#i struggled with that while making these and you can totally tell

[shikai-the-storyteller]

Retro made a thread the other day talking about Dababel and clarified some concerns regarding GenAI:

—

[Skip to the bottom of this post for a written transcript of her tweets]

Transcript:

Few notes in regards to Dababel & GenAI, thread The TTS is technically GenAI, however TTS AI works differently then LLMs and is generally FAR more efficient, and consumes far less compute & thus power (1/5) The TTS provider does use a (VERY tiny) LLM as part of TTS, most modern “AI” TTS do, but again this one is REALLY tiny and used only for helping with pronunciation since that has been something TTS struggles with (see: “You should read this” vs “I read this” problem) (2/5) When you provide your voice it’s used to make a model that sounds like you that’s only usable by you and that’s it, it or your data are NOT used for training or anything else as stated on the website and you’re in control, you delete the model and that data is destroyed (3/5) GenAI will NEVER be used to replace human creativity. Example: During production of the Federation horror streams an AI voice changer was considered for the witch and Quackity personally vetoed this because it was AI. (4/5) I get the concerns, I don’t like GenAI. I’m not on the Dababel team but I can tell you the TTS was used with these considerations in mind because it’s genuinely useful in allowing voice duplication in a way that doesn’t infringe on anyone’s rights while minimizing harm. (5/5) I’ll delete this in a few hours. Again I totally understand the community’s concerns, I dont like GenAI in replacing human creativity either and I’m deeply concerned about the environmental impact. The decision for that feature was made with these factors in mind.

[charliegyrth]

Fattening the ICE Agents

Using Donuts to Fight Injustice

This story is based on an anonymous reader suggestion. It gets a little political.

***

Business was slow. Again.

I looked at the clock. 10:30. This should be my busiest time. A month ago, I would’ve had a line of people at the counter. Today, nothing. So far, I’d only sold two empanadas dulces and three (no, four) coffees. If things didn’t pick up soon, I don’t think Franz’s Donuts was going to make it. So much for the American dream.

Just as I was wallowing in my own panicked thoughts, the door opened and a strikingly handsome blond guy strode in.

El Milagro was a small border town in southeast Arizona. It was a close-knit community. Less than 5,000 full-time residents, plus a bunch of temporary farm workers in the spring. I felt like I knew pretty much everyone here, but this guy was a total stranger. He approached the counter with an arrogant smile. “Yo. Thank God I found the one normal place here.”

“Thank you?” I had no idea what he meant by “normal.” He was a paying customer, so as long as he was happy, that’s all I cared about.

He spent a while looking at the selection. I had an assortment of standard donuts, but because the area was mostly Mexican-American, I also had churros, conchas, coyotas, and a bunch of other pastries that I had to teach myself to make when I first settled here two years ago. This guy passed over all of those, focusing instead on the maple long johns and apple fritters on the top shelf.

“I’ll take one of those, please.” He nodded toward an apple fritter. “And a coffee, lots of cream.”

“Of course.” I got him his order, but since I had plenty of extras (and I really needed some repeat business), I gave him two more fritters on the house.

He flashed me a conspiratorial look. I couldn’t tell if he interpreted the freebies as my way of flirting with him. Maybe I was. A little. The guy was gorgeous. Square-jawed. Muscular enough for his chest and arms to strain against his tight black shirt. He reminded me of the farmboys back home in Austria.

He paid. Left a pretty big tip, too. “I’ll have to tell my buddies about this place. See ya.”

I tried not to stare at his ass as he strutted out the door. He was already nibbling on his first apple fritter.

***

That night, I brought bags of my unsold donuts to Iglesia del Sagrado Corazón, the small church near my house. I’m not religious (at all), but the people here were so kind to me when I first moved to El Milagro, and most of my friends went here, so I always tried to pay them back when I had a surplus. (And these days, I always had a surplus.)

Manuel greeted me at the backdoor. He was a handsome guy, about a foot shorter than me but with a big, loud personality. You ever meet someone who exudes friendliness from his pores? The kind of person who seems genuinely happy every time he sees you? That’s Manuel. Probably my favorite person.

Tonight, there was a nervous edge to his smile, though. “Franz! You’re always so generous!” he said in Spanish.

I handed him the two bags of goodies. “It’s been a slow week,” I admitted.

“I know,” he said darkly, switching to English. He nodded toward the open door, where I could see that the church was sparsely populated for a Saturday evening. Apparently my shop wasn’t the only place suffering.

“What’s going on?” I followed him inside and helped him arrange the pastries on a table.

He listed off the latest families that had been rounded up by ICE, all people I knew. I was aware of the growing number of raids, but I didn’t realize that things had gotten this bad. Even the Padillas were gone now, and they’d been a part of this community for decades.

As he talked, I felt so guilty for all my business worries. Of course I was struggling. All the local businesses were. Our regular customers were either gone or too afraid to leave their homes. I’d been a naturalized citizen since 2023, but I still worried that they’d come for me, too.

“How can I help?”

He glanced at all the donuts. (People were already snatching them up.) “You are helping, Franz. Thank you.”

“Well, if you need anything else…” I didn’t know what else to say. Normally, I’d hang out for a while. (I loved spending time with Manuel.) But I said my goodbyes, waved to a couple of my friends, and headed home.

***

The next morning, that blond guy came back, and he wasn’t alone. He brought five of his friends with him. They loudly joked with each other as they walked inside. They all looked the same: muscular, handsome, and white.

“This is it!” the blond guy announced to his buddies.

The tallest, skinniest guy in their group let out an exaggerated sigh. “Finally! I feel like I’m still in America.”

I flinched. El Milagro was in America. And just because I was white didn’t make my place more American than any of the other shops in town. I mean, seriously. This was Franz’s Donuts, not fucking Frank’s Donuts.

“What can I get you?”

The blond guy ordered first. He wanted another apple fritter. The others took more time figuring out what they wanted. They stayed away from my more “exotic” pastries, except for the tall guy. He ordered a churro. Then the other guys razzed him about it, so he switched to a jelly donut.

As I was working the register, they started joking around about some farmer that they’d just tackled to the ground. They acted like it was hilarious how the poor guy tripped over a sprinkler and fucked up his leg.

“Serves him right,” the blond guy said. “If he doesn’t even know how to say, ‘My ankle is broken!’ in American, then he shouldn’t expect special treatment, right?”

He looked at me when he said that, assuming that I’d agree with him. “It’ll be $14.50,” I said.

Thankfully, he didn’t notice the icy tone in my voice.

I gave them their donuts and tried to block them out as they sat at a table and continued laughing and bragging about their latest arrests. These were ICE agents, if you couldn’t tell. I hated them with a burning passion. And because they were so fucking loud, I couldn’t drown them out.

Even though the blond guy looked younger than the others, he seemed to be their leader. He was the most obnoxious.

As I stood behind the counter, I started thinking about ways that I could stop them. Maybe I could lace their brownies with laxatives, so that they’d shit themselves while they were tackling innocent people to the ground. No. That’s a bad idea.

But I had to think of something. As one of the only white businessowners in this town, they automatically trusted me. They assumed that I actually liked how they were terrorizing my community and threatening my customers. If they had any sense of empathy, they would’ve noticed the disgusted look on my face. But nope, they didn’t.

And perhaps I could use that to my advantage.

I didn’t have a plan or anything. (That laxative idea was pretty stupid.) But if I played nice, earned their trust, and made sure that they kept coming back, then I’d have time to think of something.

So as they were getting ready to leave, I dropped an assortment of free donuts on their table. “On the house, gentlemen.”

“Nice!” the tall guy said.

A couple of the others thanked me. Then the blond one stood up, gave me a flirtatious smile that he made sure the others couldn’t see, and said, “Glad to know someone in this godforsaken place actually has the right priorities. I’m Tom.”

