as though you’re the only thing that matters—his gaze filled with something fierce, something possessive, something dangerous.

He groans, his voice low and hoarse. “I’ve wanted you like this for so long. All this time, I knew what I was missing. I knew you were mine.”

Your heart skips a beat, the rawness in his voice making your chest tighten. His hands move down to your hips, pulling you against him, forcing you to take him even deeper. You can’t escape, can’t move away from him, no matter how much you want to. The pressure inside you builds—relentless, unbearable.

“Say it,” he demands, his voice like a growl. “Tell me you’re mine.”

You open your mouth, but no words come out. Instead, you let your body speak for you—clinging to him, arching into him, begging for more in every breath you take.

His grip tightens around you. He shifts, changing the angle, and a fresh wave of pleasure crashes over you. You gasp, unable to stop yourself from crying out in ecstasy.

“You can’t hide from me anymore,” he growls. “You’re mine. And I’ll make sure you know it every time.”

And then—just when you think you can’t take anymore—Caleb pulls you into him, his lips capturing yours in a kiss so deep, so desperate, that you can’t help but melt into it. His tongue invades your mouth, and you meet him with equal fervor, your hands grasping at his shoulders, your body pressed tightly against his.

“Tell me you need me,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice low, demanding, and so fucking sexy. “Tell me you want me. That you’re mine.”

You do.

You say it, breathlessly, barely able to hold on.

“Yes, Caleb,” you whisper. “I’m yours.”

His eyes darken even further, a vicious smile curling on his lips. And then, with one final, savage thrust, he brings you to the edge of oblivion—breaking you completely.

You scream his name as the world shatters around you, your body wracked with pleasure, your mind consumed by the sensation of him inside you.

But Caleb isn’t finished. Not yet.

He pulls out, watches you with a wicked grin, and without a second’s hesitation, flips you over, his grip tight on your waist as he positions you again—harder this time, faster, deeper.

“You’ll never escape me,” he murmurs against your neck as he takes you again, the primal, savage rhythm pushing you to the brink.

And the only thing you can do is let go.

Let him consume you. Let him claim you. Let him ruin you completely.

[fleuryns]

PRINCESS TREATMENT ✶ 엔하

𝗔𝗟𝗟𝗢𝗥𝗔 ⨾ 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒, 𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾

❪ 𝑜EUVRES ❫ 愛 𝑙'──엔하이픈 & 𝑓!reader ᵔᴗᵔ fluff scenarios headcanons non-idol au   114O established relationship use of pet names physical intimacy

🎬 . 니니 : enjoy gentlemen enha and have a wonderful weekend! please consider leaving a like and reblogging <33

HEESEUNG has become your personal chaperone ever since you started dating, because he insists on driving you everywhere. he takes you to your appointments and is always there to pick you up afterwards, looking at you like you're crazy when you suggest you could take the bus instead.

HEESEUNG loves to tie your heels for you, every time you wear them and ask him for help he's already sitting down to take your foot on his leg and gently close the little clip, caressing your calf in a swift motion before moving to the other leg, smiling softly to himself.

HEESEUNG takes you shopping anytime, gives you his wallet without a second thought and carries all your bags. if you hand them yourself, he'll quickly accept everything with a smile. but if you don't, he'll frown, gently taking them away. “don't strain your pretty hands with these” he mutters “that's my job”.

JAY works for hours in the kitchen just for you, to cook the things he knows you like. “i made your favorite” he says softly, eyeing your reaction expectantly. he's the happiest when you eat the food he cooked, always fulfilling your requests with a smile, no matter how crazy and difficult they are to make.

JAY is obsessed with and holds your hands at all times, like the true gentleman he is. he occasionally presses his lips softly on the back of your hand or on the inside of your wrist, in a feather-light kiss that leaves a tingling sensation on your skin, making you shiver.

JAY has developed a habit of serenading you at any given moment, and you want to curse whoever introduced him to the guitar. it started kind of as a joke, but now he's very much serious, spending time to carefully select his words and compose the prettiest melody for your ears and your ears only.

JAKE spoils you by buying whatever you want all the time, he allows you to drag him to endless shopping trips and pays for everything with a lovesick grin that shows just how happy he is to get you anything you want. whenever you end up in a store he ends up buying everything you touch without a word.

JAKE would drop anything he is doing if you ever so much call for him. you're his top one priority, because your well-being is also his. he has always his phone on for you, and he always picks up right away. his time is all reserved for his princess, if she wants it.

JAKE just helps you without being asked, sensing what you need like a sixth sense, maybe even before you even realize it. with him by your side, you won't struggle with anything anymore. when you're having trouble with something, he's by your side already and always reassures you with a smile that he's got it.

SUNGHOON carries heavy things for you with a shy insistence, because that's his job and he takes pride in that. he looks up at you when you call him, and he's by your side immediately, rolling his sleeves and getting ready to show off his strength, only for his princess.

SUNGHOON gets you flowers as a gift, no matter the occasion. even just randomly like that, he shows up to your place or to your dates with a fresh colorful bouquet. “pretty flowers for a pretty girl” he announces shyly, handing them to you, his smile growing when you accept them with a happy squeal.

SUNGHOON always finds an excuse to carry you. when it rains a lot and the street is filled with puddles he effortlessly scoops you in his arms silently. when your heels hurt too much he immediately picks you up bridal style despite your protests. “let me help you, baby, im strong enough” he mutters, keeping you close.

SUNOO makes sure to be slightly ahead of you when entering a place, always determined to open the door for you every time. even when you get in a car, he always opens your door first and makes sure you're comfortably seated before closing it and quickly moving to the other side to get in as well.

SUNOO takes your breakfast in bed often, chuckling at your sleepy surprised face even after all these times he's done it. he has all the food arranged neatly on the tray and he just watches you lovingly while you eat. he even occasionally brushes your hair away from your face so it doesn't get in your food.

SUNOO could never get mad at you. the things that usually annoy him when it's other people responsible for the deed, if it's you he doesn't even bat an eye. “it's okay, don't worry about it, angel” he reassures you softly, embracing you in his arms to prove his point.

JUNGWON lets you choose everything you do. he lets you choose the movie you watch, the food you eat, the place you go… he doesn't care that, every time, you end up in the same restaurant or watch the show you like a little too much. he really doesn't care because the smile on your lips could repay anything. 

JUNGWON always pulls the chair for you when you sit down at a cafe or a restaurant, with a simplicity that brings butterflies to your stomach, but his smile hints that the action is very much purposeful. of course, he knows you could do it alone, but the feeling of getting to spoil you like that is unmatched.

JUNGWON makes you feel like royalty just with the right nickname. “my princess~” he muses at the most random moments, hugging you from behind or cupping your cheeks in his hands. the nickname is filled with such devotion that you can't help but melt a little.

RIKI gives you his jacket all the time. it doesn’t matter if he'll be cold, he finds you too cute drowning in his big jacket anyway. but he pretends like it's not a big deal, shrugging while putting his hands in his pockets to mask the fact that he's completely head over heels.

RIKI is always ready to make you feel safe, that's what you noticed after you started dating. he reassures you when you're scared, taking his knight in shining armor part very seriously. he pulls you in his arms and holds you there, whispering soft reassurances in your ear until you feel all better again.

RIKI 's eyes never leave your figure, he especially loves looking at you from across the room, just making sure you're comfortable and happy at all times. he hates when you're sad, he never wants you to be. and since big flamboyant acts of service were never his forte, he keeps an eye on you to make up for it.

© 𝖥𝖫𝖤𝖴𝖱𝖸𝖭𝖲 | 2025

[abbotjack]

˚. ྀིྀི୧❤︎୨ ྀིྀི.˚ We know Jack writes letters.

They're the kind Robby can’t read all the way through without stepping outside to gather himself. The kind that cut clean and simple, because Jack doesn’t waste words—he means them.

So when he falls in love, of course he writes.

He works nights. You work days. It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal—just a few missed dinners, a couple uneven weekends. But two years in, it’s become a rhythm neither of you like but both of you have learned how to survive. You brush your teeth while he’s lacing up his boots. He lets the microwave run too long reheating the dinner you left him. The sheets are always warm, but it’s rare you’re both in them at the same time.

You see him in fragments.

A half-empty beer left by the sink. His stethoscope on the kitchen chair. The smell of soap and hospital antiseptic lingering in the bathroom when you step out of the shower. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you catch him in the doorway before you head out and he gets home—eyes heavy, jaw dark with stubble, scrubs wrinkled. He kisses your forehead like he’s apologizing for the hours he missed.

But then there are the letters.

Tucked in the pocket of your coat. Folded into your planner between work notes and receipts. Once, wedged between the pages of the book you keep meaning to finish, like he knew you’d open it eventually.

They’re never long—just a paragraph or two, scribbled on the back of supply sheets or crumpled chart printouts, whatever scrap he could grab between calls. The handwriting is always the same: rushed, uneven, slanted like he was writing too fast to second-guess himself. He never rewrites them. Never polishes a word. And at the bottom, always that quiet little “—J,” like he’s hesitant to leave too much of himself behind.

“Didn’t sleep today. Kept thinking about the way you were breathing last night, arm over your face like you were shielding yourself from something. I should’ve held you. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“No letter tonight. Just wanted to leave a note saying I need to be near you. Wake me when you get in. Please.”

“You said something in the mirror yesterday—something about looking tired. I didn’t say anything then, but: You are beautiful. Even when you forget. Especially then.”

“There’s a receipt in your car from our favorite place. You went without me. I’m not mad. Just—next time, bring back fries. Or lie better.”

“You leave your rings on the counter and every time I see them, I think, ‘she came home.’ I don’t think you know how much that matters to me.”

“The plant you named after me is dying. Water it. Or don’t. I get it. But if it survives, I’ll take it as a sign you still love me.”

“You left the light on. Again. Which should annoy me. It doesn’t. The apartment feels like you were just here. Sometimes that’s all I need.”

“Tried to be quiet when I left. Still knocked over the shampoo bottle. Sorry. You flinched but didn’t wake up. I whispered goodbye anyway. It felt wrong not to.”

“You made the grocery list and wrote ‘Jack’s weird yogurt’ like I don’t have a brand. You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

"Tonight was rough. Lost one. Didn’t want to bring it home with me, but I needed to tell you I love you anyway."

“You were talking in your sleep again. Said something about stealing a goat. If I come home and there’s a goat in the yard, I’m not asking questions. I’ll just name it.”

“You asked me last night if I’d still love you if I was a worm. I said no. You hit me with a pillow. I’ve revised my answer.”

“You bought four new throw pillows. We now have eleven pillows on a three-seat couch. I have nowhere to sit. I love you anyway.”

“You said you felt off today. Didn’t tell me what that meant. Just curled up under the blanket and didn’t talk much. I stayed quiet too. I just wanted you to know I noticed.”

“You made the bed this morning. I know you were late. You didn’t do it for you. You did it for me. I love you.”

You keep them all. Pressed flat in a shoebox under your bed, like tiny pieces of him that can’t fade with time. Some of them still smell like antiseptic and worn leather and faint traces of his cologne. Sometimes you reread them when the loneliness sneaks in, when the hours between seeing him stretch too long.

And the thing is—he never asks if you read them. He doesn’t bring them up. It’s not about the response. It’s not even about being heard.

It’s about leaving something behind.

A thread. A trace. A heartbeat in your drawer when he can’t be in your bed.

Because Jack Abbot may not say I love you in the hallway or across a crowded kitchen—but he’ll write it. Every damn time.

And he knows you’ll find it when you need it most.

[dearmini]

𐔌 아이엔 .ᐟ ꒱ ─ how to braid a heart.

YANG JEONGIN! ⓘ when you walk in on him learning to braid hair.. for you?

⌣ ﹒ ✿ ﹕ 𝑏f!jeongin ₊ ‎ ‎ 𝑓em!reader ˙ . ꒷ g. fluff ! 4300wc. ⎯⎯ ᒪIᗷᖇᗩᖇY ⟢ cw. pure love, intimacy, cursing, unfunny jokes, bickering, rain (again). ┆ ☆ ⋮ drabble .ᐟ

𝑦𝑎𝑛𝑖'𝑠 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑙 𓈒 𓈒 ⭑ and back again with another mini drabble! I'M SORRY IT KEEPS GETTING LONG. I CAN'T HELP IT. I SWEAR I TRIED MY BEST OKAY. happy reading!

it starts on a rainy afternoon.

the sky’s an overcast blur, cottony grey and soft like the hush of a lullaby. outside the window, the rain’s been drizzling for hours—persistent, gentle. the kind that makes people want to curl into themselves and disappear under a hoodie. the kind that fills a boy’s bedroom with the scent of petrichor and lazy light and something warm, something waiting.

inside, the air is thick with the hum of effort and youtube hair tutorials.

yang jeongin is frowning.

deeply. intensely. so much that the tiny crease between his brows could write a thesis on how absolutely ridiculous this is.

his long legs are folded awkwardly on his bed, laptop perched dangerously on a too-fluffy pillow, volume turned down low like he’s committing a crime. on-screen, a chipper woman with shiny nails is explaining, once again, how to start a simple three-strand braid. he doesn’t know what “detangle thoroughly” is supposed to mean when the practice mannequin he bought off some shady online store came tangled, like the thing had beef with him in a past life.

jeongin sighs. sharp and dramatic. like a man defeated by plastic hair.

"why am i doing this," he mutters, though it's the twentieth time he’s said it and the answer never changes.

his fingers, ringed and slender, hover in the air like he’s diffusing a bomb. he’s watched four videos already—two american vloggers, one british lady, and a girl named chloe who made it look suspiciously easy. they all say the same thing: divide the hair, cross one over the other, repeat.

but his fingers? his fingers are traitors. they fumble. they hesitate. they grip too hard, twist the strands weirdly, somehow create a knot so intense it feels personal.

"great," he deadpans, staring down at the mess he’s made. “it looks like i braided a broomstick with anxiety.”

still, he doesn’t stop.

not even when his phone buzzes with a message from seungmin in their group chat.

[minimin]: iyennie what are you doing you’re too quiet [maknaeontop]: cry-typing bc love makes me stupid [minimin]: ew [minimin]: oh wait are you actually

he locks his phone without replying, because yes, he is actually. and he’s not ready to be bullied about it.

he exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. model face, they always say. sharp jawline, perfect skin, annoyingly symmetrical.

and yet here he is—sitting cross-legged in neon pyjama pants with strawberries on them, practicing braiding on a fake head like he’s training for the olympics of soft boyfriend behaviour.

he looks back at the wig head. it sits on his desk, propped up like a little goblin staring into his soul. its blank eyes challenge him.

“don’t look at me like that,” jeongin says flatly. “you’re the one who’s not cooperating.”

but the thing is—he’s serious about this.

it started two weeks ago, the first time you’d complained that your hair was being "super annoying" and you just wanted to 'chop it all off and live like a boy in the 2000s.'

you’d said it in passing, curling up against him on the couch, head tilted, the glow of the tv painting shadows across your cheek.

and he’d looked at you then. really looked.

the pout on your lips. the strands falling over your eyes. the quiet frustration under your breath as your fingers tugged a bit too roughly at a knot.

something about it stuck.

that night, after you’d fallen asleep, soft breathing tangled in his hoodie, the loverboy here had stared at the ceiling and thought.. 'i wish i could help. i wish i could do that for her.'

and that was that.

now he’s five videos deep, wrist aching, knees numb from sitting weird. his fingers are shaking, not from exhaustion, but from how hard he’s trying. his tongue sticks out in concentration—just a little, just the tiniest sliver of pink against the sharp lines of his mouth. adorable and determined.

outside, thunder rolls lazily. the window fogs up from the warmth of the room. he smells the faint citrus of his candle—the one you picked out, teasing him for liking “bougie scents” before sneakily smelling it three more times. the one he keeps lit when he misses you. which is often.

the mannequin head tilts slightly as he tugs on a finished braid. it’s not perfect. it’s kinda uneven. a few strands are sticking out. but—it's a braid.

his first real one.

he stares at it for a moment, expression unreadable, then lets out a quiet laugh under his breath. the kind that almost doesn't make a sound. just breath, and pride, and affection leaking out through the cracks in his self-deprecating walls.

“y/n,” he mumbles to himself, “you better bawl when i do this on you.”

a beat. he stares down at the wig, smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“…or at least pretend to be impressed. i’m emotionally fragile.”

and with that, he hits play on the next video. french braids this time. no one said love was easy. but jeongin's always been the type to take his time with the things that matter.

and you?

you matter most of all.

. . .

the braid unravels the second he blinks.

one second, he’s staring at it—fingers suspended mid-air like he’s diffusing a bomb, heart beating with the gentle anticipation of accomplishment—and the next, the strands slip like water through his hands.

and the softest little “nooo…” escapes him.

it’s quiet. gentle. like a child watching their sandcastle wash away.

jeongin sighs, slow and guttural, tilting his head back until it thumps softly against his headboard. the rain outside has softened to a drizzle, the kind that clings to windows like a lullaby. the sky is still grey, but there’s a warmth in his room now—a lemony-citrus kind of haze, mixing with the cotton scent of fabric softener from the blanket twisted around his legs. a comfort cocoon. a secret mission cave. the jeongin love lab™ (unofficial name. do not repeat this to anyone).

he’s surrounded by crime scene evidence: a bobby pin clamped between his teeth, a broken hair tie hanging from his wrist, a video paused on the screen of some lady who braided her own hair in twenty seconds. with french flair. while smiling.

jeongin narrows his eyes at her like she owes him money.

"she's mocking me,” he says under his breath, chewing dramatically on the bobby pin.

his phone buzzes again.

[minimin]: are u ok [sooniedoongiedori]: is the kid crying over love again [hyuniret]: what happened to my baby [maknaeontop]: get out [hyuniret]: not until you tell mama what’s wrong [hyuniret]: i’ll bake you cookies [hyuniret]: i’ll kiss your cheeks

jeongin’s nose scrunches, but his heart does that annoying soft thing. the warm thing. the “ugh i guess i like you idiots” thing.

he hesitates only a second before tapping hyunjin’s name. video call.

it rings once.

twice.

and then—

hyunjin answers dramatically. black buzzcut adorned with a pink headband, face glistening from what looks like a very intense skincare routine, lips pursed like a mum who’s just been told her son failed math.

“iyennie!” he gasps, clutching his chest. “you look pale. did someone break your heart? was it seungmin? i’ll kill him.”

“i’m literally fine,” jeongin deadpans, leaning back against the pillow mountain behind him. “this is not a therapy session.”

hyunjin gasps again, but more offended this time. “how dare. first of all, every call with me is a healing experience. second of all—what’s that behind you?”

jeongin freezes.

too slow.

too suspicious.

hyunjin leans in on the screen like a hawk. “is that a… wig head? is that… blonde hair? are you—are you braiding something?!”

silence.

jeongin stares blankly at the screen. “this call is over.”

“nope—nope—not a chance—explain yourself,” hyunjin screeches, kicking something off-screen and nearly knocking over his phone in the process. “wait—is it for y/n? you’re learning to braid for her aren’t you—”

“keep your voice down!” jeongin hisses, darting to shut his bedroom door like a teenager caught sneaking out. “what if she hears you? she’s not even home yet but still—what if the walls are thin or something.”

“my precious soft romantic noodle.”

“don’t.”

“my little handsy craftsman—”

“i will hang up, hyung.”

“so you are braiding! oh my god. you’re literally adorable. i knew you loved her but this is like—baking-level devotion. you're spending too much time with the main loverboy. aka me.”

jeongin mutters something unintelligible and grabs the mannequin again. its plastic eyes haunt him. “i’m just trying to get it right. my fingers keep slipping and she has this one little piece that always falls loose—she tucks it behind her ear, like—like this.”

he mimics it, almost absentmindedly. his eyes soften.

hyunjin notices, and for once, doesn’t interrupt.

there’s something about watching jeongin like this. all his sharp little edges dulled into domestic softness. not performing, not teasing, not being the chaotic maknae or the class clown or the guy who always says something sarcastic when things get too sincere.

he’s just… quiet. and trying.

and that’s the most vulnerable thing of all.

hyunjin clears his throat, gentler now. “okay, listen. i used to braid my hair all the time before i chopped it off, remember?”

jeongin perks up. “yeah, you were like… weirdly good at it.”

“still am, thank you very much. i even practiced on lixie a few times. he giggled the whole time like i was tickling him with angel wings.”

“of course he did.”

“anyway,” hyunjin continues, flipping his camera to demonstrate on a random knit scarf from his bed. “it’s not about making it perfect. it’s about rhythm. breathe with it. like—left, right, center. it’s a heartbeat, not math.”

jeongin raises an eyebrow. “that’s… kinda poetic.”

“i’m kinda a genius.”

“you’re kinda a nerd.”

“you’re kinda in love.”

he doesn’t deny it.

instead, jeongin copies him—slowly, carefully, the way you reach for something delicate in the dark. one strand over. then another. he’s holding his breath again. his knuckles are tense. but his fingers don’t slip this time.

the braid takes shape like a secret blooming.

“hey,” hyunjin says after a minute, voice quieter, eyes warm through the screen. “she’s gonna love it, you know.”

jeongin looks down at the messy braid in his hands. it’s still a little uneven. a little frayed at the end. but it holds. it stays.

he exhales.

“yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “i think so too.”

hyunjin smiles like he knows something ancient. “text me when she cries.”

“i’m not trying to make her cry.”

“no, no, like in a good way. like happy tears. you’re gonna ruin her standards forever.”

“…that’d be kinda iconic, actually.”

“that’s my boy.”

and for once, jeongin lets himself grin.

just a little. just enough.

the screen dims as the call ends. the room is quiet again—only rain against glass, the soft fizz of his candle, the faint smell of vanilla-laced cotton, the memory of your voice somewhere in the fabric of his hoodie.

the braid rests on the mannequin’s shoulder, gentle and crooked and completely real.

and somewhere in his chest, jeongin feels it.

the heartbeat of it. left, right, center.

you, you, always you.

the front door sighs open with the softest creak.

it’s after 6pm—the kind of dusky grey that makes everything feel like it’s been filtered through nostalgia. your arms are full—bag slipping off your shoulder, scarf unraveling from your neck, a paper coffee cup still lukewarm from earlier. you’re tired, windblown, and ever so slightly damp from the rain, which now smells like petrichor and wet pavement and the faint trace of ozone.

“iyennie?” you call out softly, toeing off your shoes, already craving the warmth of him.

no reply.

you frown a little, peeking into the hallway. there’s no music playing. no clatter of a game controller. no fake scoffing at your outfit or teasing demand for a bite of your snack.

nothing. just quiet. thicker than usual.

the lights are on in his room, though. warm, gold-toned. inviting. like honey melting across the walls.

you pause.

knock lightly. “jeongin?”

still no answer.

and so—curious, maybe a little concerned, you push the door open.

what you find… isn’t something you could’ve imagined in a hundred years.

jeongin—model-faced, sharp-jawed, fashion-manicured chaos incarnate jeongin—is on the floor. legs crossed, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, face scrunched in deep concentration. his tongue pokes out at the corner of his mouth. a wig head with synthetic blonde hair rests in front of him like a bizarre shrine, and his long fingers are tangled awkwardly in the strands.

he doesn’t notice you. not at all. he’s whisper-counting under his breath.

“left, right, center… center, left, wait—fuck—no, that’s not center, wait—why is this so hard?”

he groans. not dramatically. genuinely. like this braid has personally insulted him, his ancestors, and the entire yang bloodline.

you blink.

and then you do the only logical thing in that moment.

you burst out laughing.

jeongin jumps so violently he flings the poor wig head across the carpet. his eyes fly up, wide and accusatory, like you’re the villain in his villain origin story.

“what the fuck— oh my god.”

you’re already wheezing, hand to your chest, leaning against the doorframe. “oh my god. oh my god. you were talking to it. you were braiding a mannequin—iyen-ah, what the hell?”

“i was not—shut up—get out!”

you stumble in further, nearly dropping your coffee. “no way. you can’t erase this from my brain. this is permanent. this is my core memory now.”

jeongin scoffs, snatching the wig like it’s a bomb he’s shielding you from. “why are you even home already? you said six-thirty!”

you blink through your laughter. “it is six-thirty.”

he freezes.

then mutters, “…traitorous clock.”

you drop your bag with a dramatic thud and crawl onto the bed like a predator, face lit up with delight. “oh my god, this is amazing. who were you gonna show? or were you just planning to become a secret braid master and drop it casually in conversation like, ‘oh yeah, i do complicated french braids now, no big deal’?”

“shut up,” he mutters again, cheeks visibly pink.

you hum, sitting cross-legged like royalty, chin in your palm. “so who’s the lucky client, hm?”

jeongin glares. “it’s not for you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

you lift an eyebrow, unbothered. “oh no?”

“no,” he says, entirely too fast. “your dumb hair’s always falling everywhere. like a goddamn waterfall. it’s annoying.”

you press your lips together to hide the grin threatening to split your face. “right. so naturally, your first instinct is to learn an entire skill set to deal with my dumb hair.”

he throws a pillow at you. you catch it easily.

“you’re so—ugh—you’re so full of yourself,” he grumbles, yanking the hoodie sleeves back down and refusing to look at you. “not everything i do is about you.”

you lean back against the headboard, stretching with a content little sigh. “except when it is.”

he groans again, flopping backwards like a teenager in agony. “i hate you.”

you smile, impossibly fond. “no, you don’t.”

he peeks at you from one eye. “no. i really do.”

you stretch your leg out and nudge his thigh with your socked toe. “you were doing so well, too. you almost had it.”

“whatever. i didn’t even care.”

you nod solemnly. “of course. you were just… having a casual braid session with your… headless friend.”

“she has a name,” he says without thinking.

you gasp. “oh my god, you named her—”

he lobs another pillow, this one stronger. “get out.”

but you’re both laughing now—open and loud and soft around the edges, like this room has folded in to make space for something warmer.

your laughter fades into a smile. your eyes meet his, and there’s a lull, a hush, like the rain’s listening too.

“yennie,” you say, softer now, “you’re actually kind of a genius.”

he scoffs, rolling his eyes, but he doesn’t hide the way his lips twitch upward. “took you long enough to realize.”

you crawl closer, curling up beside him, the scent of your shampoo mingling with the faint cinnamon-sugar of his hoodie. your knee brushes his. your fingers reach out, tangle lightly in the edge of the messy braid still clinging to life.

he watches your hand.

you watch him.

and he says, low, quiet: “i just wanted to get it right.”

your heart does something dumb and fluttery. “why?”

he shrugs. doesn’t meet your eyes. “just figured… you let me touch your hair so much. i should at least learn to do something useful with it.”

silence.

heavy. sweet.

you lean in, press your forehead to his shoulder. he stiffens, then melts.

you murmur, “you’re a dumbass.”

“i know.”

“…but like, my favourite one.”

he grins—smug and shy all at once. “i better be.”

and the rain keeps falling.

and the mannequin keeps watching.

and you—two kids tangled up in love, in sarcasm, in shitty synthetic braids and soft secret affections—just stay there, skin against skin, laughter still echoing like thunder trailing behind lightning.

and you think—this must be what it feels like.

true love, in a room full of pillows and mistakes and too many words.

braided gently between your hearts.

. . .

the next morning is gentle in a way only weekend scan be—slow and sticky, syrup-dripped around the corners.

the room smells like jeongin: bergamot and laundry detergent, worn cotton and leftover vanilla candle from last night. he’s sprawled across your shared bed like a prince who owns the morning, blanket kicked halfway off, hoodie riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of tan skin above his waistband.

you’re already awake, curled into your corner of the mattress, pillow hugging your chest.

watching him.

thinking.

the image of him practicing braids on a wig still lives in your brain rent-free. it flickers behind your eyes every time you look at him now. and you can’t stop smiling. can’t stop remembering the way his fingers fumbled through strands like they were secrets. how he muttered to himself like the mannequin had personally offended him. how he told you, with his whole heart and no eye contact, “i just wanted to get it right.”

you’d kissed his cheek before bed.

he hadn’t brought it up again.

but now—

now, as golden light curls through the curtains and your boyfriend begins to stir—grumbling softly, smacking his lips like a grumpy cat—you decide it’s time.

“hey,” you whisper, reaching to nudge his side.

he flinches, groans. “don’t touch me.”

“it’s ten thirty.”

“i’m asleep.”

“you’re talking.”

“sleep talking. stop flirting with me.”

you roll your eyes fondly. “get up, braid-boy.”

he cracks one eye open, all sleepy lashes and morning puff. “say that again and i’m breaking up with you.”

you crawl closer, lips brushing his temple. “get up. braid. my. hair.”

he stares at you for a long, suspicious second.

then sighs, dramatically. “you’re serious?”

you nod.

and now he’s sitting upright—barely—but upright, hoodie sleeve wiping at his puffy face like a child. his voice is rough and low and wholly unimpressed. “fine. but don’t blame me if you end up looking like a scarecrow.”

“i will cry.”

“you always do,” he mutters, standing up and stretching like a sleepy cat. his hoodie lifts again. you stare. you’re only human.

you grab your brush and sit cross-legged on the floor, facing away from him. “you’re going to regret saying yes when i post this on instagram with the caption; ‘my boyfriend is a hairstylist now.’”

from behind you.. “post that and i’m deleting your animal crossing island in your sleep.”

you gasp. “that’s evil.”

he plops down behind you, cross-legged, his knees brushing yours. his fingers skim your shoulder blades as he gathers your hair in his palms.

“you’re evil,” he murmurs, and somehow it sounds loving.

your breath catches.

there’s something about the way his fingers move through your hair—careful, cautious, reverent. jeongin is often clumsy with affection, never sure what to do with the way he feels things. but now? with your head bowed, his hands sifting through strands like wind through grass?

it’s almost reverent.

almost sacred.

“you’re being weirdly gentle,” you mumble.

“shut up. your hair’s delicate. like a baby angel’s.”

you snort. “i’m going to vomit.”

“you asked for this.”

his fingers begin to work—slowly, hesitantly. a tug here. a curse there.

you feel his knuckles brush your scalp, his thumbs press against your crown.

it’s quiet, but not heavy.

your eyes close.

you breathe in: the crisp cotton of his hoodie. the faint smell of coffee from the kitchen. the feel of his breath ghosting the back of your neck.

then:

“ow—jeongin!”

“you moved!”

“i breathed.”

“well, breathe quieter.”

you twist around just enough to glare at him. “you are insufferable.”

he meets your eyes, lips twitching. “and yet, you’re letting me braid your precious princess hair.”

you frown. cross your arms. sulk.

jeongin pauses.

“oh no,” he says flatly. “the pout’s out. god save us.”

you jut your bottom lip farther out.

he groans, head dropping against your shoulder. “you’re going to milk this forever, aren’t you?”

you nod, slowly.

he laughs softly into your shoulder. “god, i’m in love with an actual cartoon character.”

you whisper, teasing, “you love me.”

he breathes, “so much it makes me stupid.”

and he doesn’t say it like a confession. he says it like it’s already been written somewhere in the sky, like it’s just fact. like “the sun rises,” or “your hair always gets stuck to his hoodie,” or “you make him soft without trying.”

you swallow.

your pout melts.

you whisper, “then make it pretty.”

he smiles. “always.”

and he keeps braiding.

the rest is gentle chaos.

he loses a strand. swears. starts over. pulls too tight. apologizes. yells at the hair. tells it to behave. tells your hair to behave.

you nearly cry laughing.

he finishes eventually.