“Franz.” I shook his hand. He had a surprisingly weak grip for someone so outwardly macho.

He walked past me and added a few more dollars into my tip jar. Then they were gone.

I knew they’d be back. I just hoped I could hide my anger long enough to think of a way to get them out of town.

***

Two weeks later, I was wiping off the counter when Tom and five of his buddies came in for their morning donuts.

I forced a smile. “Morning!”

Tom came in at least once every single day. He always brought at least three other people with him, though they rotated. Over time, I got to know all their names and favorite donuts. I learned that they used El Milagro as their base, but they worked throughout the whole region, mostly targeting farms and factories. They were on a six-month contract with the goal of flushing out “all illegals” by the end of summer. (It was early March.)

“Hey, Franz. The usual, please.” (Three apple fritters, though he only paid for two.) The others ordered long johns and bear claws.

As always, they gave me tips that more than covered all the free stuff I was giving them.

They ate at their usual table, lost in their loud, obnoxious conversation.

I was miserable. Every day, I was surrounded by these people, and I still couldn’t figure out how to stop them. They were scaring off my other customers, too. Franz’s Donuts had gone from a local business into a racist meeting ground. And I was complicit.

The only silver lining was… Well, there were two. First, I was making enough money to stay afloat. By giving them so many “free” donuts, they were overflowing my tip jar. (The government paid them a ton, apparently.) And second, I was starting to notice that these ultra-fit guys were starting to soften up. Every one of them was thickening around the middle, especially Tom. It felt good to know that my pastries were having such a clear and fast effect on their bodies.

I still felt awful, though. And with each passing day, as I overheard more of their horrendous stories, I lost hope that they would ever leave us alone.

***

That evening, I dropped off my leftover pastries at Iglesia del Sagrado Corazón. Because the ICE agents always finished my donuts, I only brought the Mexican desserts that they never touched. I knew that I was no longer selling churros or conchas anymore, but I still made the same amount. Donating to the church was the one way that I could feel good about myself.

“Hi, Franz!” Manuel was sitting in the courtyard with our friends Tony and Gilberto. For the first time in weeks, they looked happy. Tony was even wiping tears from his eyes after laughing too hard.

“What’s going on?”

With a big smile, Manuel jumped up and gave me a hug. That caught me by surprise. (And I loved feeling his strong arms wrap around me.) “Thank you, my friend.” He wasn’t talking about my donation, though. He was thanking me for something else.

“What did I do?”

Manuel turned to Gilberto and asked him to show me a video.

Gilberto held up his phone, and I saw a video of two workers running from an ICE agent in a field of cotton. I didn’t recognize the workers, but I recognized the agent. It was Tom. He ran as fast as he could, but he couldn’t catch up to the men. He stopped for a second to hold his side and catch his breath.

The workers stopped running and walked past him, knowing that he had gotten too out-of-shape to catch them. Tom screamed something racist and started running again. He ended up tripping over his own feet and landing face-first in the cotton. That’s when the video ended.

Tony was cry-laughing again.

“It’s because of you,” Manuel told me in Spanish. “I didn’t understand why you would be so nice to those invaders, but now I understand. You’re fattening them.”

“I guess I am.”

“¡Eres un genio!” Tony shouted. (“You’re a genius.”)

I wasn’t. This was entirely unintentional. But if it works, it works.

“And those workers?” I asked.

“They’re safe,” Manuel said, smiling as he ate one of my churros.

And just like that, I finally had a plan.

***

When I saw Tom the next morning, he came alone. A bit of his confident swagger was gone. He ordered an apple fritter but told me that he only wanted one. “No freebies today, please.” Yesterday’s failed arrest was a wake-up call, apparently.

“Okay,” I said. “But if you’re trying to cut back, you can try one of my sugar-free, low-carb ones instead.”

His eyes widened. “Yeah? You have that?”

I pulled out the tray of apple fritters that I made special for him. “Of course. They’re not popular, because the taste isn’t the same without all the unhealthy stuff. But they’re great for weight loss. I’ll let you try the first one on the house.”

He greedily grabbed one off the tray and rushed back to the table. I watched excitedly as he took the first bite. Then he moaned. He literally moaned!

“You can taste the difference, right?”

“Uh huh,” he said, tearing off another bite.

“Do you actually like it? Most people don’t.”

“This is incredible!”

“That’s, um, surprising. I guess because you’re such a naturally healthy guy, you’re one of the lucky ones who prefers the healthier stuff. Would you like some more?”

He scarfed down the rest of the fritter, then raced back to the counter. I sold him six.

As he ate, I made up a bunch of stuff about how healthy they are. “Guilt-free fritters,” I called them. He had no idea that the real reason he liked the taste was because I packed them with lard and appetite stimulants.

***

A month later, Tom didn’t show up for his morning donuts. Five other agents did, but not Tom. This was his first time missing breakfast.

I asked them where he was.

Jonathan, the guy with probably the smallest belly, said that he was on a diet now.

Such a disappointing thing to hear. The highlight of my day was seeing him waddle in, just a bit bigger every time. His belly was finally dropping over his pants, and his face was rounding out. He was also more bottom-heavy that his other gaining coworkers, so a lot of his new weight was packed onto his thighs.

The other ICE agents were all chubbing out thanks to my lard-soaked donuts, but none were as gloriously overstuffed as Tom. I’d miss seeing him, but I had a feeling he’d be back. The cravings were inside him now.

I listened to the guys talk. They’d become less boisterous in the last few weeks, probably because their arrests were down. It’s hard to chase down targets with pounds of added blubber hanging off their formerly athletic bodies.

Suddenly, my cell rang, so I headed into the kitchen to answer it in private. I didn’t recognize the number.

“Hello? Franz’s Donuts.”

“Hi! It’s Manuel.”

My heart fluttered at the sound of his voice. “Where are you calling from?”

“Rosa’s Diner,” he said, trying to keep his voice down. “Guess who’s here.”

“Tom.” Who else could it be?

Manuel excitedly told me about the fat ICE agent eating a Caesar salad all alone.

“Yeah? And what did Rosa add to it?”

“Extra dressing. Cheese. Lots of bacon.” He stifled a laugh. “And she soaked all the lettuce in melted butter. I just wanted you to know.”

“Thanks. Tell her to add salt to his second plate so that he’ll drink more soda.”

We laughed for a little bit before Manuel ended the call.

I fucking loved this. Every business in town was collaborating on making the agents fat. We had weekly meetings at the church to discuss strategies and brag about our efforts. Manuel and I spearheaded the project. He always kept me posted, especially when it came to Tom. He was our favorite target.

Through the door, I could hear my customers getting ready to leave. I had to rush out there and give them some freebies.

“I’ll talk to you later.”

“Wait,” Manuel said. “Can you come over tonight?” It sounded like he had more ideas to discuss.

“I’d love to.”

***

I stood in front of Manuel’s door and adjusted my hair. I hated how nervous I was. Manuel was my best friend. I saw him every day. I’ve been over to his place plenty of times. But… This felt different. It was already dark outside, and it was just going to be the two of us.

He opened the door before I could knock.

“Come in! Come in!” He excitedly pulled me inside. “Very handsome.”

My heart sped up. “Uh, you too.”

He was dressed all in black. His shirt looked a little tight on him, especially around the stomach. He wasn’t gaining weight as quickly as the ICE agents, but he was definitely gaining. It felt like he wanted me to notice.

He grabbed my hand and pulled me into his dining room, where he’d already laid out tamales and a plate of boiled beef. It smelled delicious. And oddly familiar.

“Is this… tafelspitz?” I asked. He made me real Austrian food? He remembered when I told him about my favorite childhood meal! I was… I can’t describe how I felt.