“it’s awful,” he says, smug.

you glance at the mirror. it’s crooked. a little lumpy. possibly about to fall apart.

you beam. “it’s perfect.”

he rolls his eyes. “you’re such a liar.”

you grab his hoodie and yank him toward you. “no. i’m in love.”

he blinks. all that sass melts from his face like butter in sun.

“i—”

you press your forehead to his, breath tangled. “you don’t have to say it back.”

he does, of course.

“but i do. and i'm in love with you, too.”

you’re still turned toward him, knees touching, the scent of his hoodie weaving its way through your senses like thread through needle. the room hums with the afterglow of laughter, the kind that’s still stitched into the corners of your cheeks, still warming the undersides of your ribs.

you giggle—forehead brushing his, your breath ghosting between the spaces where his lashes flutter.

soft.

sacred.

“it is really good,” you whisper, like it’s a secret meant for no one but him. “you should become a hairstylist—”

and suddenly, he moves.

not away.

toward you.

he grabs your wrists with gentle fingers, tugging you forward so fast your balance tips. a startled squeak leaves your lips as you tumble into his chest, all cotton warmth and steady heartbeat, your hands pressed flat against the soft fabric of his hoodie, your nose bumping against his collarbone.

he laughs.

of course he laughs—rich and golden and boyish, like the sound of sunlight finding a windchime. you’re still gathering breath, blinking up at him, when his arms wrap around you—tight but not suffocating, possessive in the softest way. like a secret folded into a sweater. like a kiss that already happened, even before lips met.

“don’t—” you breathe, muffled into his hoodie, “ambush me.”

“you were being cute,” he murmurs, somewhere near your hairline. his voice is velvet and sin. “i couldn’t help it.”

“warn me next time—”

“nope,” he says, smiling into your scalp, “i like this method.”

and then—he pulls back just enough to see your face.

his fingers curl beneath your jaw. his thumb brushes a stray hair behind your ear. your breath hitches—because his eyes, usually full of mockery and sass, are now soft. unsharpened. like dusk settling into the horizon.

“say it again,” he smirks.

you blink. “say what?”

“that it’s good. the braid.”

you roll your eyes, pretending your heart isn’t melting like butter on a stovetop. “you’re really fishing for validation, huh?”

“i braided human hair for the first time. i deserve a grammy.”

“that’s not how that works—”

he silences your teasing with a kiss.

gentle.

melting.

a touch of lips that feels like a promise made without language.

you don’t realize your hands have slid up to his shoulders, your fingers curling into the warm dip where his neck meets hoodie. his skin is soft there. familiar. yours.

the kiss deepens—not in pressure, but in emotion. it stretches long, like honey poured slow. like time forgot to tick forward.

and when he pulls back, it’s only enough to whisper, “thank you.”

you tilt your head. “for what?”

“for letting me touch your hair.”

you blink, thrown off by the sincerity.

his grin is lopsided, his thumb still drawing lazy circles into your skin. “it’s… i don’t know. it feels like… trust.”

you go silent.

because it is.

because he gets it.

and that’s how you know—really know—you’re in love. with him.

you lean forward and rest your forehead against his again, both of you folded in like an origami heart—quiet, intricate, impossible to untangle.

“i love you, you know,” you whisper.

he hums. smirks. presses another kiss to your nose like punctuation. “i know.”

then adds, smug, “you love my braid skills and my face. admit it.”

you groan. “you ruined it.”

he snickers, pulling you closer again, your braid getting smooshed between your shoulders and his hoodie.

“baby.”

“what?”

“you’re stuck with me.”

you grin against his shoulder. “yeah. i know.”

and the world, for one small moment, feels like a soft pillow, a warm hoodie, and the safest arms to ever exist.

𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑒𝑛𝘵 𝘵𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝘵 ୨ৎ @cosmicalily @hyunjiiza @modesttiger @woozarts @katsukis1wife @shotngun @reignessance @peskybirdysya @honeyybbuubblleess @ellemir2404 @4ng3l-ch1ld @urlocalmultigroupfan @its-stayville-forever @ashtxrie @minlixyaoi @shuuporanglinos @bobaluvzz @inlovewithstraykids @yourfavoriteakutagawakinnie @mhluvie @channieschocco @m-325 @my-neurodivergent-world @unbel1ve4ble @cowboylikemalika @jeonginsbaee @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes — fill out this form to be added !!

comments, likes, asks and reblogs are always appreciated !! req. are officially closed till the month of june. thank you for reading, hope you liked it <3 © heartsbyani, dearmini '25 ★

[shy9-29]

❜ THE QUIET BETWEEN US ◟ 양정원

“sunshine x grumpy” - enhypen campus series

✘ Jungwon’s bright smile and sunny disposition make him the perfect foil to your grumpy attitude—until a sudden twist of fate forces you both to face feelings you didn’t know existed. ✉️ wc. 10.2k - pairing 양정원 x f reader (5/7)

🏷️ @kristynaaah @firstclassjaylee @chvconn3 @wonzzziezzzz @sheseung @blvengene @gvtdoll @a3r4-for3ver @sunghoon-cam @luvksnn @aaaaarmiiiiin @blckorchidd @gyulune @zerere @marimariiisblog @pinknjm @bloomiize @flwwon @ziiao @heelovver @hoomin10 @soona-huh @tricky-ritz @starniras @dearestdreamies @tkooooop @xuevkim @deluluscenarios @starboy-library @melodiessvy @steddie-steddie @i-am-not-dal @nct-sticker-127 @elimelbe @wonbinceps @tunafishyfishylike @kitty-won07 @sxie-txt

The campus café buzzed with low chatter, espresso machines hissing, and the occasional clink of cutlery. You stood stiffly by the counter, arms crossed, glaring at your brother like this was the last place on Earth you wanted to be. Which, to be fair, it was.

“This is dumb,” you mumbled. “I didn’t even ask to be introduced to anyone.”

Sunghoon, forever calm and unreadable, simply ignored your protests and nudged your shoulder. “She’s been asking to meet you.”

“Cool,” you deadpanned. “Tell her I said hi.”

But it was too late. A blur of pastel and energy bounded toward you, ponytail bouncing and cheeks flushed. She practically skidded to a stop in front of you, a smoothie in one hand and a cookie in the other.

“Hi! Oh my gosh, you must be Y/N!” she chirped, eyes wide with excitement.

You blinked, then gave Sunghoon the what the hell is this look.

He sighed, giving you a subtle nod. “Y/N, this is my girlfriend.”

She beamed. “Wow. He wasn’t kidding. You really are the same.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Same?”

“Yeah! All moody and mysterious. Like, no offense, but you two look like you walk through thunderstorms for fun,” she said, biting her cookie casually. “It’s kinda cute.”

You stared.

Sunghoon sighed. “I told you not to say that.”

“But it’s true!” she giggled, leaning against Sunghoon like he was her favorite pillow. “You even frown the same way. Look.”

She scrunched her brows, mocking your unimpressed expression. You couldn’t help it—you snorted. Just once. Barely.

She gasped. “Did I just make you laugh? Or was that a cough?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”

But she didn’t seem offended. If anything, her smile grew bigger. “You’re so grumpy. I love it. You’re like a cat someone tried to dress in a tutu.”

Sunghoon let out a breathy chuckle, and you turned to glare at him, betrayed.

“She’s been like this since she got here,” he said to his girlfriend. “Moved from Busan, acts like Seoul’s a crime against humanity.”

“Because it is,” you muttered. “Too many people. Too many couples. Too much sun.”

Sunghoon’s girlfriend was practically vibrating now. “Wait—you’re from Busan? That makes so much sense. You totally have the accent when you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

She grinned knowingly. “Okay.”

You looked away, sipping your drink just to have an excuse not to answer. Sunghoon watched you with that usual quiet amusement, like he was used to your walls but also knew they weren’t as tall as you pretended.

“Anyway,” his girlfriend said, pulling out her phone, “I’m putting you in the group chat. The one with the rest of the girlfriends.”

Your eyes widened. “What? No.”

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow. “You should. Jay’s girlfriend is in it. So is Jake’s.”

“Oh my god, and Jungwon!” she added. “You haven’t met Jungwon yet, right? You’ll love him. He’s sunshine in human form. Literally the opposite of you. You’ll hate him. And then you’ll love him.”

You shook your head. “Please don’t.��

But she was already typing. Sunghoon looked away to hide his smile, and for a moment, you considered throwing your drink at both of them.

And yet, despite yourself… a tiny part of you didn’t hate this as much as you thought you would.

You leaned back in your chair, picking at the sleeve of your hoodie as your brother quietly scrolled through his phone. The late afternoon sun poured through the campus café windows, golden and warm, but you were too busy sulking to care.

“So,” you started, voice flat, “do all of your friends have girlfriends now or what?”

Sunghoon didn’t look up. “Pretty much.”

You scoffed. “What is this? Some campus-wide boyfriend recruitment initiative I missed?”

He side-eyed you. “You sound jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” you snapped. “I’m just… observing. Like you always do.”

He hummed, which was the closest thing to a laugh you’d get out of him. You turned slightly in your seat to catch a glimpse of his girlfriend across the café. She was chatting animatedly with Jay’s girlfriend and giggling about something that involved a lot of hand gestures. You watched her for a second—so bright, so loud, so much.

You wrinkled your nose. “What’s so special about her, anyway? She’s so loud.”

Sunghoon didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he finally looked up from his phone and met your eyes.

“That’s what I thought at first,” he said, voice quieter now, more sincere. “But… I don’t know. She’s different.”

You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Different how?”

“She makes everything feel lighter,” he said simply. “Like I don’t have to say anything and she still gets me. She’s chaos, but somehow it makes everything clearer.”

You blinked, surprised by how genuine he sounded. He wasn’t usually the type to say much about his feelings, let alone this kind of stuff.

You scoffed again, more defensive this time, and took a loud sip of your drink. “Ugh. I don’t like seeing you when you’re in love. It’s weird. Gross. I hate it.”

Sunghoon smirked and leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting across the café toward her again.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Me too.”

The café was bustling with soft chatter, silverware clinking, and the occasional burst of laughter. You were already halfway through your iced Americano when the bell above the door jingled.

Your eyes flicked up just in time to see a familiar face walk in—tousled hair, clean-cut uniform, a soft frown like he’d already had a long day. Jungwon.

You blinked. “Wait, is that—?”

Sunghoon’s girlfriend practically bounced out of her seat, waving him over. “Wonie! Over here!”

You turned slowly to your brother, suspicion rising in your chest. “You invited him?”

Sunghoon shook his head with a deadpan expression. “I didn’t.”

His girlfriend was already scooting over, making room next to you on the bench. Jungwon hesitated, then offered a polite nod and slid in beside you, his shoulder brushing yours.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft but clear. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”

You glanced at him, trying not to seem flustered. “Yeah, me neither.”

Sunghoon’s girlfriend leaned toward your brother and whispered into his ear with a mischievous grin, “See? Don’t they look perfect together?”

Sunghoon recoiled immediately, his whole face twisting. “I don’t wanna picture my sister and my friend together,” he muttered under his breath, disgusted.

She just giggled, clearly satisfied with herself, while Sunghoon groaned into his drink and refused to look in either of your directions.

You shifted in your seat, trying to ignore the way Jungwon’s leg brushed against yours under the table. He didn’t move away, and neither did you.

“Sorry if this is weird,” Jungwon said after a moment, glancing sideways at you, then quickly looking away. “Didn’t know they’d both plot behind our backs.”

You let out a soft scoff. “Yeah, that sounds like her.”

From across the table, Sunghoon’s girlfriend was humming to herself while stabbing a piece of cake with her fork, clearly proud of her little matchmaking scheme. Sunghoon, on the other hand, was sinking further into his seat with every passing second.

“So…” Jungwon started again, trying for casual, “how are you liking Seoul so far?”

“It’s… different,” you answered, folding your arms. “Too fast. Too loud.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I guess it is. But not all of it’s bad, right?”

You hesitated, then shrugged. “I guess not.”

Your eyes flicked up just in time to catch your brother watching the two of you with a narrowed gaze. You raised a brow at him.

“What?” you asked, tone sharp.

He blinked. “Nothing. Just… watching you flirt.”

You nearly choked. “I’m not flirting—”

Jungwon, ever so collected, only smiled faintly and looked down at his drink, a soft pink coloring the tips of his ears.

“I swear, if you try to date one of my friends,” Sunghoon muttered, pointing a finger at you, “I will transfer schools.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you muttered under your breath.

But then you glanced back at Jungwon, who was still smiling, looking perfectly content with how the conversation was going. You couldn’t help the sarcastic edge that slipped into your voice. “Especially someone like him.”

It wasn’t meant to be as harsh as it came out. But when you saw the way his smile faltered, the subtle hurt flickering in his eyes, your heart did an unexpected twist. You hadn’t meant to hurt him—yet, there it was, hanging in the air between you.

Sunghoon nudged you roughly with his elbow, a sharp look in his eyes.

“Careful,” he warned in a low voice.

You flushed and immediately looked away, suddenly feeling guilty. Jungwon’s expression had gone unreadable, and you could practically hear the thoughts swirling in his head.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you mumbled, softening your tone, “sorry.”

Jungwon didn’t say anything right away, just gave a small nod. His usual confident demeanor was replaced with something quieter, more distant.

The tension at the table had definitely shifted, but you didn’t know how to fix it.

Sunghoon just sighed, looking between you two. “Can you two stop making it weird?” he muttered under his breath, though it was more for your benefit than anyone else’s.

His girlfriend, ever the optimist, grinned and fed him a bite of cake. “It’s okay. They’re both just shy. But they’ll work it out.”

You barely heard her, though, because your thoughts were focused on the look in Jungwon’s eyes.

Sunghoon and his girlfriend were in their own little world, laughing and exchanging little inside jokes, completely oblivious to how their playful banter was making everyone else at the table squirm.

“I swear, if you ever stop smiling like that, I’ll—” His girlfriend’s voice was light and teasing, but Sunghoon only smiled softly, clearly used to her rambles.

“You’ll what?” Sunghoon asked, nudging her playfully.

“Make you watch another one of those romantic movies you love so much,” she threatened, a bright grin lighting up her face.

“Ah, anything but that,” he teased back, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’m practically drowning in romance.”

His girlfriend only laughed and reached over to adjust his glasses, and Sunghoon simply let her, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. The exchange was so natural, so effortlessly affectionate that it felt almost like they were living in their own bubble, too caught up in their little world to notice anyone else around them.

“Ugh, get a room, you two,” you muttered under your breath, not at all interested in hearing about how “adorable” they were being.

Jungwon chuckled awkwardly, clearly trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. “So, uh… what’s your favorite thing to do around here? Any hidden spots in the city I should know about?”

You barely looked at him, instead fiddling with the straw in your drink, the sound of Sunghoon and his girlfriend’s laughter making your ears buzz. You really didn’t feel like talking, not when the couple next to you was being so… couple-y.

You shrugged, keeping your gaze fixed firmly on the table. “I don’t know. Just the usual stuff. I’m not really one for sightseeing.”

Jungwon pressed on, clearly not giving up yet. “But surely there’s something fun you’ve found? You seem like you’d know the best places to hang out.”

You let out a small, dismissive sigh, leaning back in your chair. “I’m really not interested in showing you around, Jungwon.”

Sunghoon’s girlfriend was still on her own tangent, going on about something utterly trivial while Sunghoon nodded along, his smile barely faltering as he glanced back at you and Jungwon.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Y/N? You’re being awfully quiet today,” she said in her bright, ever-optimistic voice.

You tried to force a smile, but it was tight, and you could feel your irritation simmering just under the surface. “I’m fine,” you muttered. “Just… tired.”