“I tried my best.”

We sat across from each other. My nervousness was gone. Now, I was just curious. “What’s the special occasion?”

He shrugged. “Let’s eat.”

I took a tamale and a couple slices of the beef. He’d made a horseradish sauce, but he’d added some Mexican spices. The flavors melted in my mouth. This wasn’t a traditional Austrian dish. It was a perfect fusion of two different cultures.

In a way, the dinner felt like a message. I know this sounds cheesy, but it was like he was using food to remind me about why we were on our mission, why we were fighting for our country. America accepts everyone. It combines flavors and brings together ingredients to make something new, something better. And just because the current government had chosen to purge an entire segment of our community, that didn’t take away from the true ideals of our chosen country.

Yeah, this probably sounds like I was reading way too much into this meal.

“It’s delicious.”

“Thank you.”

We ate in silence for a long time before Manuel finally told me why he invited me. “I like you, Franz.”

I assumed he walk talking in a friendly way. “I like you, too.”

“I know.” His voice sounded more serious.

I looked up. He was staring at me. His dark eyes were steady. “You’ve been interested in me for a while, haven’t you?” he asked, switching over to Spanish, I guess because it’s easier for him to communicate his feelings.

“Yes.” I’d been attracted to him since the first time we met, though he never treated me as anything other than a friend.

“You’re a good person, Franz. And I think…” His voice trailed off.

I waited for him to continue.

He stood up and walked to my side of the table. Then he grabbed my chin and kissed me. I tasted a dozen different spices on his tongue.

***

A few hours later, we were lying in bed together, both trying to catch our breath. In a way, this felt too fast. In another way, this felt like we’d been waiting years. He was incredible. His small, compact body felt so natural against me. He was both gentle and powerful, desperate to take me and hungry for my touch.

His naked body was stretched out next to me, his head resting on his hand and his rounded stomach spilling out onto the mattress. Without his clothes on, his belly was fatter than I’d realized. Not soft, though. Just firm and round.

He smiled at me. I smiled at him.

And I couldn’t help it. I reached over and stroked my fingers against his chubby middle.

“I’m fatter now,” he said, as if that wasn’t obvious.

“You’re hot.”

“I know. I like this.” He placed his hand over mine. We were feeling his belly together. “I saw what was happening to the invaders…” (He always called the ICE agents “invaders.” Invasores.) “And I was curious what it would feel like.”

“So you… chose to…”

“I’ve been eating their special food for weeks. I think that’s why I finally invited you over. I feel confident now.”

That surprised me. Manuel always seemed confident. He was a ball of positive energy wherever he went, always comfortable with himself. But I guess he felt like there was something missing.

It was so strange to compare him to my customers. Their weight gain didn’t turn me on. At all. In fact, I used to think that some of them were kind of attractive, and the softer they got, the more they repulsed me. It was like their inner flaws were manifesting on their bodies. They were getting uglier by the day.

But Manuel was different. He was… beautiful.

“Do you, um, want to get bigger?”

“Of course.”

“Do you want me to help you?”

“Of course.”

***

By the middle of August, the ICE agents stopped coming to my shop. I heard from a couple different people that their superiors had put them all on diets. They weren’t meeting their quotas and they could barely function in the Arizona heat.

I knew this day was coming. I was both happy that our town’s plan had worked and disappointed that they didn’t just get fired and leave town. They still had one more month until their assignment was over.

I saw them on our main streets sometimes, waddling around and acting tough. Each one of them was outright obese now. Tom (who gave up his diet and went back to eating my donuts after a week of staying away) was the biggest and softest by far. His hips flared out and his belly hung low. I wish I knew how much he’d gained in these five months. At least 50 pounds. Maybe closer to 75? I know that sounds like a lot, but... lard has that effect.

People weren’t afraid of them anymore, which was a mistake. They didn’t have the physical strength that they used to, but they still had the government-sanctioned power to separate families and disappear innocent people.

And because this was their last month, they were more forceful and desperate than ever.

I had just closed up for the day and was taking my bags of leftovers to the church. I brought two bags with me, one for donations, and one just for Manuel. I hoped that he was in the mood to let me feed him tonight.

The church was weirdly quiet when I got there. The front doors were closed and there was only one car in the parking lot. Manuel’s.

When I got to the back of the building, I saw a large figure crouched on the ground. It was Tom, struggling with something. His shirt had gotten untucked and his pale belly was flopping out. I rushed closer, and that’s when I saw Manuel squirming under him.

“What are you doing?” I screamed.

“None of your business!” he shouted.

I could hear Manuel whimpering. His eyes were red from pepper spray and his chubby body struggled to escape from Tom’s massive weight. The handcuffs were out, but Tom hadn’t clamped them on yet.

“He’s a citizen!” I shouted. “You know this! You already checked!”

“Just gotta be safe!” Tom shouted back.

Of course that was a lie. He just needed to fill his quota before the end of their assignment. ICE had gotten to the point where it didn’t matter if someone was a citizen or not. They just needed more people to round up.

I had to do something. Once Tom got those cuffs on him, then there was no turning back. He’d get lost in the system. And even though he was innocent and 100% a citizen, who knows how long he’d be locked up or if I’d ever get to see him again.

I could fight Tom. I’d win easily. But then I could get sent away, too.

I got as close as I could without interfering, and I shouted, “I made you fat!”

Tom immediately froze. “What?”

“You’re a fucking monster. You all are. So I made you fat.” I told him everything I did (everything the whole community did) to sabotage his health. I laid it all out.

He stood with a grunt, completely forgetting about Manuel, and ran at me. His hanging gut bobbed in front of him. His face was twisted in anger.

I backed away. I didn’t have to move fast. In fact, I purposely didn’t. I weaved around the parking lot, allowing him to get close multiple times. I was messing with him, showing him how my efforts had made it impossible for him to catch me. He was a helpless, panting blob.

This gave Manuel the opportunity to run back to my place.

Eventually, Tom doubled over, his hands on his knees and his lungs struggling for oxygen. “W-Why?”

I didn’t answer him. If he didn’t understand why we all united against him, then that was his own problem.

***

“Salud!”

Manuel and I clinked glasses. He was drinking a milkshake while I had a margarita. The ocean breeze ruffled his black hair and the sun made his dark skin golden. His was shirtless, and his thick belly (much softer than a month ago) was soaking up the rays.

We were in Puerto Vallarta, spending the rest of summer away from El Milagro. ICE was set to leave our town in a few weeks. Then we’d go back home. It was pretty empty now. Our population had been decimated and a lot of families had chosen to move away. It was going to be tough to get back to our normal lives, but if the community was going to rebound, it needed us. It needed everyone.

And while our time in Mexico was blissful (and great for Manuel’s growth), it wasn’t home. We were Americans.

I crouched onto the sand and rubbed lotion on Manuel’s belly while he slurped up his drink. “How are you feeling?”

“Fat and happy,” he said.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed. Gilberto had just texted him.

He took one look at his phone and burst out laughing.

“What?” I wiped my hands and pulled the phone from his chubby fingers.

There was a news article on screen: “ICE Efforts in Arizona – A Huge Success.”

It was from Fox News, of course, raving about how our region had been saved from rampant crime by the efforts of these noble heroes. (The article didn’t include actual statistics, obviously. Just the usual brand of xenophobia and nonsense.)

And the picture at the top of the screen showed a lineup of all the officers, every one of them grossly fat. Tom stood at the end, looking like a smiling Jabba the Hutt.

(The president gave them all medals.)

“Can you believe this?” Manuel asked.

“Only in America.”

I went back to rubbing his beautiful belly. Those officers looked awful in the picture, destined for desk jobs as they spiraled further and further into obesity. But Manuel, my Manuel, wasn’t like them at all. He was a different kind of fat.

He was beautiful.

And no matter what happened in the future, we’d always love and protect each other. And we’d always stand up for what was right.

The End

Thanks for reading. Support your neighbors.

[virfu]

Godddd I don't know how I'm gonna organize these posts. Do I post them tomorrow? I'm genuinely nervous! Like my stomach hurts lmao

[cecoeur]

it's hell on earth to be heavenly them's the breaks, they don't come gently

[driftingballoons]

Day 6: Farewell

Imagining it takes Partner a while to feel comfortable letting Hero out of their sight

@heropartnerweek

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

no doubt ── s. jy

↳ summary ── struggling to balance a world tour, endless responsibilities, and...well, the sting of getting dumped by his girlfriend, jake finds peace & comfort confiding in you—one of his closest friends. what begins as lighthearted late-night phone calls while he's away on tour deepens into something more, quickly pulling you both into uncharted emotional territory. as your connection with jake intensifies, so does your inner turmoil—torn between the comfort of your easy relationship with him and the terrifying possibility of falling for someone you're not even sure you can have in the first place. but jake? jake has absolutely no doubt of what he wants—and spoiler alert? it's you.

↳ pairing ── jake x f!reader, [ft. childhoodbestfriend!jungwon, bestfriends!enha]

↳ genre ── idol!jake, friends to lovers!au || angstttt, fluff, crack

↳ ✎ᝰ. 23.7k [never beating the allegations of getting too attached to my works and having too much fun writing i fear...]

↳ contains ── angst! very angsty but only after a lot of fluff...the cheesy cringe type but then it goes downhill real quick...but happy ending i swear!, mentions of insecurities, maybe one or two curse words, fic starts with jake dating og character named jenn, the use of pet names, jungwon practically plays therapist, jake is absolutely whipped for reader but is terrible at communication and a certified idiot . also jungwon is reader's best friend so the beginning sets up the context for that lolz

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── she's DONEEE [do u hear me crying in the background]...so some backstory lore abt this fic—basically two years ago i had a dream about the ~angsty scene~ of this fic and ever since then, i've had this itch of putting it into words. and when i finally decided to do it, no doubt came out and i thought it was literal fate since the lyrics match the vibe so well...don't tell me it isn't fate guys :') anyways..this is a little different than my typical writing style even though of course i had to include summm crack..but i am still nervous abt how it came out so i really really hope you guys like it :') thank u for all the support and love always <3

↳ update .ᐟ ── check out the sequel series of this fic here!

.・。.・��✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

You and Yang Jungwon were literally born to be best friends.  

Like, there was no other option.  

Your mom? Their high school's poster child for academic perfection—top of her class, president of every club imaginable, a certified teacher's pet.  

Jungwon's mom? Their high school's unofficial social chair—life of the party, karaoke queen, probably responsible for half the faculty's headaches. 

Nothing alike. 

So naturally, of course, they were inseparable. By their junior year, they'd already started planning their futures together, including one very specific and totally realistic goal that all teenage girl best friends make when they're young:  

"We should have our first kids around the same time and force them to be best friends!"  

"Oh my gosh, yes," Jungwon's mom agreed enthusiastically. "Like, we'll make them share everything! Matching outfits, playdates, joint birthday parties!"  

But what your moms didn't realize as they were giggling over the playful promise that probably didn't hold any meaning to them at the age of 17? 

The universe was taking notes.  

So fast forward a couple decades later, and there you were, baby best friends from birth, fulfilling the shared dream of your mothers—the true puppeteers in this scenario.  

All your moms had to do was execute their promise as planned, but the rest of it? The rest of it was easy.  

You and Jungwon clicked before you even knew what words were, communicating in a series of shared giggles and unintelligible baby noises. By the time you turned two, you were finishing each other's sentences in your made-up gibberish language, and by preschool, the bond was unshakable. 

You two—just like your moms—were inseparable.  

By high school, everyone knew you were a package deal—where you went, Jungwon followed, and vice versa. So, when he announced your sophomore year that he was leaving to compete on a televised idol survival show, you were, understandably, skeptical.  

"Are you sure it's not a scam?" You had asked, rolling lazily around on his bed while he scrambled around his room, packing his bags.  

"It's not a scam," Jungwon laughed, carefully folding his clothes. 

"Did they ask for your social security number?"  

"Y/N."  

"Exactly. I'm just saying—if you end up on one of those exposé documentaries about fake talent shows, don't say I didn't warn you."  

Despite your teasing, you knew how much this meant to him. Jungwon had been dreaming about being in the music spotlight since he figured out how to work a karaoke machine at the age of six.  

So when he eventually did make his debut with his group, you weren't surprised at all—it was inevitable, written in the stars, just like how your friendship with him was.

What did surprise you, though, was how seamlessly you got roped into his new world.  

Sure, Jungwon's life got infinitely busier overnight, but there is no universe that exists in which he'd forget about you—his non-conjoined twin, ride-or-die, and ultimate life-long nuisance (his words, not yours).  

And so naturally, you became an honorary member of this new life of his. The boys' practice studio might as well be your new home—the endless days camping out on the floor of their dance studio with your head in your textbooks while they drilled their choreography for the hundredth time proved that. Or maybe how you crash on their dorm couch so often that Sunoo coined you your new nickname: their unofficial eighth member.  

Which brings you to now: a marketing major by day, unofficial idol by night, and, as always, a certified magnet to chaos.

Case in point? Whatever madness was happening around you at this exact moment.  

"Okay, but hear me out," Heeseung says, gesturing dramatically with his pizza slice—one of many scattered across the coffee table everyone was sitting around. "Pineapple is the perfect combination of sweet and savory—"  

"It's a crime against humanity," Sunghoon cuts in. 

Tomorrow? The boys leave for their five-month tour.  

Tonight? Tonight is tradition: the pre-tour pizza bash.  

Naturally, it's chaos, as no one has bothered with the last-minute packing they're supposed to be doing.  

Not a single bag is packed.  

"It's fruit on bread," you scrunch your nose, taking a bite of your own normal pepperoni pizza. "This isn't dessert, Hee."  

"Thank you!" Sunghoon reaches across the table to high-five you. 

From the couch behind you, Jake chuckles and nudges your back with his knee, "Big talk coming from someone who claims pickles belong on everything."  

"Uh, because they do," you whip your head around to glare at him. "Pickles are versatile."  

"Versatile my ass," Jungwon mumbles from his spot beside you. "I love you, but you're deranged."  

"Look who's talking, Mr. 'I-put-hot-sauce-on-everything'," you shoot back, eyes narrowing at your best friend. Everyone chuckles from around the table at your dramatic, yet endearing, overreaction. 

"Hot sauce is different," Jay chimes in without even looking up from his phone. "It's an enhancer."  

"Pickles enhance flavor too!"  

"By making everything taste like vinegar," Sunoo deadpans from your other side. "Gross."  

"Whatever," you roll your eyes. "You're all uncultured."  

"And you're a menace," Jake quips from behind you, his voice dripping with amusement. You don't even have to turn around to see the smirk on his face—you can hear it loud and clear. 

"Careful, Sim," you say with a sly glance over your shoulder. "Keep talking, and I'll start adding pickle juice to your coffee."  

The room fills with laughter, but before Jake can fire back, his phone buzzes aggressively against the couch. You watch him glance down at his screen before his playful smile instantly fades.  

"I'll be right back," Jake mutters, getting up and heading towards the kitchen without another word.  

You frown as you watch him disappear around the corner, the sudden shift in his mood gnawing at you, and you can't help but wonder what's gotten under his skin. 

After a few more minutes of heated debates over pizza toppings—and yet another round of everyone ganging up on your weird pickle obsession—you decide it was time for a drink refill.  