Jungwon seemed a bit taken aback by your mood but didn’t press it further, instead focusing back on his drink. Meanwhile, Sunghoon and his girlfriend were still wrapped up in their own bubble of cute moments, exchanging playful glances and quiet words that only seemed to make the atmosphere feel even more suffocating.

You didn’t understand how they could be so effortlessly happy, so comfortable with each other. Sunghoon was always so calm, so distant to everyone, but with her, he was… different.

“Don’t you think they’re a bit much?” you muttered under your breath, barely audible, but enough for Jungwon to hear.

Jungwon hesitated, looking between you and the couple before shrugging. “Maybe,” he said carefully, “but if they’re happy, then what’s the harm?”

“Right,” you muttered, trying to hide the bitterness creeping into your voice. “Good for them.”

Jungwon gave you a sideways glance, his smile a little more unsure now. “You seem really upset. Want to talk about it?”

You shook your head, feeling the discomfort in your chest grow. “No. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Jungwon seemed to understand that you weren’t in the mood for more conversation, but his quiet attempts to make small talk were starting to feel more forced as the minutes dragged on. Meanwhile, Sunghoon and his girlfriend’s voices only grew louder, completely lost in their own happiness as they continued their affectionate back-and-forth.

You felt a twinge of jealousy. You hadn’t been able to experience that kind of closeness or affection with anyone—certainly not with Jungwon, and not with anyone else before. It irritated you how easily Sunghoon seemed to slip into that comfortable, happy state with his girlfriend, making you wonder if you could ever find something like that yourself.

But for now, you were stuck here, watching them, and avoiding any attempts at real conversation from Jungwon.

As Sunghoon and his girlfriend stood up from the bench, her hands instinctively finding his as they gathered their stuff, she glanced one more time at where you and Jungwon sat—him politely sipping his drink, you staring pointedly at anything that wasn’t him.

“We should get going,” she murmured to Sunghoon. “Didn’t you say you had that meeting thing later?”

Sunghoon nodded, throwing one last glance toward you before gently tugging his girlfriend toward the exit. The two of them walked side by side down the garden path, the sunlight catching in her hair and the breeze tugging at the sleeves of Sunghoon’s hoodie.

Once they were a little out of earshot, his girlfriend turned to him, voice low and curious. “So… is your sister always like that?”

Sunghoon sighed through his nose, glancing over his shoulder before answering. “Yeah. Especially around people who are in love.”

His girlfriend blinked, then tilted her head, genuinely concerned. “Why? Is she, like… bitter about it or something?”

Sunghoon hesitated, then leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I’m not really supposed to be telling you this,” he muttered. “But someone she really loved cheated on her. Like, full-on betrayed her. She’s never really been the same after that.”

His girlfriend’s eyes softened. “Oh…”

“And the other half of it?” he added, smiling faintly. “She’s like me. She keeps things in. But instead of being quiet and polite about it, she turns into a little grump.”

They both laughed softly at that, their steps in sync as they neared the sidewalk.

“But I mean…” she nudged him lightly, a playful glint in her eye. “What about Jungwon? I don’t know—don’t they look kinda cute together?”

Sunghoon groaned immediately, dragging a hand over his face. “Babe, please. I don’t wanna hear it.”

“What?” she laughed, looping her arm through his. “I’m just saying! Come on, they just met, but—”

“They just met in person today,” he emphasized. “They don’t even know each other.”

“Exactly! That’s how it starts!”

Sunghoon gave her a dry look. “You’re lucky I like you.”

She giggled and leaned up to kiss his cheek. “I know. And I know love when I see it, Hoon. Trust me.”

He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him with the slightest upward tug. “Just don’t play matchmaker. I don’t think either of them would survive it.”

“Noted,” she grinned. “But if they fall in love on their own, I will say ‘I told you so.’”

Sunghoon groaned again, tugging her along as they disappeared down the street. First day of school and you already wanted to go home.

Everything about the campus felt off—too bright, too noisy, too… full of people smiling for no reason. Sunghoon’s girlfriend had insisted on showing you around, practically skipping through the corridors like this was her favorite place in the world. You trailed behind her like a raincloud, unimpressed by every building she pointed out.

“And this is the student center! Oh, and that’s the little garden where Sunghoon and I first—”

“Don’t care,” you muttered, eyes flicking away.

She just laughed, clearly used to your deadpan tone by now. “You’re going to love it here. Promise.”

You already knew you wouldn’t.

By lunch, you were desperately scanning the cafeteria for any possible corner to disappear into. You even spotted an empty table by the window—peace, solitude, the dream. But before you could escape, Sunghoon materialized out of nowhere and threw an arm around your shoulder.

“C’mon,” he said flatly. “Sit with us.”

“I’d rather swallow a fork.”

His grip tightened just slightly. “Let’s go.”

So now you were here, wedged between your brother and an empty chair, staring blankly at the loudest table on campus. Jake and his girlfriend were whispering and giggling over some inside joke. Jay’s girlfriend was mid-rant about something academic while Jay leaned back smugly, looking like he invented confidence. Heeseung was playfully bickering with his girlfriend over bubble tea flavors. Jungwon sat across from you, awkward and quiet, stealing glances your way like he wasn’t sure if you’d bite.

You glanced sideways at Sunghoon.

He glanced at you.

Same expression. Blank. Mildly judging. Deeply unimpressed.

The only sound from your side of the table was the soft tap of chopsticks and synchronized sighs.

Sunoo blinked at the two of you from across the table and dramatically clutched his chest.

“Oh my god,” he gasped. “That’s actually kind of terrifying. You two look like serial killers at brunch.”

Jake snorted into his drink. “No, for real. Why are y’all staring like that?”

Sunghoon answered without even blinking. “We’re trying to understand how you all function.”

You didn’t say anything. Just raised a brow, slowly picking at your food.

Jungwon coughed into his hand. “So… do you like the school so far?”

You didn’t even bother looking at him. “No.”

Silence fell over that end of the table while everyone else resumed their conversations. You and Sunghoon returned to your synchronized eating and judging.

Sunoo whispered to Jake, “This is my favorite horror movie.”

Jake nodded. “Same.”

Jungwon tried again.

“So, um…” he said, shifting a little in his seat. “What did you study back in Busan?”

You didn’t even lift your head. “Stuff.”

Sunghoon barely held in a snort beside you, and Jungwon let out a quiet breath like he’d just been elbowed in the ribs.

Jake, ever the peacekeeper, tried to help. “She’s just shy, bro. Takes a while to warm up.”

“I’m not shy,” you muttered. “I just don’t feel like talking.”

Sunoo’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “She’s like if Wednesday Addams and a sleep-deprived cat had a baby.”

You finally looked up at him with the blankest stare you could muster. “I will replace your shampoo with glue.”

Sunoo gasped, scandalized. “Sunghoon, your sister threatened me!”

“She does that,” he said calmly, sipping from his drink.

Meanwhile, Sunghoon’s girlfriend was busy telling Heeseung’s girlfriend about a new nail salon when her gaze flicked to you and Jungwon again. She nudged Sunghoon under the table.

He blinked. “No.”

“You didn’t even hear what I was going to say.”

“Yes, I did. And it’s still no.”

“They’d be so cute together!”

“No.”

“You’re so grumpy sometimes,” she huffed, crossing her arms.

“You’re just loud,” he muttered.

“I heard that!”

You rolled your eyes and shoved a fry into your mouth just as Jungwon finally stopped trying to talk. He tapped nervously at his tray, eyes flicking down to his food. You could feel his awkwardness radiating in waves.

And you hated how it made your chest tighten a little.

The table broke into laughter at something Jake said, and you just sat there in the calm middle of it all—quiet, grumpy, unimpressed. But for the first time that day, you weren’t desperate to leave.

Which was weird. But maybe you could blame it on the way Jungwon kept sneaking glances your way.

Even if you didn’t return them. Yet.

Jungwon had that look again. The one that made you want to throw a pillow at his face and storm out of the room for no reason other than how… bright he was.

“Let’s go camping,” he said, plopping down on the couch next to where you were curled up, minding your own business with a book you were only half-reading. “Like a group trip. All of us.”

You blinked at him, slowly. “Why would I voluntarily spend a weekend in the woods with mosquitoes, uneven ground, and people?”

He grinned, undeterred. “Because it’s fun. And because you clearly need to loosen up a little.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Excuse me?”

“You’re always cooped up in your dorm or hiding behind Sunghoon or glaring at everyone during lunch,” he said matter-of-factly, like he hadn’t just signed his own death warrant. “It wouldn’t kill you to try being part of the group.”

Sunghoon, from the kitchen, muttered, “She only goes to lunch because I drag her there.”

“Exactly my point!” Jungwon exclaimed, pointing at your brother like he’d just proven something. “C’mon, Y/N. It’ll be nice. Campfire, s’mores, nature… friends.”

You stared at him. That smile of his, the one that curved just a little more on the right side, the soft crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the way he was so annoyingly earnest—it made something in your chest itch.

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“You can bring a portable fan and three cans of bug spray. I’ll even carry your stuff.”

“I said no.”

He tilted his head. “Are you scared you’ll actually have a good time?”

You shut your book with a snap. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’ll take that as a maybe.”

“You’ll take it as a no.”

“Sunoo’s going.”

You hesitated.

“And Jake. And Jay. And Sunghoon and his girlfriend. Heeseung and his girlfriend said they’ll come if there’s a real bathroom.”

You looked at him, unimpressed. “You planned this already.”

Jungwon smiled, victorious. “I had faith.”

You sighed, long and dramatic, flopping back against the couch. “Fine. I’ll go. Just to get you off my back.”

“Yay!” he said, like you’d just agreed to world peace.

“But if there’s a single spider—one—I’m leaving.”

He held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“You’ve never been a scout.”

“Still counts.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small, reluctant smile tugged at your lips when he wasn’t looking.

Spring break hit with the kind of anticipation that had the entire campus buzzing. People were packing bags, coordinating snack lists, fighting over which playlist to use for the drive. It was chaos—in a way that made you want to crawl back under your blankets and pretend the world didn’t exist. But unfortunately, Jungwon’s persistence and your impulsive “Fine, I’ll go” had landed you a spot on this cursed trip.

Everyone was gathered in front of the parking lot early that morning, chattering, yawning, stretching. The two rented vans were parked side by side, engines rumbling quietly as everyone shuffled around trying to load their bags.

You crossed your arms and looked up at Sunghoon. “I’m riding in your van.”

He barely looked up from where he was loading his girlfriend’s duffel into the trunk. “No, you’re not.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He finally turned to face you, already exasperated. “Y/N, we’re each sharing a van with our girlfriends.”

You gestured to yourself, deadpan. “I am your sister.”

“Not the same thing.”

“You’re telling me you’d rather spend three hours crammed in a van with Jake and Sunoo talking about anime character types while your girlfriend sings along to every song off key—”

“Yes.”

You scowled. “Wow. What happened to blood being thicker than water?”

His girlfriend popped her head out from the side of the van, smile already in place. “Don’t worry, Y/N! I already packed snacks for you and I think you’re with Jungwon anyway.”

“What?”

Jungwon appeared behind you like some overly peppy ghost. “Morning! I put your bag in our van already. We’ve got good air conditioning, just saying.”

You turned to glare at him. “You what?”

Sunoo clapped dramatically from a few feet away. “Ooooh, you’re sharing with Jungwon? This is either the start of a rom-com or a disaster film.”

“I vote disaster,” you muttered under your breath.

Sunghoon gave your shoulder a pat as he slid into the driver’s seat. “Try not to murder anyone.”

You huffed, trudging toward the second van where Jungwon was already opening your door like some boy-next-door prince. He even had a thermos in hand—probably green tea or some healthy crap. You didn’t ask.

“I didn’t agree to share a van with you,” you grumbled, climbing in.

Jungwon just buckled in and smiled. “Well, you didn’t not agree either.”

You stared out the window, jaw tight. This trip was already feeling too long… and the engine hadn’t even started yet.

The vans were all packed, the skies were mostly clear, and it almost felt like things were going to go according to plan. Keyword: almost.

Jake stood beside Van 1, arms crossed, lips pursed as he eyed the group assignments one last time. “Okay, but I still think it’s a terrible idea to put Heeseung and Jay in the same van.”

Jay’s girlfriend, ever the chaos advocate, waved her hand dismissively. “They need to make up. This is the perfect chance. Think of it as forced bonding.”

Heeseung snorted from behind her. “More like forced suffering.”

Sunoo popped his head up from the back of Van 1, cheeks stuffed with snacks. “Can I switch vans? I’ll go with Jungwon and Y/N. I’m great company!”

“No,” you and Jungwon both said at the exact same time.

Sunoo blinked, then smirked. “Wow. Okay. Guess I’ll just keep my charisma to myself.”

You shot Jungwon a glare, but he was already climbing into the driver’s seat of your van—Van 3, aka the loner van. AKA you and him, stuck together for a few hours while the rest of your brother’s chaotic group pretended to function like normal humans.

You didn’t even have time to say goodbye to Sunghoon before Jungwon was already pulling out of the parking lot.

The ride started out in silence. Then music. Then more silence.

It was about twenty minutes into the drive when Jungwon finally broke the quiet.

“So… you probably feel a little out of place, huh?” he said, keeping his eyes on the road.

You shrugged, arms crossed. “You think?”

He chuckled. “Okay, fair. I just mean… they’re a lot to take in.”

“You don’t say.”

“Well,” he said, shifting in his seat, “you’ve probably figured out who’s dating who, right?”

“I’m not blind.”

“Alright. So Van 1—Sunghoon, Jake, their girlfriends, and Sunoo. The stable van.”

You raised a brow. “Sunoo’s the stability?”

“Don’t underestimate Sunoo,” Jungwon said seriously. “He knows everything. I’m pretty sure he could run this school if he wanted to.”

You snorted. “Next.”

“Van 2,” Jungwon said with a grin. “The drama van. Jay, Heeseung, their girlfriends. Basically a soap opera on wheels.”

You glanced at him. “Why? What happened?”

He glanced sideways, then said, “Well… Jay and Heeseung used to be close, until Jay kissed Heeseung’s girlfriend.”

Your jaw dropped.

“Twice,” Jungwon added helpfully. “Once before she and Heeseung were dating, and once after. But Jay swears she kissed him the second time, and she admits to it, but Heeseung won’t let it go.”

You blinked. “And now Jay is dating someone else?”

“Oh yeah. She’s just as chaotic as he is. They’re the perfect match. But she’s also childhood best friends with Heeseung, so it’s awkward all around.”

“Yikes.”

He nodded. “Exactly. That’s why Jake wanted to separate them. But Jay’s girlfriend was like ‘they need to make up’ and dragged them into the same van anyway.”

You let out a low whistle. “No wonder Sunoo wanted to escape.”

Jungwon laughed, and the air settled into something a little more comfortable after that. He explained more as the road wound on—tiny dramas, moments of laughter, stories you’d missed being the new one in the group.

But about an hour in, things took a turn.

The sky darkened suddenly, clouds rolling in like something out of a horror movie. The rain started slowly—just a patter on the windshield—but quickly turned heavy, pelting down so hard Jungwon had to slow to a crawl.

“Uh,” you said, glancing out the fogged window, “should we… pull over?”

“We’re almost at the rest stop,” Jungwon muttered, eyes squinting against the blur. “Just a few more minutes—”

Thud.

The van jolted.

You both froze.

“…Please tell me that wasn’t a tire,” you whispered.

Jungwon sighed, already pulling over. “That was a tire.”

He hopped out into the rain, grabbing his jacket as the wind howled. You stayed in the van, cold seeping into your skin even as the heater ran.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Then twenty. Finally, he ducked back inside, soaked and shivering.

“It’s too dark,” he muttered. “I can’t see anything, and my phone’s got no signal. We’ll have to wait till morning.”

You stared at him. “You’re telling me we’re stuck here? In a van? In the middle of nowhere? Alone?”

He looked sheepish. “Pretty much.”

You sat back, heart racing.

And for the first time that day, you were truly terrified.

You were shaken. Even though you sat with your arms folded tightly across your chest, eyes glued to the pitch-black forest outside the rain-speckled window, your body was stiff—too still. You didn’t say anything, didn’t make a sound, but Jungwon noticed. He always noticed.

Without a word, he shifted beside you in the front seat of the van, then gently wrapped an arm around your shoulders. His touch wasn’t overbearing or awkward. It was quiet, like him. Patient. Warm.

“You’re not okay,” he murmured.

“I’m fine,” you muttered.

“You’re lying.”

You didn’t argue, because he wasn’t wrong. But you didn’t respond either.

A silence stretched between you, filled only by the steady tapping of rain on the windshield and the occasional creak of the van shifting under the wind. The dark had settled in deep now, wrapping around the vehicle like a second skin.

“I hate being stuck,” you finally said, your voice low. “I hate not knowing what’s going to happen. I hate not having a signal, not knowing where we are—feeling like I’m not in control.”

Jungwon gave your shoulder a soft squeeze. “Yeah… I figured.”

You fell silent again, until he nudged you gently and said, “Okay. Tell me something your brother did that was so extroverted and humiliating that no one else besides you knows about it.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Come on. Distract yourself. Something Sunghoon did. Spill.”

A reluctant laugh slipped out of you, and Jungwon’s grin widened.

“He once got on stage during orientation week and did a full dance cover of Love Divebecause someone dared him,” you mumbled. “And he actually nailed it.”

“Love Dive? Seriously?” Jungwon tried to suppress a laugh, and failed. “No way.”

“He practiced for three days. I have a video.”

He let out a sharp breath of laughter and leaned his head back against the seat. “Okay, yeah, that helped. I’m feeling better already.”

You smiled, just barely, the tension starting to melt off your shoulders. You almost forgot about the storm outside, the flat tire, the cold. Almost.

Until a sharp crack of thunder split through the sky.

You jumped—physically flinched—and before you could stop yourself, you scooted closer to Jungwon, pressing into his side like instinct. His arm immediately tightened around you, steadying, grounding.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, softer this time. “You’re okay.”

And somehow, sitting there with him in the dark, you believed it.

After a while, the front seats of the van started to feel cold and cramped, and Jungwon, sensing your growing discomfort, suggested quietly, “We can pull out the bed in the back… might be warmer there.”

You didn’t answer, but you nodded, following him as he climbed out of the front. He moved slowly, giving you space but also staying close enough to reach if you needed him. Together, you helped tug the folded bed out from its compartment, laying it flat and spreading one of the extra blankets over it.

You sat beside him on the makeshift mattress, legs tucked underneath you, hands buried in your sleeves. The van wasn’t exactly spacious, but the bed was wide enough to sit shoulder-to-shoulder without brushing—barely.

The rain still drummed steadily on the roof, creating a rhythm that was both soothing and unnerving. You hated storms. Always had.

Then, like the sky had waited for your guard to come down, lightning struck again. Closer this time—followed by a crack so loud the whole van seemed to rattle. You gasped sharply and before you even knew what you were doing, you threw yourself toward Jungwon.

Your hands gripped his hoodie, your body curling into his lap as if you could disappear there, your breath coming in short, panicked puffs. You hated this—how vulnerable you suddenly felt, how raw and open your fear was—but your body didn’t listen to your pride. It just needed safety. Warmth. Him.

Jungwon didn’t say a word. He didn’t tease, didn’t even shift awkwardly. His arms came around you immediately, holding you close like he’d done this a thousand times before. One hand rubbed gentle, soothing circles into your back while the other rested lightly on the back of your head.

Then you started crying.

Not the messy, heaving sobs you’d always imagined people cried when breaking down—but the quiet kind. The kind that slipped down your cheeks without permission, burning and soft. You couldn’t remember the last time you cried in front of someone else.

“I hate this,” you whispered into his hoodie. “I hate feeling like this.”

“I know,” he whispered back. “But you don’t have to pretend with me, okay? Just for tonight… it’s okay to be scared.”

You don’t know how long you stayed like that—wrapped in Jungwon’s arms, eyes closed against the world, tears drying slowly. The storm eventually began to calm. The thunder faded to distant rumbles, and the rain softened into a drizzle.

Then, with an almost comical sputter, the van’s power flickered back on. The dashboard lights glowed faintly. The heater whirred to life. And just like that, reality came rushing back in.

You blinked and pulled away slowly, only to freeze as you realized where you were: practically curled in Jungwon’s lap, your arms still wrapped around him, your cheek resting against his chest.

You moved quickly, almost too quickly, scooting back and wiping your face with your sleeve. The silence that followed was heavy—awkward and thick and way too loud now that the storm had passed.

“I—sorry,” you mumbled, avoiding his eyes. “That was… a lot.”

Jungwon shifted too, but not far. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “Really.”

But you didn’t know how to feel. You weren’t used to people seeing you like that. Especially not someone like him.

And now, sitting side by side in the faint light, with your tears still damp on your skin and the ghost of his touch lingering on your back, you suddenly weren’t sure what scared you more—the storm outside… or the one happening inside you.

The rain had finally stopped, but that didn’t mean you were out of the woods. Literally.

It was 2:07 AM, and the van was still parked on the side of some empty, winding road surrounded by nothing but trees and thick silence. The air inside was warmer now thanks to the heater, but that didn’t fix the flat tire—or the awkwardness hanging heavy between you and Jungwon after what had just happened.

You sat cross-legged on the bed, facing the window, pretending to be way more interested in the foggy glass than the fact that you were very much aware of Jungwon’s presence just a few feet behind you. He was still sitting up against the back of the van, legs stretched out, fiddling absently with the zipper on his jacket.

Neither of you had spoken much since the power came back on. A few quiet “you okay?”s and mumbled “yeah”s, but beyond that? Just tension.

He glanced over at you for what felt like the hundredth time. “So… uh. Still no signal.”

“Shocker,” you muttered, not turning around.

“We’ll fix the tire at sunrise. I can’t see anything in the dark without messing it up more.”

“Mhm.”

Silence again.

You hated this. Not just the situation, but how… exposed you still felt. You hadn’t meant to cry in front of him. You hadn’t meant to let him hold you. And now, it was like that moment had cracked something open, and you didn’t know how to patch it back up.

Jungwon cleared his throat. “Do you want the bed to yourself? I can sleep sitting up or something.”

“No. It’s fine.”

“You sure?”

You finally turned to face him, eyes meeting his. “Can you just… not make it a thing?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Earlier. The crying. The whole… mess. Just don’t make it a thing, okay? I don’t need you looking at me like I’m fragile now.”

Jungwon’s expression softened. “I don’t think you’re fragile. I think you’re human.”

You rolled your eyes, turning back toward the window. “Great. Even worse.”

He let out a quiet laugh, barely audible. “You know, for someone who pretends not to care about people, you sure care a lot about what I think.”

Your lips pressed into a tight line. He wasn’t wrong—but you weren’t about to admit that.

“It’s late,” you said instead. “We should try to sleep.”

You heard him shift behind you, and then the quiet rustle of blankets as he laid down on the far side of the bed, careful to leave space between you.

But even with the silence returning and your body exhausted, sleep didn’t come easy. Not when your brain was still replaying the way his arms had felt around you. Not when every beat of the clock brought you closer to morning—and whatever would come after this strange, vulnerable night you never meant to share.

The hours ticked by slowly, stretching the night into something that felt endless.

The space between you and Jungwon wasn’t very big. The bed was narrow, the van cold despite the heater humming faintly, and somewhere between turning to face the wall and trying to ignore how your thoughts spiraled, you realized you weren’t sleeping at all. Neither was he.

You could tell by the way he shifted every few minutes, quietly clearing his throat or sighing like he was trying not to seem restless. Finally, at around 3:15 AM, his voice cut through the stillness—soft, careful.

“Hey.”

You turned your head slightly. “What?”

“Can I ask you something?”

You hesitated. “…Yeah.”

“When you said you’re scared of being emotionally dependent on people… was that about someone specific?”

You stared at the ceiling. You weren’t sure why your chest tightened at the question. Maybe because you’d let that confession slip too easily earlier. Maybe because this was the first time someone actually followed up instead of brushing it off.

You swallowed. “Not just one person. More like… a pattern.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, gently: “Like what?”

“Like I used to trust people. I’d let them in, even when it hurt. And each time, it ended with me being the only one trying to fix things.” You paused, fingers curling slightly into the blanket. “At some point, I just stopped trying.”

Jungwon shifted closer—not enough to touch, but enough to feel it.

“I’m not trying to ‘fix’ you,” he said quietly. “I just want to understand you.”

Your breath hitched slightly.

“And I know you don’t like being seen,” he added, almost like an afterthought. “But you don’t have to hide around me.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t say anything.

Instead, you turned your body slightly toward him. Not enough to close the distance completely—but enough that he’d know you weren’t shutting him out.

Minutes passed in silence again. But it wasn’t awkward anymore.

At 4:00 AM, the sky outside started to shift, a faint grey creeping into the edges of the horizon. You were still awake, and so was he.

Jungwon sat up first, running a hand through his hair. “It’s almost light enough. I’ll check the tire.”

You nodded sleepily, rubbing your eyes. “Okay. I’ll… come with you?”

He turned back to look at you, his gaze soft but steady. “Only if you want to.”

You gave a small nod, pulling the blanket tighter around you for a second before kicking it off and sliding off the bed.

It was quiet again, but something had changed between you—like a wire had loosened. Maybe things wouldn’t go back to the way they were. Maybe you didn’t want them to.

The air was crisp when you stepped out of the van, the ground still damp from the night before. Dew clung to the grass and your shoes squelched lightly against the earth, but the storm had passed. A faint mist curled in the distance, and the sun hadn’t quite broken over the trees yet—just a soft blue-gray glow painted the horizon.

Jungwon crouched by the flat tire, flashlight wedged under his arm as he examined it. You stood beside him with your arms crossed tightly, partly from the chill and partly because… well, what else were you supposed to do? Last night had been—something. Too much, maybe. And even though he hadn’t brought it up, you could feel the weight of it still lingering between you.

“Looks like it’ll hold until we get to a service station,” he muttered, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “I just need to switch it out with the spare.”

“Need help?” you offered, voice still hoarse from barely sleeping.

He looked up at you and smiled—not that smug, teasing smile he usually wore around you, but something small and warm. “You offering to actually help me instead of glaring at me? Must be a special day.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched. “Don’t push it.”

Still, you knelt beside him and passed him tools when he asked, watching him work quickly and efficiently. By the time the spare tire was secured and you were both sitting on the bumper catching your breath, the sun had finally peeked through the trees.

“Thanks,” Jungwon said quietly.

You glanced over. “For what?”

“For… trusting me,” he said. “Even a little.”

You looked away, watching your breath fog in the cool morning air. “Don’t get used to it.”

He chuckled, not pushing further. “Okay.”

Another pause, then he added, “Do you think they noticed we were gone?”

You groaned. “Probably.”

Jungwon smirked. “Should we lie and say we were attacked by bears?”

You gave him a flat look. “That’s so specific.”

He shrugged. “You never know. Might make us more interesting.”

“You’re already interesting,” you said before you could stop yourself.

You both blinked.

Silence.

“…Forget I said that,” you mumbled, turning away.

But Jungwon was smiling again—bright, proud, but not teasing this time. “Too late.”

And when you both climbed back into the van and started the engine, there was still silence—but it was softer now, like a thread connecting the two of you had finally begun to tie itself together. Not forced. Not rushed. Just… a start.

The campsite buzzed with the sounds of life when you and Jungwon finally pulled in. Laughter echoed through the trees, smoke curled lazily from a fire pit where someone was trying to get breakfast started, and Jake was playing some acoustic guitar on a log while his girlfriend swayed beside him.

You had barely stepped out of the van, stretching your stiff limbs, when Sunoo boltedacross the campsite like a heat-seeking missile.

“Oh. My. God,” he gasped, eyes bouncing between you and Jungwon. “You guys were gone all night. ALL NIGHT. I swear to God, if this is a slow-burn friends-to-lovers enemies-to-lovers surprise-romance situation and you didn’t tell me, I’m going to explode.”

You blinked. “What—”

“Did you guys fuck?” Sunoo blurted, voice way too loud.

Everyone turned.

Jungwon nearly choked on air. “SUNOO!”

You grabbed the nearest camping chair and flung a towel over your face. “We did NOT!”

“Well,” Sunoo huffed, crossing his arms. “With that much chemistry, I’m just saying—”

“Sunoo,” you gritted out through clenched teeth.

He raised his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine, I’ll stop. For now.” But the sparkle in his eyes said he absolutely would not be letting it go.

While you tried to pretend you didn’t just become the headline of the group’s gossip board, Jungwon drifted over to the edge of the campsite where Sunghoon was helping his girlfriend unload a cooler from the car.

Sunghoon noticed him coming and immediately groaned. “No.”

Jungwon blinked. “No what?”

“No to whatever you’re about to say.”

“I didn’t even say anything yet,” Jungwon said, exasperated. “I just—look, I really like your sister.”

“Ew.” Sunghoon looked genuinely distressed. “Ew, stop. Go away.”

“I’m serious,” Jungwon said, trying to keep his voice low and calm. “I’m not messing with her. I just… I want your blessing to ask her out.”

Sunghoon paused. Stared. Then deadpanned, “No.”

Jungwon nodded slowly, lips twitching. “Okay. Well… I actually don’t need your blessing. I was just being polite.”

Sunghoon stared harder. “You little—”

But his girlfriend came up behind him, slipping her arms around his waist and whispering something into his ear. He grumbled under his breath, scowled at Jungwon one more time, and then turned away.

Which Jungwon took as his cue to walk off, hiding the satisfied smirk on his face.

You, meanwhile, were still dodging Sunoo’s very detailed reenactment of how he imagined the night went down.

Yeah. Spring break was off to a great start.

The rest of the day moved in a weird haze of tension and pretending like the night before hadn’t happened.

You avoided Jungwon. Not in a dramatic way—just enough that you didn’t have to look at him for too long. Just enough that when he laughed with the others by the fire, your eyes would skip past him like he was just another log in the pile. Just enough that every time he glanced your way, you quickly turned back to your marshmallow, pretending to be way too focused on roasting it to golden-brown perfection.

Sunoo didn’t make it any easier.

“You know,” he said, flopping down beside you with a very loud crunch of gravel, “for someone who didn’t do anything, you two are acting real suspicious.”

“Sunoo,” you warned, “if you say one more thing—”

“I’m just saying!” He threw up his hands dramatically. “If I were trapped in a van during a thunderstorm with someone as emotionally constipated as Jungwon, I’d cry too.”

You shoved his shoulder lightly, but the corner of your mouth twitched upward.

Meanwhile, across the fire, Jungwon was deep in conversation with Jay’s girlfriend, who was nodding enthusiastically while pointing toward a picnic table. He looked more relaxed now, laughing softly, shaking his head at something she said.

And still, he glanced over at you.

Again.

You turned away, heart twisting a little.

When the sun began to dip, casting streaks of orange and pink across the sky, someone suggested games. Charades. Then Uno. Then some weird camping version of spin the bottle that you absolutely refused to play.

Heeseung and his girlfriend were the first ones to bow out, heading toward their tent after a playful argument about who knows what. Jay and his girlfriend were in their own world, laughing so loudly it echoed through the trees. Jake and his girlfriend cuddling by the fire. Sunghoon was trying to keep his girlfriend from jumping into the lake at night.

And you?

You were sitting beside Sunoo again, who had finally—finally—gone quiet, head resting on your shoulder as he dozed off.

That’s when Jungwon walked up.