Excusing yourself, you step into the kitchen, only to find Jake leaning against the counter, his arms crossed and gaze fixed on the empty wall in front of him. His phone sits abandoned on the counter, screen dark.  

"Jake?" You call out softly, approaching slowly. 

Your voice breaks through his haze, his expression flickering as he registers you standing in the doorway, your brows furrowed in concern.  

"What's going on?" You ask, moving closer to stand in front of him.   

"Nothing," Jake says too quickly, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

You give him a look and he knows that you know he's lying, "Jake.."  

He exhales, his expression crumbling as he runs a hand through his hair, "Just...Jenn called."  

Ah. Of course. Jenn.  

You almost flinch at the sound of the name, the weight it carries instantly souring your stomach. Jake's on-again, off-again girlfriend of two years was a constant source of heartbreak—not just for the poor boy, but for the entire group who helped pick up the pieces of his broken heart after every messy break-up…and even messier make-up.  

"She broke up with me," Jake admits quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "For real this time. Something about me leaving for tour and how it wasn't going to work out."  

Your heart hurts at the sight of him in front of you—shoulders slumped, hands nervously twisting the hem of his shirt, as if trying to distract himself from the conversation.  

"Oh, Jake...," you murmur, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder as you lean against the counter next to him.  

"I'm fine," he insists, waving it off, but the expression on his face clearly betrays him.  

"No, you're not," you say, trying to catch his eyes. "And that's okay."  

Jake lets out a shaky breath, finally looking up from the ground to look at you, before shrugging, "I don't even know why I’m surprised. We've been...really off for a while now. Like, more than usual. But still, it sucks."  

“Of course, it sucks," you nod, agreeing softly. "You guys were together for a long time. You cared about her."  

For a moment, the two of you sit in a heavy silence with an unspoken understanding, the only sounds coming from the muffled chatter and laughter in the other room. You stay close, letting him process without pushing further.  

Still, you can't entirely suppress the annoying flare of emotions bubbling in your chest—a tangled knot of sympathy and…something else. Relief, maybe? Not that you would ever wish any sort of pain on Jake—but you hate the way Jenn always leaves him like this: drained, doubting himself, and trying to piece together what went wrong, where he went wrong. 

"Come back to the living room," you say finally, nudging his side gently. "Ni-ki is freaking out over which hoodies to pack. And I swear, they're all the same black hoodie."  

Jake lets out a small, tired laugh, "You don't need me for that. He's gonna end up packing all of them, just watch."  

"You don't know that," you tease. "Besides, I need someone's back up to help me convince him he's not actually going through an emo phase."  

His eyes carry a faint smile as he looks at you, the corners of his lips lifting just enough to remind you of the warmth he usually carries.  

"Okay," he says in a whisper, pushing himself off the counter.  

You start towards the doorway, forgetting about your drink refill entirely, but his voice stops you.  

"Y/N?"  

You turn to find him still standing there, his eyes filled with warmth and appreciation.  

"Thanks," he adds, a small smile on his face. It's such a simple statement, but the way he says it—soft, sincere, and maybe just a little desperate—makes something twist in your stomach. "For just...always being here."  

You smile back up at the boy, "Of course, Jake. I'll always be here for you. You know that."  

For a moment, he holds your gaze, as if taking a mental note of something. Then he nods, his shoulders relaxing.

"Okay," he says, exhaling as he gestures toward the doorway. "Let's go.”

You follow behind the boy back to the living room, silently hoping he knows just how much you mean your promise to him.  

Jake's body is on autopilot at this point.  

Another city, another show, another string of flashing lights and deafening cheers. It's a month into tour, and the endless loop of responsibilities has left him no room to just breathe.  

And he loves this life—he really does. But tonight, for reasons he can't explain, the adrenaline that usually keeps him afloat isn't enough. Pure exhaustion lingers in his bones, heavier than the applause and screams echoing in his memory, and he just can’t seem to shake it. 

When his head finally hits the stiff hotel pillow, Jake exhales with a heavy sigh. The city around him is alive, the neon lights brightly dancing against his windowpane, but he feels none of it. 

Instead? He just feels the weight of homesickness and the ache of being alone. 

Normally, he would push through, shove these thoughts into the back of his mind, call it a night. But tonight, the ache feels different—sharper, louder—and before he knows it, his phone is in his hand before he can talk himself out of it, his thumb hovering over your name on his screen. 

A familiar battle wages in his mind, one he’s been battling more recently ever since tour became a little heavier on him. Slowly, the quiet yearning has been creeping in, and he’s been missing home more and more, craving the feeling of familiarity. But it isn’t just the physical places or the comfort of his regular routine that he craves. 

It’s something else, something harder to name. 

And for some other reason he can’t seem to explain, he thinks it’s you. 

Jake doesn’t know when it started. Maybe it was hearing the sound of your voice through the phone whenever the guys called you to check in every now and then. Or maybe it was the way you would text in their shared group chat, your messages always tinged with humor or a sense of calm that somehow made everything feel a little less overwhelming. 

Whatever it was, it stuck with him. He finds himself craving that unexplainable comfort only you seem to bring. He tells himself it’s nothing special, just the natural pull of familiarity. You’re back at home, the place he misses the most, so obviously, through association, it makes sense. 

It’s logical. Nothing more. 

That’s what he tells himself as his thumb hovers over your name. It’s not about you specifically—it couldn’t be. It��s just the connection to home. The grounding warmth of your voice. The way you somehow make the distance feel a little less suffocating. 

Obviously. Nothing more. 

He presses call.  

Two rings. That's all it takes before your voice cuts through all the static in his head. Groggy, soft, and achingly familiar. Like home.  

"Jake? It's late, is everything okay?"  

Jake glances at the clock. 10:13PM where he is. Much later for you, he imagines. Guilt stirs, but...  

He doesn't want to hang up. 

Hearing your voice feels like the first breath of air after surfacing from deep water. He instantly feels more comfortable despite the heaviness in his chest.

"Hey," he mumbles, his voice quiet. "I'm okay. Just...needed to hear a friendly voice, I guess."  

"Wow, are the boys that bad that you need to call me?" You tease warmly, despite the sleepiness lingering in your words.  

Jake chuckles, the sound low and tired, "Nothing against them, really. It's just...sometimes you need someone who reminds you of home, you know?"  

The other end of the line goes quiet for a moment. He can hear you shuffle, and he braces himself for a teasing comment about him being sappy and sentimental. But instead, your voice softens.  

"Well, I'm glad I could be that for you," your voice telling him you're smiling brightly on the other side of the screen. "Though if I had a private jet, I'd send it right now. Bring you back instantly."  

"A private jet, huh?" Jake's eyes flutter close as he's engulfed into the usual, playful rhythm that's always there between the two of you. "You'd do that for me?"  

"Only if you bring back goodies, preferably snacks," you quip back, and the warmth in his chest grows.  

There's another pause, the kind that feels comfortable rather than awkward. Jake shifts in his spot and before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “How do you do that?”  

“Do what?” 

“Make everything feel...lighter. Like, I can’t explain it, but just hearing you makes me feel like I’m not carrying all this stuff by myself.” 

Your voice softens at his sudden vulnerability. 

“Because you don't have to carry it all on your own, Jake. You know that, right? That’s what friends are for."  

Jake hums in response, a low sound of acknowledgement as he keeps his phone pressed close, your voice instantly soothing the heavy emotions he's been carrying. 

"You sound exhausted," you say after a beat, your tone cautious but filled with genuine care. "How are you holding up? With everything—the tour, the...break-up, just...you?"  

Jake lets out a low groan, his fingers brushing through his hair. "You sound like my mom."  