His voice was quiet. “Can we talk?”

You didn’t move at first. Just stared at the fire.

Then slowly, you stood. Gently nudging Sunoo off you, you followed Jungwon toward the edge of the clearing, just far enough away to not be overheard, just close enough to still feel the warmth of the group.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “So… are we just gonna pretend last night didn’t happen?”

You swallowed. “I don’t know.”

“I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable,” he said softly. “That wasn’t— I just knew you were scared. I didn’t want you to feel like you had to hold it all in.”

You looked away. “I don’t want to be someone’s challenge.”

“You’re not,” he said quickly. “I swear, you’re not. I don’t want to fix you. I just… I like you. Grumpiness and all. You don’t have to act okay around me. I’d rather have you yell at me and mean it than smile and fake it.”

Your eyes met his. He looked… honest.

It scared you.

So you said the first thing that came to mind. “Sunghoon’s gonna kill you.”

Jungwon smiled. “He already tried.”

You didn’t smile back—yet—but the corners of your lips twitched.

After the camping trip, everything seemed fine at first. The days passed, and you and Jungwon were a little less awkward around each other. You both would talk here and there, but it wasn’t like before—when you could barely stand being in the same room without pretending to not notice his gaze. It was comfortable in a way, like the distance between the two of you had shrunk a little.

The trip had brought something out of you that you hadn’t been ready for, but at least it wasn’t as terrible as you thought it would be. You’d even laughed a few times, exchanged some stories, and you might’ve even caught yourself smiling—genuinely smiling—when he said something funny.

But as soon as you heard it, it felt like all the progress you had made came crashing down around you.

You were in the common room of your dorm, just finishing a group project, when you overheard a conversation between Jungwon and Sunoo.

“I think I’m finally getting through to her,” Jungwon said, his voice lighter than it had been the past few days. “She’s not as cold as she used to be.”

Sunoo’s voice responded, teasing. “Well, it’s about time. She’s hard to crack, but you’ve got this.”

Your heart sank. The words hit harder than you expected. It was a stupid thing to be hurt over, but it felt like you were just a project to him. Another challenge to overcome. Just another box to check off, another thing to fix. Like you were something he needed to conquer and not someone he was genuinely trying to understand.

You thought you had found something real in the small, quiet moments between the two of you—when he’d make you laugh, or when you’d share stories that made you feel a little less like a closed-off puzzle. But now, it all felt fake. You weren’t a challenge. You weren’t his damn project. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what had made you start pulling away in the first place. You weren’t ready to be the thing he worked on. Not when it felt like you were just part of his “I need to fix you” list.

You turned away quickly, trying to push the sting out of your chest as you grabbed your things and walked to your room. The tightness in your chest only grew as you closed the door behind you. You didn’t even give yourself a second to think before you did it: you took your phone out and deleted his number.

You couldn’t look at it anymore. Couldn’t keep seeing his name lighting up your screen. You stopped answering his texts. Ignored his calls. Every notification from him felt like a weight on your shoulders, reminding you that you were just another challenge, just another project to him.

And as much as you hated it, you did the same with everyone else. You didn’t reply to Sunghoon’s texts about your plans for the day, didn’t show up for the usual hangouts with your brother and his friends. You couldn’t bear the idea of seeing them and having them ask where Jungwon was. Where things stood. You didn’t want to answer any of their questions. You didn’t want to be reminded that you had let yourself fall for someone who had probably never taken you seriously.

You didn’t even bother showing up to the study sessions anymore. Every day felt like it was getting harder to keep pretending everything was fine when your mind was so tangled with anger and confusion.

Spring break ended, and with it, the brief but quiet connection you had with Jungwon. He was busy now, the semester starting again. But even as the first day of uni came, you found yourself missing the comfort of those small moments. The awkwardness. The laughs. His presence. But it was too late now. It didn’t matter.

At least that’s what you told yourself every time you ignored his message or silenced his call. 

You hadn’t expected Sunghoon to show up at your dorm. Not with his hoodie half-on and a scowl already forming between his brows. He didn’t say anything at first, just stepped inside like he owned the place and dropped his bag on your bed with a thud.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked, not accusing—just concerned. And that somehow made it worse.

You didn’t mean to say it, not right away. But it all came spilling out anyway. The overheard conversation. The words Jungwon had said. The way it felt like you’d been nothing more than a challenge to him. Something to break through and fix. The way you hated how it hurt.

Sunghoon sat through the whole thing, jaw clenching tighter with every word you said. When you finally fell quiet, his hands were already fisted at his sides.

“He said what?” he snapped, already standing. “That idiot. I swear—”

“Hoon, don’t—” you started, but he was already out the door.

It didn’t take long for him to find Jungwon. He always had a radar for people he wanted to scold.

Jungwon blinked when he saw Sunghoon marching toward him across the quad, his voice sharp before he even fully reached him. “What the hell did you say to her?”

Jungwon’s face fell. “Wait, she heard that?”

“Oh, so you did say it.” Sunghoon’s eyes narrowed.

“It’s not what it sounds like,” Jungwon said quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that. I wasn’t trying to say she was a challenge—God, no. I was telling Sunoo that I finally felt like she was starting to trust me. I was happy. I wasn’t—”

Sunghoon didn’t look convinced.

“I like her,” Jungwon said, more firmly now. “Not because she’s hard to read, not because she’s a mystery or whatever. I like her because… she makes everything make sense. She’s quiet, but when she talks, it matters. And when she looks at me like I’m not completely annoying, it makes my day.”

Sunghoon exhaled and rubbed a hand down his face. “Just fix it. And don’t make her cry again. I mean it.”

Later that evening, there was a knock at your dorm door.

You weren’t going to answer it—until you heard his voice, low and quiet.

“It’s me.”

You opened the door a crack. Jungwon stood there holding your favorite snack in one hand, and in the other, a worn-out poetry book you had mentioned once when you were half-asleep in the van during the camping trip.

“I know you’re mad,” he said softly. “But can I come in? Just for a second?”

You let the door swing open.

He stepped inside, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. For what I said to Sunoo. For how it sounded. I didn’t mean it like that, I swear. I didn’t think you’d hear it, but that doesn’t mean it was okay to say.”

You stayed quiet, arms crossed, watching him.

“I talk about you because I like you,” he continued. “Not because I want to win you, or fix you, or prove anything. I talk about you because… I want to understand you. And I want you to trust me enough to let me in. That’s all.”

You glanced down at the poetry book in his hand, and your chest tightened.

After a long pause, you sighed and shook your head. “You’re so annoying.”

He cracked a sheepish smile. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”

“…You can walk me to class tomorrow.”

He perked up instantly, smile blooming like the sun breaking through clouds. “Yeah?”

You rolled your eyes and turned around so he wouldn’t see the way your lips threatened to smile. “But don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“I won’t,” he said, already grinning. “Totally casual. Just two classmates. Walking.”

You shut the door behind him, heart racing in spite of yourself.

The next day, you found yourself back in the cafeteria, still sporting your signature scowl and the sunglasses that hid most of your face. You weren’t exactly thrilled to be sitting with the others again, but at least you had coffee. And you weren’t going to admit it, but you were kind of okay with Jungwon walking beside you—just a little bit.

As soon as you took your seat, Jungwon slid into the chair next to you with a big, goofy grin on his face. He handed you your coffee, still beaming like a dog who had just learned how to fetch.

“Still grumpy?” he teased, nudging your shoulder lightly.

You shot him a quick glance, raising an eyebrow. “Always,” you muttered, but there was something about the way he was looking at you—like you were the best thing he’d seen in a while—that made it hard to keep the edge.

You couldn’t stop the tiny smile that tugged at the corner of your lips. Jungwon’s grin widened like he’d just won the lottery. He looked way too proud of himself.

Sunghoon, who had been sitting across from you, groaned dramatically. “Please don’t do that in front of me ever again,” he said, scrunching his nose as if he’d just watched something gross.

You smirked, giving him a little shrug. “What’s your problem?” you shot back, still amused.

Sunghoon’s girlfriend, who had been chatting with Jake’s girlfriend, turned her head and raised her eyebrows. “Hey, you and I are way worse than that,” she said with a mischievous grin.

Jay, who had been in his own world, suddenly looked up at the mention of “worse.” He nodded in agreement, casually leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, don’t pretend like you and Hoon aren’t way more obnoxious than them,” he added with a smirk, looking at his own girlfriend.

Sunghoon shot him a look that could’ve killed, but Jay only grinned wider, clearly enjoying his role in messing with Sunghoon.

“Can you not?” Sunghoon groaned, resting his head on the table like he couldn’t deal with his friends anymore. “I’m not even here for this. Seriously.”

You chuckled under your breath, feeling a little more at ease with the group around you. It was nice, in a way, to be surrounded by people who weren’t as exhausting as you’d initially thought. But as you sipped your coffee, you felt Jungwon’s gaze on you again, making your chest tighten in that way only he seemed to manage.

“So,” Jungwon started, his tone shifting slightly, “when are you going to admit you missed me?”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips said everything.

You were walking down the hall, scrolling through your phone, when you heard a loud voice—sharp, gruff, and full of irritation. You looked up just in time to see a girl backing away, holding her hands up in apology. She was drenched in some kind of drink, and standing opposite her, was a tall figure with his arms crossed.

It was Niki.

His dark eyes narrowed as he stared at the girl, his voice cold and direct. “You better be more careful next time,” he snapped.

“I’m really sorry,” the girl stammered, clearly embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to—I’ll clean it up!”

He grunted, not looking all that bothered, though the tension in his posture didn’t exactly scream forgiveness. “Whatever,” he muttered, before turning to walk away, leaving the girl still frozen in place.

You couldn’t help but watch as he strode off down the hall, his expression as nonchalant as ever. But there was something about him—something sharp and guarded. It made you curious.

Maybe this would be an interesting story for later. 

Enhypen campus series || wanna read my short drabbles? check out @lynbels

[mattrempeswife]

THE DARE THAT BROKE ME

requested: yes | req: i would love myself an angsty fic of the reader being asked out, but only because luke’s friends dared him to. the reader has really low self esteem and when she finds out he has to grovel to get her back. there’s tears, there’s pain, but there’s also a happy ending because the world is already hard enough.

pair: luke hughes x f!reader

genre: angst, drama, hurt/comfort, romance (slow burn), emotional betrayal.

warnings: emotional manipulation, self-esteem issues / negative self-talk, betrayal, swearing, harsh words and arguments, mentions of bullying & social rejection, mild yelling, open ending.

summary: you’ve never been the girl anyone really looked at, not the girl people wanted to be friends with, not the girl boys lined up to date. especially not someone like luke hughes. but when the golden boy of hockey asks you out, it feels too good to be true.

fia’s note: i won’t lie, i was this (🤏) close to having the reader kick him right in the nuts for agreeing to that ridiculous dare, like, sir, actions have consequences! haha. but i took a deep breath, channeled my inner angst gremlin, and here we are. i really hope you enjoyed this one-shot and that it tugged at your heart just the right amount! also, just a little reminder that my will smith requests are still wide open, so if you’ve got anything in mind, angst, fluff, chaos throw it my way. let’s keep the fun (and pain) going!

You were never the girl people wanted to be friends with.

From a young age, you learned to fade into the background. Pretty girls were admired. Confident girls were desired. Loud girls were loved. But you? You were the quiet one. The one whose name was often forgotten in group assignments. The one who never got asked to dances, whose existence felt like background noise.

You didn’t grow up expecting a fairytale. You just wanted someone to see you.

And somehow, impossibly, Luke Hughes had.

That’s what made it so cruel.

You’d always had a crush on him, Luke, the boy with the easy grin and the kind eyes. He was hockey royalty before he even knew what ‘NHL’ is. People adored him. The girls swooned. The guys worshipped him. He didn’t just exist.

He glowed.

And for reasons you still didn’t understand, Luke Hughes had asked you out.

You remember the day vividly. How he found you by your locker, awkward but smiling. How he asked you if you wanted to grab coffee sometime. You’d laughed because you thought it was a joke. Why would someone like him ask out someone like you?

But he’d insisted. Told you he’d been meaning to ask for a while.

And stupidly, stupidly you said yes.

That was four months ago.

Four months of waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Luke to wake up and realize he’d made a mistake. He was sweet most days. Distant on others. He’d hold your hand in private but avoided too much PDA. You never pushed, too afraid that if you reached for more, he’d pull away completely.

You told yourself that was just who he was, a lowkey, not the showy type. Maybe he was just shy. Maybe he wasn’t good with feelings.

You accepted the breadcrumbs like they were a feast.

Because you didn’t know how to believe you deserved anything more.

You sat curled up on the cold bleachers, knees tucked to your chest watched Luke skate laps during practice. The rink was mostly empty aside from a few team staff and friends. You wore his hoodie, it still smelled like his cologne and fiddled with the sleeves absentmindedly, scrolling through your phone to kill time.

You didn’t expect the message.

It came from an unknown number.

No text. Just a video.

Your first instinct was to ignore it. But curiosity won out.

You tapped the thumbnail.

The quality was shaky, like it had been recorded in a rush. Luke was in it, unmistakable in his backwards hat and smug grin, surrounded by a circle of friends. You recognized a few of them from his team. And then, there was her.

Lola.

You’d heard her name before. Luke’s “childhood best friend.” The one people whispered he used to have a thing for. You never pried. Luke had never given you a reason to be jealous until now.

In the video, you could hear Lola’s voice.

'I dare you, Luke Hughes, to date Y/N. Make her fall for you… and then kick her ass.'

There was laughter. Male. Female. Loud. Cruel.

Then Luke. Laughing.

'Okay, deal. I’ll make her fall for me.'

You don’t know how to react.

The hoodie you wore suddenly felt like it was choking you. The air in the rink was too sharp. You blinked, once, twice, hoping it would disappear.

But it didn’t.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t want to.

You just stood up.

You walked out of the rink without looking back.

Luke noticed the moment you left.

He skated over, pulling off his gloves and jogging on the ice toward the exit.

“Babe?” he called out.

“Hey, where are you going?”

You didn’t answer. Your feet moved faster.

He caught up just outside the door, gripping your wrist gently.

“Hey. What’s going on? Are you okay?”

You stared at his hand on your arm.

Then slowly, deliberately, you turned around and shoved your phone into his chest. The video played again, Lola’s voice cutting, his laughter stabbing deep.

“This,” you said, voice eerily calm.

“This is what happened.”

Luke’s eyes widened as he watched the screen, realization creeping in like a sickness.

“No. No, it’s not what it looks like…”

“I fucking hate you, Luke.”

He flinched.

You didn’t yell. You didn’t scream.

You simply stared at the boy you once thought was your beginning.

“I thought you were different. I thought… God, I was so stupid. I let myself believe someone like you could actually love someone like me.”

“Don’t say that,” he said quickly.

“I do, I do love you. I didn’t mean any of it. That was months ago, it was stupid, I didn’t know you then.”

“But you knew enough,” you snapped.

“Enough to decide I was pathetic enough to be a fucking joke.”

“I didn’t think you’d matter this much,” he blurted.

You blinked. The silence hit harder than any scream.

You took a step back.

“That’s the difference between us,” you whispered.

“You didn’t think I’d matter. I always thought you did.”

Luke reached for you again, panic in his eyes.

“No. Wait. Y/N, don’t, please just let me explain. I swear, it wasn’t like that. I caught feelings, real feelings. That dare was a stupid moment, I regretted it before we even went out.”

“But you still said yes. You still laughed. You still looked right at your friends and agreed to humiliate me.”

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes now, despite how hard you fought to keep them back.

“You wore my insecurities like a costume. And I wore your name like it meant something.”

He looked like he wanted to say something. To fix everything. To erase the past.

But you were done being the girl who begged to be wanted.

You peeled off the hoodie and dropped it in his hands.