"Well, someone has to," you tease lightly, a relieved laugh slipping into your voice, as if you'd been afraid you overstepped. "Seriously, Jake. Are you doing okay?"  

Jake hesitates, the question catching him off guard. He hadn't let himself think too much about Jenn or the breakup since leaving for tour a month ago. The boys knew better than to bring it up, and Jake had been grateful for that—for the distraction.  

But now, with you, it feels different. 

Safer, easier. Natural.  

“Honestly? I don’t know,” he sighs, the sound heavy through the phone. “Some days it feels like I’m fine, like I’ve moved on, and other days...it’s like I’m stuck in this loop of ‘what ifs.’ Like, what if I did something different? Or..."  

He trails off to a pause, his throat tight, before he finally admits to you, and himself, "...what if I just wasn't enough?"  

“Jake,” you say gentle but firm, cutting through his spiraling thoughts. “You are enough. You've always been enough. Jenn...she just wasn’t the right person for you. That doesn’t mean you did anything wrong.” 

He swallows hard, your words settling into the cracks he didn't even realize were there. 

"Thanks, Y/N. I mean it. It's just...hard, you know? Haven't really talked about it since it happened. But talking to you helps—a lot."  

“I’m glad." He can hear the quiet sincerity in your words. “And for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing an amazing job. With tour, with...everything. You've got this, Jake. I’m really proud of you.”

Jake lets out a breathy laugh, the warmth in your words settling something in his chest—a knot he didn't even realize was there. 

“You always know what to say, don’t you?” 

“It’s a gift,” you easily reply, and he can hear the grin in your voice, the easy banter making him feel lighter.  

"I missed this," the words tumble out before he can stop himself. Then he quickly adds, as if to explain himself, "It's weird not having you around. The boys are great and all, but you give the best advice. Don't tell them that."  

You giggle on your end, the sound making Jake's lips curve into a small smile and his heart twists.  

In both a comforting and terrifying way. 

"I miss it too," your voice quieter now. "But I'm here. You know that, right? Even if you're on the other side of the world, or if you call me at four in the morning like you're doing right now."  

Jake lets out a chuckle followed by a sleepy groan, "Sorry about that. But...thank you, Y/N. For picking up."  

"Always," you reply, and he hopes you mean it.  

A beat passes. Jake knows he should hang up, that he should let you sleep. He tries to convince himself that you need the sleep more than he needs this call.  

But he can't help himself.  

"You'll yell at me if I don't sleep, won't you?"  

"Absolutely. Go to bed, Jake. Or at least try. Zombie mode doesn't suit you."  

"Fine," he sighs dramatically, but his eyes feel heavier and he knows he's falling asleep, the tension in his body from before easing away. "But only because you scare me sometimes."  

You laugh. "Good. Now get some rest. And call me whenever you need to, okay?"  

"Okay," he mumbles into his phone quietly, his mind already slipping into a deep sleep. 

"Goodnight, Y/N."  

"Goodnight, Jake."  

"Don't you have a bedtime, Sim Jaeyun?" You tease, answering the call. The clock reads 1:27AM, and you should be asleep—you really should—but you smile anyways when Jake's name appears on your screen.  

"Bedtime? I don't know her," his voice slightly groggy, but as usual, still warm. "Besides I knew you'd be awake. You don't sleep like a normal person either."  

You roll your eyes, knowing fully well he can't see it, "Yeah, well, I don't have to dance around a stage for two hours tomorrow."  

"True, but you do have to deal with my constant calls and keep me entertained. That's way harder."  

"Oh yeah, obviously," you say with mock seriousness. "Being your emotional support human is a full-time job." 

“Emotional support human,” Jake repeats, chuckling softly. “You’re right. I guess I really owe you, huh?”

“Oh, 100%,” you shoot back, a grin in your voice. “I want one of those tour hoodies you guys keep posting with.” 

“Done. What size?” 

"The oversized one."  

Jake pauses. “Let me guess—so you can sleep in it?"  

You hesitate, suddenly sheepish at how he knows you too well, “Hey, it's only cozy if it's oversized!"  

You hear his soft laugh on the other end of the line. 

“Cute. I’ll make sure to steal one for you.” 

You try not to overanalyze the way your stomach flips at the word cute, and the easy way he says it, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.  

You shake the thought off immediately. This wasn't new, after all, Jake's always warm and easy to talk to. But lately—over the past month of phone calls—the way he says certain things, the tone he says them in, and the way they make you feel? It carried a weight you weren't sure how to hold.  

In both a comforting and terrifying way.  

“So, how was your day?” you suddenly bring up, trying to redirect your thoughts. 

"Tiring," Jake sighs, his voice muffled as he shifts around in bed. "And Jungwon keeps beating me at Mario Kart during our break time. My pride is in shambles, Y/N."  

"Let me guess," you smirk, repeating his words from earlier. "He picks Yoshi, and you keep picking Toad because you think he's underrated."  

"Excuse me," Jake scoffs. "Toad is underrated. But, for your information, I choose Toad because your go-to character is Toadette."  

Your heart does that stupid flip again. His words are light—I mean, you guys are talking about Mario Kart for god's sake—but it's stuff like that that keeps you questioning the true meaning behind his words.

You ignore the feeling, instead, a laugh bubbles up in response, an attempt to sound unaffected.

"You're so weird."  

“But you like it,” he quips, voice dipping just slightly, like he’s testing the waters. 

You're caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone, but you recover just as quickly. 

"Debatable."  

“Liar.”

His tone is teasing, but there's something softer behind it, “You wouldn’t still be on the phone with me if you didn’t like me at least a little.” 

“Maybe I’m just bored,” you shoot back, though your cheeks are burning at his sudden forwardness, questioning if he’s serious or just messing with you. 

You hear him hum in response, "Then I guess I'll have to work harder to keep you interested."  

“Oh yeah? How are you planning to do that?” You try to match his teasing tone, but internally, you feel unsteady under the implication of his words. 

“By being my usual charming self, duh,” he says, his voice dropping into a smooth tone. “And, you know, calling you every night so you don’t forget about me.” 

Your heart squeezes. "You already do that, stupid. You think I'd forget about you?"  

“Never,” Jake's reply is immediate, almost instinctive, leaving no room for doubt. “But just in case…I like hearing your voice. Makes me feel like I’m not a million miles away.” 

His words linger in the space between you, heavier than the playful banter from earlier. You swallow hard, trying your best to keep your voice steady. 

“You’re not a million miles away, Jake.” 

“Feels like it,” he murmurs. You hear a pause in his voice, as if he's thinking hard about his next words. “I miss home. I miss...you." 

Your chest tightens, and your hands grip the sheets beneath you, as if the fabric could somehow ground you. Your heart is doing that thing again—the erratic, terrifying thing that makes you want to believe in something you're not sure is even real.  

And at the same time, your thoughts are scrambling to say something lighthearted before the conversation steers into that dangerous, dangerous territory you were sure you weren't ready for.  

Not yet.  

"Well, you better win at least one round of Mario Kart for me while you're out there," you force a laugh, trying to mask the tremor in your voice.  

Jake laughs, the sound genuine, "I'll try. But if I lose, just know I'm dedicating every race to you."  

"Wow, I'm so honored," you try to deadpan, but he can sense the grin in your voice.  

"You should be," his voice softens again. "Thanks for picking up tonight, by the way. I know it's late."  

He never fails to thank you every night, as if you haven't been picking up every day for the past month and won't be picking up tomorrow, and the next day...and the day after that.  

And, somehow, the same, genuine appreciation makes it so hard for you to ignore that weird, warm, fluttering sensation growing inside you every time you talk to him.  

But, regardless, you always give him the same reply: 

"Always," your voice matching his softness. "Call me whenever, okay?"  

"Don’t say that," Jake warns, the teasing edge creeping back into his tone. "I'll actually do it."  

"Fine," you giggle. "But if you call me at four in the morning again, I'm putting my phone on Do Not Disturb." 

"Deal." He pauses, then adds, "Goodnight, Y/N."  

"Goodnight, Jake."  

As you hang up, you stare at your phone for a moment longer than you should have, your room feeling oddly quiet and too empty without his voice.  

It's just another call, Y/N. Just another call between two friends.  

But deep down, a part of you tells you it isn’t that simple anymore.  

And maybe—just maybe—he knows it too.  

“Are you busy?” Jake’s voice sounds more tired than usual, heavy with an overwhelming amount of tension. 

“Never too busy for our calls,” you easily reply without hesitation as you lay back in your bed, phone close to your ear. Your voice is light, a stark contrast to the weariness laced in his, and when he doesn’t respond with his typical chuckle, you immediately sense his mood. “Hard day?” 

He exhales slowly, the weary sound answering your question. Today was a lot. Hours of rehearsal followed by a concert, the adrenaline rush of performing, followed by the chaos of having the guys’ hotel information leaked. Crowds of paparazzi and fans swarmed the entrance, the relentless flashes of cameras breaking through whatever little pieces of calm he had left within him. The noise, the pressure, the endless cycle—all spiraled into a mental mess he doesn’t seem to shake. 

The second he settled into his hotel room, all Jake knew was that he needed to talk to you—the one person who could steady his racing thoughts. 

"I just...I didn't think this would get to me, you know? The cameras, the people, the flashes in my face—I'm just—it's like I'm never alone."  

Your heart twists at the vulnerability and rawness in his voice, as if he’s admitting something for the first time—not just to anyone else, but to himself. 

"I—I don't know. Sometimes I wish I could just disappear, just for a little while. Just to breathe, you know?"  

You close your eyes, your grip on the phone unconsciously tightening as if it could anchor him somehow.  

"I know it's not the same," your voice steady, even as you internally ached for him, "but...you can disappear with me, Jake. Even if it's just through the call. No cameras. No noise. Just...you and me."  

He lets out an exhale—shaky, but relieved.  

"You're really good at this. Making me feel like it's all gonna be okay."  

"Because it is going to be okay, Jake," you reply softly. "You're not alone, Jake. Not with me."  

"Yeah," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, and he wishes more than anything else in this moment that he actually was with you. “I know.” 

"Jake," you groan, sitting cross-legged on your bed, staring at the flustered boy through your laptop screen. "I'm begging you—just wear the black jacket. It's literally impossible to mess up black."  

"But what about the beanie?" He whines as he pops back into view, his face scrunched up in genuine distress. "Do you think I can pull it off, or will I look like I'm trying too hard? Be honest, Y/N."  

What started as a simple fashion-advice-question over the phone turned into a two-hour wardrobe emergency—all because Jake couldn’t figure out what to wear to the airport the next day (because, apparently, airport fits matter—his words, not yours).

"Jake, you could wear a literal trash bag to the airport and fans would still lose their minds," you tease, biting back a laugh. 

He rolls his eyes at you, but the smile tugging at his lips says otherwise.  

"Okay, but seriously, you’re trying too hard. Just go with the jacket, no beanie," you add on, just to end this two-hour long madness.  

"Hmm," Jake plops on his bed and turns towards his phone camera, and you swear you can see the pout forming on his lips. "But I already posted a preview of the jacket last week. Isn't that, like, repetitive?"  

"Jake,” you blink at him, "it's an airport. Not a fashion show."  

He stares at you for a beat, then lets out a dramatic sigh, "Fine! Jacket, no beanie. But if I see even one criticizing comment calling me basic, I'm blaming you."  

You laugh, shaking your head at his ridiculousness, "Deal. Now go to sleep, Sim Jaeyun."  

His grin softens as he adjusts the camera to fully look at you, pout gone, eyes glistening.

"Only because you said so."  

"Hey," you say softly, answering the call as you snuggle deeper into your blanket, letting it engulf you completely.

The familiar sound of Jake's quiet breathing fills the space between you, and before he even says a word, you already know.  

"Rough day?" You ask gently when he doesn’t say anything after a few seconds. 

"Yeah," he murmurs, his voice quieter than usual, almost drowned out by the low hum of background noise. "I just...I don't really feel like talking right now, if that's okay."  

"Of course," you reply without hesitation, your tone gentle, no questions asked.

On the other end, Jake presses the phone closer to this ear in an attempt to feel closer to you, instantly feeling better from your pure understanding of how he’s feeling, and he thinks—not for the first time—that you might be his favorite person in the world.  

The warm silence engulfs the both of you like a shared blanket, unspoken yet understood. You can hear the faint echoes of his surroundings: the muffled laughter of the boys somewhere nearby, the distant honk of traffic outside his hotel, and then the quiet shuffle of Jake shifting positions in his hotel bed. You catch his breath catching slightly, like he's finally allowing himself to relax—to just be.  

You don't try to fill the silence. You know that he needs this—a moment of peace in the chaos. Instead, you similarly press the phone closer to your ear, as if doing so can somehow bridge the miles between you, hoping he can sense your presence reaching out for him. 

Minutes pass like this, and for a moment, it’s so quiet you begin to wonder if he's falling asleep. But then, a deep exhale breaks the stillness.

"Thank you, Y/N," he says finally, his voice low but steady, carrying a weight of sincerity that makes your heart clench.  

"You don't have to thank me, Jake," your voice matches his softness. "You know that."  

"Still," his voice is low, so quiet, it feels like a secret meant only for you. "I appreciate you. More than you probably know."  

You smile to yourself, your heart aching in the best way possible, and you desperately try your best to ignore it, no matter how much excitement it brought you. 

"Always, Jake." 

“Tell me something about you that I don’t already know,” you challenge him, your voice carrying that light and endearing tone over the phone that Jake’s come to crave. 

“Hmm,” Jake hums thoughtfully as he lies in his bed, eyes closed, just simply treasuring the small moments, like this one, with you. 

Even though it’s definitely 3AM where he is right now. And he definitely has to be up in a few hours for rehearsal. 

Oh well, completely irrelevant. Talking about everything and anything with you just felt so right. 

“I don’t know,” he eventually exhales, his brain too foggy to think of anything logical right now. “I feel like you know me better than I know myself at this point, Y/N.” 

“You’re so corny it physically hurts, Jake,” you scoff, and Jake swears he can feel your exaggerated eye roll from thousands of miles away. 

“Oh—wait, wait! I have one,” he perks up, his eyes shooting open as he turns towards the phone in excitement. 

“Hit me,” you say, unconsciously smiling at how cute he sounds. 

“I’m allergic to flowers.” 

The line falls silent for a beat before you erupt into a storm of giggles so wild it makes Jake feel sick from how fast the butterflies in his stomach start fluttering. 

“That’s your fun fact? That’s so tragic, Jake,” you gasp through your giggles. “Like, depressingly tragic.” 

“Hey! It’s not that sad, it could be worse,” Jake hopes you can hear his pout over the phone (you can). 

“So you’re telling me you’ve never bought a girl flowers before?” You tease, smiling to yourself as you stare at your ceiling. 

“Guess not,” Jake lets out a laugh, which surprises himself. “Jenn used to always get mad at me for never getting her any, but what am I supposed to do? Show up with a bouquet and an epi-pen? I literally start tearing up whenever I’m around any kind.” 

You lose it all over again, your laughter spilling through Jake’s phone like sunshine, and Jake doesn’t even realize he’s smiling so widely until his cheeks start to ache. 

But what Jake does realize is something unexpected: for the first time in forever, he can talk about Jenn without a single pang of…anything. No weird tension, no lingering sadness—just a casual mention and then…nothing. 