“You don’t have to kick my ass, Luke. I’ll save you the trouble.”

You stepped back again.

“I’m kicking your ass out of my fucking life.”

You didn’t look back.

He called your name. But you kept walking.

And the silence that followed said more than either of you ever could.

You didn’t go home that night. Not really.

You ended up sitting in your car for an hour in a grocery store parking lot, staring blankly at the windshield. You were too numb to cry, too angry to scream.

The video played on a loop in your mind.

“Okay, deal. I’ll make her fall for me.”

You thought about every time he kissed your forehead. Every time he texted you goodnight. Every time he pulled you into his chest and told you he was lucky.

Was it all a performance?

Had he felt anything real?

Or were you just the punchline of a joke he never expected to cost him anything?

You hated that a part of you still wanted to believe him.

That a part of you still wanted him to run after you, fall to his knees, beg for forgiveness.

But that’s the thing about heartbreak, you never really lose the hope. You just bury it beneath the pain.

You didn’t see Luke for days.

He texted.

He called.

He even came to your dorm and sat outside your door for hours.

But you didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because hearing his voice would mean letting him back in. And you weren’t sure if your heart could survive that again.

Four days later, you heard a knock at your front door.

You weren’t expecting anyone. You pulled your sweater tighter around you and opened it cautiously.

Luke stood there.

Hair messy. Eyes red. Hoodie wrinkled like he hadn’t changed in days.

In his hands was a plastic bag.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You didn’t speak.

“I—uh,”

He cleared his throat, eyes flickering to the ground.

“I brought you soup. I know you get sick when you’re stressed. You always said soup helps.”

You didn’t move.

He swallowed. “Can we talk?”

You opened the screen door slowly and stepped onto the porch, the cool air biting at your skin. Luke looked nervous, hopeful, scared.

You stared at him, then reached behind you and pulled something from the chair inside.

“I forgot to give this back to you,” you said quietly.

You held out his hoodie, his hoodie, the one you’d worn like armor, the one that used to smell like home.

It was folded neatly.

He stared at it like it was a grenade.

His voice cracked.

“You can keep it.”

“It’s yours now. But I thought maybe… I don’t know. I needed a reason to see you.”

“I didn’t ask to see you,” you said, voice low.

“I don’t want anything from you, Luke.”

“I know,” he whispered.

“But I... I can’t stay away.”

You sighed, stepping back slightly to close the door but before you could even think about shutting him out again, Luke dropped to his knees.

Right there.

On your porch.

His hands pressed together, like he was praying, trembling.

“Please,” he said.

“Please forgive me.”

You froze.

“Luke, what are you doing—get up—”

“No,” he choked.

“I won’t. Not until you hear me. Not until you really listen to me.”

He looked up at you, eyes filled with tears.

“What I did… it was horrible. I was stupid, and immature, and I didn’t think it would turn into anything. It was a dare, yeah. But you were never supposed to matter.”

You flinched, and his eyes squeezed shut in pain.

“But then you did,” he continued.

“You mattered more than anyone ever has. You became the best thing that ever happened to me. And I fell in love with you, I did. I do. Every day, even now. Even when you hate me.”

You blinked hard, heart thudding painfully.

“I didn’t want it to start like that,” he whispered.

“But I wanted it to stay because of you. Because of who you are. And I swear to god, I was going to tell you. I just didn’t know how. And I kept thinking I’d ruin it.”

“Well, you did,”

You said, your voice shaking now, tears stinging your eyes.

“You ruined everything. You made me feel like a joke. Like I was some fucking charity case.”

Luke sobbed, actually sobbed.

“I know,” he said brokenly.

“I know I hurt you. But please… let me fix this. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

You wanted to scream. To push him away. To tell him that no amount of apologies could fix the way it felt to watch that video, to hear him laugh while agreeing to play you like a game.

But he was still on his knees, shaking, begging.

Crying.

And then something in you cracked.

The anger and heartbreak swirling into something softer. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But the ache of love never really went away it had only buried itself under everything he broke.

You sank to your knees in front of him.

And that was when he completely fell apart.

He pulled you into his arms like he couldn’t believe you were real. You cried into his shoulder, fists clutching the front of his hoodie. His tears soaked into your shirt, and he just kept whispering,

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” like it was the only language he remembered how to speak.

When you pulled back, both of you a mess of tears and shaking breaths, you looked him in the eyes.

“I’m not saying it’s okay,” you whispered.

“I’m not saying I forgive you yet. But I still love you. And I think… I want to try. If you’re willing to fight for me.”

“I’ll fight forever,” he said hoarsely.

“You’re everything to me.”

And for the first time in days, you believed it.

[heesimp]

could u share how stepdad hoon and reader started their sexual relationship? who came onto who…did reader resist….feeling guilty to be enjoying it….stepdad hoon lowkey forcing…

I imagine Sunghoon married his wife out of convenience and because she was exceptionally easy fuck. He didn’t care about love and romance, or any of that bullshit. He just wanted available pussy and got hard on knowing she’d drop to her knees without him asking.

He knew she had a daughter in her last year of college but never formally met her. It’s not like he’s forgotten about it per se, but he figures the two of you aren’t close because his wife never brings you up and you never came around.

And when you did, something similar to electricity seemed to conjure up whenever he was in the same room with you.

His wife is fine and all, but she’s gotten so used to being married to a hot and wealthy man that she uses his money to fund her lavish lifestyle. It irritated him at first, because who is she to spend his money without asking? But you start to come over to their house during breaks. Winter holiday came around and being next to your bedroom 24/7 felt like an urge he was itching to scratch, never mind the fact that his wife slept next to him every time he had those thoughts. And when you weren’t home, it tortured him to imagine you wearing those shorts and push up bras you love so much. Sunghoon would fuck her in lieu of your body and wished he could be fucking you instead.

Truly, Sunghoon didn’t know who was the predator and who was prey. You act so innocent but don’t dress like you are. You say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and treat him like a true member of your family when your mom’s around, but you look at him like you want to devour him alive. He’s pretty sure you know he wants you too, but Sunghoon knows he does a better job at hiding it.

During your spring break, you elect to go home instead of a girl’s trip under the guise of not having money. Which is bullshit. Sunghoon could front the bill and wouldn’t complain either. But he told you that your mom’s out of town and won’t be back until after you leave for uni again. It seemed like a no brainer to come home that week and see what happens.

One movie turned into two, and suddenly you were sitting on his lip with your pussy wrapped around his hard dick.

“We waited too long for this,” Sunghoon says against your mouth without remorse. He leans his head back against the couch and flexes his naked abdomen when you clench around his dick. He starts to put his hands on your waist but you push them away and kiss him hard.

“Let me do all the work, Daddy.” Sunghoon moans. “You do so much for me. Let me make you cum. Just relax.”

“I’m relaxed, alright.”

With your feet planted on either side of him on the couch, you ride him until he’s gushing inside of you. He’s looking up at you like you’re some kind of angel, and you look at him like you’ve won a game. You don’t stop fucking his cock until he forcibly pushes you off of him, but that doesn’t deter you from acting like the nymph he knows you are.

You scramble to your knees and push him back down onto the cushion, slipping his wet cock into your warm mouth. He nearly orgasms again when you hum around him, licking up the remnants of his cum as your fingers gently massage his balls. Your throat constricts around him like you’re trying to take him down all at once. Sunghoon is so fucking impressed and can’t help but think how much better you are at sucking dick compared to his wife.

Eventually, your mouth releases his cock and he watches you bend your head down while stroking him. He grunts when your mouth sucks on his balls and enjoys the feeling of your tongue dancing between his sack. He loves this feeling so much and wishes he could bottle it up. Sunghoon loves that you’re so fucking horny all of the time, and you show it by getting on your knees for him in a way no one has ever done before.

Sunghoon refuses to cum a second time before you get the chance to first, though. You find yourself clinging onto his chiseled, naked body for dear life as he carries you to his bedroom and pushes you against the bed he shares with his wife. It makes you even better and Sunghoon can see just how turned on you are from the prospect of how taboo and dirty this is. He thinks you like being his little secret and he’ll do anything to make sure your pussy is satisfied.

“Daddy’s cock is big, hm?” he tuts. He pushes his hard tip in and pulls it out, pushing and pulling over and over again until you whine. “Or is my stepdaughter’s pussy too tight?”

“Both!” You scream. “Your cock is so big, Daddy. Bigger than I’ve ever had.”

“God,” he moans, sinking right into your hole. “This is so wrong, but I think you like being a dirty slut, don’t you? My baby loves knowing she can get my cock whenever she wants.”

“Wanna fuck you all the time,” you babble when he thrusts in and out of you. His dick is so warm. It’s too good for you to ever let go.

He brushes your damp hair from your forehead and kisses you there. “My stepdaughter is so fucking gorgeous when she’s naked. You’re so messy and pretty when you’re under me.”

You’re close. So close. But he pulls out and pushes you onto all fours until he’s buried to the hilt again with his big sack resting against your clit. It makes you moan like never before and Sunghoon nearly bursts when you arch even further as you push your breasts against the soft mattress beneath you.

So he fucks you like that, hands on either side of your hips while he raises himself to balance his body as he fucks into you from behind. His balls clap against your soaked cunt to the point that he can feel your cum making him sticky. Sunghoon doesn’t stop until he’s cumming too, but even then his thrusts are still ongoing.

Neither of you care that you’re both overstimulated. Sunghoon keeps going and going, pushing your mixed cum in and out of you. He feels it dripping down his balls but doesn’t care about that right now.

Over the course of the week, you and Sunghoon go at it like never before. The sex between the two of you is cosmic and euphoric, like two addicts who need each other to survive. He never uses a condom and you never ask him to put one on, consequences be damned. There isn’t an inch of this house you two haven’t had sex on.

And he’ll admit it. The idea of cheating on his wife with his step daughter keeps him hard.

[dcxdpdabbles]

I love love all your writings!!

I like your depictions of John Constantine.

I'd like to see you write the sad trenchcoat persona as just that a persona in the same fashion as how Brucie Wayne is a persona.

Maybe he's been the de-aged Danny/Dannies father for years and is an actual functional adult. The sad trenchcoat is just used to keep people from calling on him to frequently because he's a dad and has dad-like things to do.

He could help tim with the time stream thing, like 'oh, yeah that does look like Bruce. Alright kid pack a bag we're going in the time stream I know a guy. No Nightwing I'm not joking this looks like solid proof'.

Maybe Bruce has a oh shit he's actually competent and could kill me, that's hot moment. (Kids I have found your other father, help me get him home)

"I would love to offer more of my time to waste on monitor duty, but I have a previous engagement. A particular fit lady needs help getting her dress on the floor. The cloth always gets stuck on her horns. " John leers, wagging his eyebrows at the grimaces his words cause.

He takes a puff of his cigarette, inhaling the smoke like a drowning man. He never smokes at home, not with Danny's sensitive lungs or Dani's general disgust at smoking, so he only had the chance when called away on missions.

Plus, Danny was trying out for ballet soon, and he wasn't going to ruin his son's chances of being a star because of his own poor habits.

It helped that the rest of the heroes believed he was consistently pumping nicotine into his system. Rather irresponsible for the hero to publicly commit frowned-upon activities - at least in the States. Back home, no one cared that much.

It didn't matter that the Justice League was a global team; the main hard hitters and founders were nearly all American, and they tended to uphold those social expectations, either subconsciously or not.

One more reason why they shouldn't bother John, he can't have him smoking at a big awards ceremony or seen going through an entire pack of cigarettes mid-fight. Oh no.

John Constantine was one of the best magic users of this universe, but he was a last resort. There were plenty of other magic users like Zatanna, Dr. Fate, Zatara, or even Etrigan that came to mind first.

John was likely too busy drowning his misery in bottles or the arms of any willing partner. That's what they all thought.

Or more importantly than what he wanted them to think.

"Well, this has been a time." He announces, snapping his fingers to open a portal to his house. "But I have to run. My lady needs a knowledgeable hand to help her-"

"Enough," Batman growls. Though he has complete control over his emotions, John can tell he's irritated by the meaningless detail. He smirks as the hero waves a hand, "Just go."

He offers the rest of the meeting room a cheeky two-finger salute as he struts out, letting the portal close behind him so his trench coat flares dramatically. It's a nice view, he's sure, but it's also unnecessarily showy, and he is sure at least three pairs of eyes are rolling at his exit.

A chuckle escapes his mouth, straightening from his slouch to properly stand straight and bend it far enough to pop. Goodness, his act always leaves him with a sore upper back; maybe he shouldn't hunch over so much, even if he was playing the part of a no-good punk.

John only had a few seconds to shiver at his own thoughts- he was a punk. A real one! He was in a band!- before he heard the tell-tell sign of a rapidly approaching double set of footsteps echo down the hall. He scrambles to fling his lit cigarette into a water portal, chucking the pack for double security, while summoning a random suitcase from thin air.

All that's left is his rather eye-catching coat, a little too worn down and old to work well with his well-put-together outfit underneath. Without it, John has a clean, pressed white shirt, a respectful tie, and a pair of slacks that make more than one head turn as he walks.

All in all, he looks like the office businessman his worthless father always wanted to be.

John throws off his coat over a chair at the same time the door is thrown open with a pair of excited yells. "Welcome home, Dad!"

A grin stretched across his face before he could think about it, feeling his heart swell at the sight of them, as he knelt down, arms open wide. Two tiny bodies slam into him without a second of hesitation, nearly knocking John backwards.

He lets out a soft grunt as Dani's arms attempt to wrap around his left arm and right shoulder. She clashes against Danny, who's trying to bury himself into John's right side, little face squished against one of John's pecs, like a bunny burrowing into the snow.

"Hello, my little lambs!" He gushes, squeezing the kids close. "How was your day with the House of Mystery? Did you two behave?"

"They were angels," Black Orchid confirms, gliding into the room at a much slower pace. They had their regular, impassive expression on their faces, but John could tell that Orchid was happy with the kids by the way they gently tapped the tops of the children's black hair.

"Dad! Dad! Now that you're home, can we please go get my new ballet shoes?" Danny begs, bouncing on his toes.

For a moment, John doesn't see his son, but rather his own blue eyes staring up at his father, when he was also five, begging to join Lily, the next-door neighbor, in beginners' ballet class.

His father had beaten him nearly to death for wanting such a girly interest. It was the last time they spoke about it. It was also the last time John ever bothered asking to start new hobbies.

"Dad! Dad! Can I do Karate?" Dani asks then, snapping John from his memories better left buried, as she presses her check against her brother's in an attempt to get John's attention. "I want to break a board with my fist!"

He gives the children another squeeze, laughing at the squeals he gets. "Of course you can do karate, little lamb. We're going to get your brother his shoes, and then I'll find a gym that offers the classes at the same time."

"I already provided that service." Orchid cuts in, holding a flyer for Flying Graysons' gym, founded and run by the eldest Wayne in Gotham. "I took the liberty of signing Danny up for a class with Casnadra Wayne, and Dani will join Duke Thomas's class. It starts in a week."

"Plenty of time to go get them everything they need and a new book series for our bedtime stories," John announces, loosening his arms so his children can cheer and bounce up and down in excitement. His knee is starting to cramp up, but he ignores it so he can hold his kids.

It's moments like these, so small and mundane, that John is grateful he thought of his persona. When he first learned how to use the magic he was gifted, he always made himself available for any crisis.

This was before the Justice League days, so anyone who sought him out was familiar with the occult world. He adored helping, and he built an incredible amount of skill and knowledge in magic, but soon John was facing disaster after disaster, dragging his exhausted body from one place to another.

Those who came searching for him never cared. They wanted John to jump at the drop of a hat. He tried for years to always be ready, always be willing, but years of isolation and desperate battles tried him to the core.

Then he took in Danny and Dani, finding the pair of babies in a basket at the feet of the Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep. He had gone to investigate the legends of the famous King Pariah Dark, only to find what he assumed were originally sacrifices, well and truly alive.

Their names were attached to their feet with a letter written by a Jazz Fenton begging the two to grow and live well. She had died to save them. In her honor, John kept their names.

Daniel "Danny" Fenton and Danielle "Dani" Fenton. He often wondered what Jazz had been to the kids, with their identical last names. It is a question he will never get the answer to.

They could have been no older than five months, but when they opened their eyes and reached up for him, John realized he no longer wanted to be the go-to man of magic.

He wanted to be their father.

To discourage people from calling him away from his children, John created his persona of a man barely honorable enough to join a team. Over the five years of his raising his kids, his reputation plummeted until only Batman called to him unless absolutely necessary.

It was a breath of fresh air. John had fought for too long and too hard. He was retired now, just like his band days, the days when John would speed off to save the world were behind him. He only stepped in if a friend asked for a favor.

He had other priorities now.

The best part? The Justice League would never know that.

"Dad!" Dani screamed into his ear, making him grimace.

"Inside voice, darling."

"Sorry." She twirls her fingers, a nervous habit she picked up from John, before brightening up "I'm just super excited. Orichad said Mr. Bruce Wayne will be at the gym! Do you think he'll sign my Wayne Space shirt?"

Ah, yes, the man who was funding some space program or another. He only knew about this because his twins adored anything to do with space travel, as if though he couldn't just teleport them to a different planet.

"I'm sure he will, darling."

[magicaloneandmystery]

crush

pairing: tfatws!Bucky x fem!reader

summary: Bucky was just trying to live as normally as he could given his history. he never thought a teenage-like crush would be part of that normalcy.

tags: idiots in love, sorta friends to lovers, fluff, slightly ooc Bucky? this is not proofread

masterlist

he was in deep shit, he concluded. that, or he was going insane. out of his mind. schizophrenic, even.

Bucky was on his bike, reflecting back on his evening with you. specifically, the way his heart had raced when the two of you were lounging with you just a little closer than friends were supposed to. or maybe, he was reading too much into it? had you meant to sit that close?

I mean, it wasn't even that close, actually... he thought.

that wasn't the concerning part, though. the concerning part was that he wanted you to sit closer.

in fact, much closer.

the characters in the movie they had been watching, in a particular scene one of them was sitting on the lap of the other, and he remembered thinking, "wish that was y/n on me."

he had immediately choked on air at realising the insanity of that thought.

so, Bucky's only two conclusions were:

a) he was undergoing a psychotic episode.

b) he was developing a crush on you.

option b was, frankly, just as insane as option a.

because Bucky was over a century old, for fuck's sake. how ludicrous would it be if he starts developin crushes like he was in high school?

and, lastly, he cannot ruin the friendship he has with you. nope. that was not allowed.

you were the light in his dark life, the thread that holds him to normalcy of adjusting to 21st century life, the sun to his gloomy sky-

yeah, he was in deep shit.

so, naturally, he was left with no other option than to knock on Sam"s door to ask for some advice. he wasn't about to fuck this up and he had no idea how these things worked anymore. the last time he went out with a woman was 80 years ago.

that was another horrible, horrible idea, Bucky realised, when Sam started wheezing and laughing and sputtering out his water at the words, "I think I have a crush on y/n."

"Bucky Barnes... developing a crush?" Sam had raised his eyebrows, before he descended into his laughing fit.

"are you done?" Bucky sighed after a while. "I came here for real advice, you know."

"sorry, sorry," Sam wiped some tears from his eyes. "what do you want my advice on? I think I can contact my nephew for some advice on crushes with girls..."

"if you're gonna be an ass about this I'm just gonna leave," Bucky grumbled.

"okay okay," Sam raised his hands. "I'll behave. for now."

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose and looked back at Sam. "how do I... tell her? uh. should I tell her?"

"you think she might like you back?"

Bucky told him about last night, the way you curled on the couch next to him, your fingers almost touching his, both of your hands splayed between you two. he told Sam about the shy smile you held around him whenever he was flirting with you - as a friend, of course - or the way she had almost cancelled a date because Bucky said he was feeling bored and wanted to know if she was free.

"she what?" Sam asked at the last one.

"yeah, I called her up one day when I had nothing to do and thought we could hang out. she was ready to blow off this guy she was seeing to hang out with me until I told her that I would find something to do, she needs to go out." Bucky must say, the warmth in his chest felt quite pleasant when he said those words out.

"and?" Sam pressed. "is she seeing anyone, then?" presently?"

"not that I'm aware of."

"we have good intel to work on," Sam nodded. "I have a plan."

✿✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠

Bucky was acting... weird.

good weird.

incredible weird.

weird in a way that made your heart flutter and the butterflies in your stomach flap around wildly.

he has been flirting a lot with you recently. small remarks about your beauty, hair, voice coupled with that charming smile? yeah, you didn't stand a chance.

you didn't understand how to interpret his behaviour. was he just opening up to you more, letting his charming side out? or was he flirting to...

you didn't let yourself complete the sentence. you couldn't let yourself hope that your feelings were reciprocated. that sort of hope could ruin your friendship with him.

all of those thoughts went out the window when Bucky put his arm on the couch behind you, his fingers almost - but not really - touching your shoulders. you could feel the heat of his body, smell his cologne even better. it was becoming hard to focus on the weekly movie you had picked out, a classic to help Bucky catch up to the world slowly.

after a while, your breathing evened out and you could move, so you opted to pretend and move just an inch closer. test out the waters, and all that.

it was a really slow night, but by the time the climax was nearing, you were pressed into his side, his hands resting on your shoulders and your thighs pressed to each other.

something shifted that night.

the two of you became bolder with your physical affection.

longer hugs, more cuddles on the couch, casual hand holding while walking through crowds or crossing streets.

that went on for about two weeks before your friends had encouraged you to do something more, take a risk. they swore they were 100% sure he liked you back. said it would be a 'calculated risk' bound to end in success. so you obliged them.

because maybe, just maybe, you believed Bucky really did like you back, too.

"would you want to go out tonight?" you asked him. "I was thinking how we've been hanging out too much at the apartment lately. let's go out! have some fun. what do you say?"

"yeah, sure. where do you want to go, doll?" Bucky leaned back, the phone pressed to his ears while he shot a confused look at Sam, who raised his eyebrows in return.

"have you been to the cafe near my place, the one with the best cheesecake ever?"

✿✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠

so here you were.

on Bucky's motorcycle, your arms wrapped around his waist, while he took you to all the cafes that you swore he needed to try.

you were wearing a simple, long dress that had Bucky staring at your frame for a while longer than usual, while he was wearing a dark leather jacket and faded jeans, looking handsome as ever.

after a night of cafe hopping and good food, the two of you were returning home.

"I had a good time," you hummed when he stopped his bike in front of your apartment.

"me too," he replied, kicking out the stand and parking his bike while he walked you to your door.

"you know," you said, nerves overtaking you, your hands wringing together. "I had a much better time with you than with any of my dates in the last six months."

"yeah?" Bucky breathed out, stepping closer to you. he took a deep inhale before saying, "maybe you shouldn't go on any other dates."

your mind went in an overdrive at his words. did he just-?

"maybe we should have more of these nights," he continued, leaning his face closer to yours to catch your eye. "I know I would love that."

you stared in his eyes, their waves shining brightly in the moonlight. "I- I would love that too." you said.

"yeah?" he cupped your cheek with one hand, his other one resting on your waist. "can I kiss you, doll?"

"please."

and that's how you shared your first kiss with Bucky Barnes. your hands on his shoulders, his holding your face gently. it started out as a hesitant brush of the lips, until you pressed closer, wanting more. it was slow, a lazy tango of your lips as you two explored each other with racing hearts.

you separated for a quick breath before diving back in, another kiss that felt more passionate, holding each other closer, his hands now around your back, pulling you closer to him, yours around his neck, playing with his soft hair. that one left you breathless in a whole different way than just lack of oxygen.

after a quick and final peck, he stepped back a little. your head was swimming with thoughts of Bucky and all you could do was bring your hands back to his shoulders, keeping him close.

an awkward tension descended upon the pair, neither knowing what to say.

"so are we... dating?" you immediately panicked, wondering if this was the right question to ask right after you kissed a guy.

but it isn't any guy. it's Bucky, your heart whispered.

"I guess so," he chuckled. "would you like... that?"

"I would love that." a grin spread across the two of you.

he nodded. "I should go," he said, though he tightened his hold on you for a second. "a good night kiss?"

"yes please," you didn't wait, kissing him once more.

"have a good night, doll," he spoke afterwards, lips just inches apart.

"you too, Bucky," you said, staring at his lips then eyes.

"I'll call you tomorrow?" he asked, not knowing what dating today looked like. he'll have to ask Sam about that.

"okay," you said.

"bye," he said.

"you know you actually have to move away from me and to your bike to leave?" you teased.

"what if I don't want to leave?" he retorted with a roll of his eyes.

you laughed, slapping his shoulder lightly. "go, Bucky. we'll talk tomorrow?"

"yes." he said, pressing a sweet kiss to your cheeks one last time before he walked towards his bike.

you entered your apartment, waving to him as he sat on his bike, looking at you. he waved back with a grin.

after he rode away, you closed and locked the door, leaning against it as you touched your lips and cheeks, all the places his lips had touched you. your heart was racing wildly, the butterflies in your stomach refusing to slow down, the memories of the night replaying in your head. Bucky Barnes might be the death of you, you thought.

you were in deep shit, you concluded.

this was longer than I usually write but thank you so much for reading! likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated <3

[aislinregin]

I don't like getting political anymore. I have too much to protect, too much that leaves me and people I love profoundly vulnerable in the current climate. But I feel like I have to say this, so I'm going to do something that makes me sick to my stomach: I'm going to censor myself.

I have always told myself, my partners, my friends, my children that when you're getting the measure of someone, you should definitely trust your gut. Or your pet, whichever gets there first. Animals have a keen sense for danger, and your gut is just the part of you that doesn't realize you're supposed to be a civilized human. But also, possibly even more importantly, people always tell you who they are eventually. It might take a while, they might put on a good show for years. But sooner or later, people always tell you who they are and what they want to do. That can look different in different people. Let me give you an example.

When I was seventeen I started dating a guy I worked with. He was 19, so only a little older, but where I lived he was a legal adult so there was definitely a power dynamic at play that I was not equipped to navigate safely. This guy said all the right things, made all the right moves, for months. And the whole time my gut was whispering "this isn't right, something is wrong." But I could prove it, not even to myself, so I told myself I was imagining it. I was not imagining it. One day I was riding in the backseat of a car with this guy and he wanted to go to a friend's party. But it had been a long day for me and I was tired and I knew his friends were the type who would want to drink a lot of beer and act foolish and I was just not in the mood. So I said that was fine but he could go by himself because I wanted to go home and read a book. He said "no, we're going to the party." And I said "No, you can go if you want but I'm going home."

And then he slapped me across the face.

He did it once. I think it surprised him how little I reacted (it wasn't the first time I'd been slapped, it wasn't even the hundredth). I looked him in the eye and I remember very clearly that my gut was suddenly louder than a bullhorn: "YOU KNEW THIS WAS WRONG, AND NOW HE'S SHOWN YOU HOW."

So I smiled, all coy and sweet, and unbuckled my seatbelt to scoot over like I was going to cuddle up to him and "apologize." Then I unbuckled his seatbelt, reached across him, opened the door of the car, and shoved him out of the car. It was moving, slowly through a neighborhood, and the driver was so shocked he slammed on the brakes while I closed the door and locked it. The now ex boyfriend was screaming like he'd been shot (he was fine, was barely bruised). I told the driver that if he didn't drive me home right then I was calling the cops.

All that to say that people will always tell you who they are and what they want eventually. If they're being honest, what they say won't change much over time, just as they grow and evolve. You can track those changes, be part of them. But if they're lying or putting on a mask, sooner or later they'll slip up and then you'll know. What you do next will tell them a lot: it will tell them if you're going to let them be who they really are, if they can continue to use and abuse you. Trump has never been anything but brutally honest about who he is. He has been telling us from the start who he is and what he wants. And the whole damn country or even world has been scrambling to assure us that it's fine, he can't do those things, we have all these things that protect us (Congress, police, the military, the Constitution). But I have been listening to Trump and his people. I've heard everything they've said. They've told us who they are. And when people tell you who they are, the trick is to take them at their word. Believe them. So you know what? I believe him. But I can't shove him out of a moving car. I can get out of the car though. It's happened before. It's happened before here. We have a secret history no one wants to talk about, one with mass graves under residential schools less than two hours from where I sit right now, chemically castrated queers, non consensual lobotomies on autistics and other neurodivergents, internment camps and forced migrations and outright fucking massacres. What Trump and his puppeteers want is not out of line with this country's soul. This is not new. This is what this country has always been. It's time to believe it. It's time to get out of the fucking car.

Let's connect some dots here

The Trump administration kidnaps and sends hundreds of people to a prison camp in El Salvador with no due process (meaning they never have to prove these people committed whatever offence the Admin claims)

The Administration sets the precedent that anyone, up to green card holder and naturalized citizens, will be subject to this for practicing free speech in a way the Administration doesn't like

The Administration puts out two Executive Orders, one which says they believe trans people and parents of trans children are all sexual offenders and another that anyone who criticizes Israel is a terrorist

The President puts out a statement, in public, saying he wants to find ways to send US citizens to those foreign prison camps

The Administration directly defies 2 different SCOTUS decisions that say anyone who is deported must get due process and (this one a unanimous decision) they must return a wrongfully deported man

The US President now tells the President of El Salvador, again in public, that they will need to expand their facilities because he wants to start sending "homegrown criminals" to El Salvador very soon

We aren't even in boiling the frog territory any more, we're in a flash frier.

Like I hate sounding like a fucking tinfoil hat nutjob, but it's clear as day, right? He's saying exactly what he wants to do. And no one is doing anything about it. They're just saying "hey that's illegal!" and then letting it happen anyway.

[secretlysimpash]

If you took one of the boys home, and you had a big ol' dog, I think that...

John would do the thing where instead of petting the dog, he just lovingly pats it's side..."The dad pat". And he's definitely sharing whatever he eats with the dog, too (as long as it's safe for the dog, ofc...he wants to spoil the dog, not make it sick).

Kyle would be on his best behavior with the dog...Until you're not looking. As soon as you leave those two alone, he riles the dog up. You'll be on an important call when there's just a cacophony of barking, play-growling, and stomping from a few rooms over.

Since Johnny doesn't like dogs all that much, he would try to stick close to your side...Or wherever the dog will leave him alone. But alas, the dog definitely decides that he's their new best friend, father, playmate, and everything else that involves Soap being as close as possible. Wherever the Scot goes, the big puppy isn't far behind.

Simon is on the opposite end of the spectrum when compared to Johnny. Simon LOVES dogs, and he comes prepared. Every time Simon comes through your door, expect a gift for you...And one for the dog. Suddenly your dog has a skull bandana to match Ghost, and looks almost disappointed when you come home without him sometimes.

The Shadows already have some German Shepard's and Belgian Malinois on the team...So when Phillip sees that you have a dog that's bigger than the ones he's used to working with, he's excited. Phillip is high-energy, your dog has a lot of pent up energy...Take them to the park, and just watch them both run, play frisbee, fetch...They could do this for hours. And when you get home and the dog is sound asleep, Phillip will still have enough energy for you.

König would IMMEDIATELY try picking the dog up like a baby. As soon as he knows the dog won't try to rip his face off, he just scoops it up into his arms. Half as a show of strength ("Look, Schatzi...They weigh nothing to me!"), and half because I can't help but see him as an animal lover. And if you're watching a movie, or cuddling, or doing anything together, nine out of ten times he'll want the dog to come. Sorry, but that's his baby now, too.