It’s freeing, this feeling of lightness, like an invisible weight he didn’t know he was even carrying has suddenly lifted. He wonders if this is what moving on really feels like, if he’s found his emotional freedom. He wonders when it changed. 

He wonders maybe it’s not when—maybe it’s who.  

And he wonders if it’s you. 

Today was supposed to be Jake’s day off. The golden ticket to rest, recharge, and not think about anything.

Key term: supposed to be.

Instead, Jake found himself knee-deep in the trenches of emotional warfare—and losing spectacularly.

The morning started innocently enough. No alarm, no schedule, just the soft promise of freedom that was so close within his reach. But by noon, Jake came to a harsh realization.

Freedom was a lie.

Because every step, every sight, every breath, was haunted by one inescapable thought: You.

It started with a boutique. Him and the boys had wandered down a cobblestone street in a city that Jake had already forgotten the name of—city number ten or eleven of tour? He barely knew anymore. But then his gaze caught on a mannequin in the window.

Big mistake.

The outfit on display—similar to his mind—had you written all over it. Immediately, his brain spiraled.

Y/N would love that. She'd probably drag me and all the guys in and force me to hold her bag while she tried it on.

He had to physically stop himself from dragging the group inside to purchase it on the spot.

Next? A coffee shop. And there it was: a poster featuring some limited-edition iced peach latte. Jake froze, staring at it like it held the answers to life itself.

You’d love it. You would order it, (well, you'd make Jake order it, because you hate talking to cashiers), sip it, smile, and probably rant about how overpriced it was—even though Jake would pay for it—yet you’d still finish the entire thing.

And then, you'd steal half of his drink, too. 

Because you always did. 

And Jake always lets you.

The final straw? A cat. Just a random stray, peacefully lounging on a sunny part of sidewalk, looking like it had zero interest in the world around it. And even that didn't escape Jake's you-obsessed filter. Without even thinking, Jake whipped out his phone. 

It was instinctual at this point.

Jake [1:06PM]: (attached - one image) Jake [1:06PM]: thought you'd like this one :)

Because obviously, you needed to see that cat. Immediately.

By the time Jake collapses onto his hotel bed that evening, he feels like he’d run a mental marathon—except instead of a finish line, every road led back to you.

He flops onto his bed, hoping sleep would save him from the storm raging in his brain.

Spoiler alert: it doesn't.

Instead, it leads him to the complete opposite. He stares at your name on his phone, your contact picture, your last messages to him. 

You texted him two hours ago—a sweet goodnight message that ended with your usual, 'Don't hesitate to call if you need me.' 

Casual. Normal.

But it probably didn't mean, 'Hey, please interrupt my sleep from the other side of the world so we can discuss your ongoing emotional crisis over me.'

Don't do it, Jake. The remaining rational brain cells within him beg him to stop. You're being dramatic. She's not the air you need to breathe.

But at the same time, deep down, Jake really thinks you are.

The worst part? You two already had talked on the phone earlier—when Jake had another fashion crisis and couldn't decide what to wear for his day off exploring with the guys. Of course, you laughed at him, teased him, but then helped him pick something out anyways. Typical.

Personally, if it was up to him, he'd spent his whole day off on the phone with you. Talking about everything. Or nothing. Whatever you wanted, Jake would've done it, no hesitation.

Don't do it, Jake, his brain warns him again. What kind of obsessed-lunatic calls the same person twice in one day?

Answer: Jake.

But as Jake lies in his hotel bed, thoughts heavily clouded with the image of you and the sound of your voice, he realizes...this wasn't just a phone call thing. No, this was deeper, worse. And somewhere between staring at the same patch of ceiling and replaying every memory of you on a mental loop, Jake tries to rationalize it.

She’s just a good friend, Jake. A best friend, even! You think about her a lot because she’s cool and funny and…and she has the laugh of a Disney princess...But it’s normal to think about your friends, right? Right??

But the more he tries to downplay it, the clearer it becomes. This was something else.

And then it hits.

Like, really hits.

Oh my god. I like her.

Jake shoots upright, widened eyes filled with horror, as if the realization itself just physically smacked him across the face.

No, no, no, no, no. This can’t be happening.

Jake buries his face in his hands, groaning. But the groan quickly turns into a muffled scream, because the more he thinks about it, the worse it gets.

Because he thinks you're going to be the death of him. He really, really likes you. Not in the vague, 'Oh, she’s cute' way, but in the write-her-name-in-a-heart-and-doodle-little-stars-around-it kind of way. The stare-at-her-texts-like-they’re-poetry kind of way. The imagine-her-laughing-at-your-dad’s-jokes-and-enjoying-your-mom’s-meals-forever kind of way.

And this feeling? It's new. It's terrifying. 

It's exhilarating.

Jake realizes in this very moment that he's never experienced this heart-pounding, face-flushing, breath-taking kind of feeling towards anyone. Sure, his past relationship had been meaningful in its own way, but now Jake is realizing that the foundation of his past relationship was tangled up in obligations and unspoken expectations. A tightrope act of Jake having to be the perfect boyfriend, the perfect idol, the perfect...everything. He never realized how suffocating it was until now—until you. Because this feeling with you?

This was pure. Simple, clear, and undeniable.

Your sheer existence proved that it's possible for someone to understand him better than he understands himself. Your laugh had a way of making everything feel lighter, like the weight of the world had been momentarily suspended. Just one look from you alone somehow always manages to make him feel like he was still worthy even on his worst days.

With you, Jake felt...himself, for once. Not Jake Sim, global popstar. Not Jake Sim, the boyfriend of so-and-so. Just...Jake.

Jake's heart pounds as the realization sinks in. He's now transitioned from screaming into his hands to his poor hotel pillow.

Because as clear and strong as this feeling is, the doubt is just as overwhelming. What if you don't feel the same? What if this ruins everything?

But at the same time...what if you do feel the same way?

What if this is his chance? The butterfly effect that changes everything? What if you're it? You have to be.

And so, like an idiot possessed, Jake's finger is one millimeter away from pressing call on your name again.

Because, obviously, the best way to deal with overwhelming feelings is to confess them from a hotel room five countries away.

Obviously. 

Because what if he didn't call? What if he spent the rest of his night spiraling into an endless pit of unspoken feelings and overthinking, arms flailing as he knows the only way out of the pit is with your help?

What if his brain explodes with the sheer amount of feelings he has for you and he never has the chance to tell you ever again?

He presses call.

The line rings twice before you answer.

"Jake?" Your voice is soft, laced with surprise and just the faintest trace of sleep. "It's late for you, is everything okay?"

Jake's brain short-circuits. What time even is it for him? He has no idea, and frankly, he doesn't care.

"Yeah," he blurts, far too quickly that he winces at himself. He clears his throat before trying again, "I mean, yeah. Everything's fine. I just...couldn't sleep."

"Oh," you hum softly and Jake swears the sound alone could single-handedly resolve global wars.

Yeah, he definitely likes you.

"Is something stressing you out?" The genuine concern in your voice makes his chest tighten.

"No—well, nothing like that," Jake rushes to assure you, sitting up straighter in bed now, as if you could see him. His voice lowers, almost shy, "I just...I was thinking about you."

Silence. Jake's heart pounds so loudly, he's sure you can hear it through the phone.

"About me?" You finally tease, light and playful, but there's something softer underneath. "What did I do to deserve such an honor?"

Jake lets out a nervous, breathy laugh, running a hand through his hair, “You exist. That’s what.”

Another pause. He hears you exhale softly, and the sound alone sends his heart into overdrive.

"That was smooth," your voice is quiet, soft, as if teetering on the line of teasing and nervousness at the same time. "Ten out of ten, Jake."

"I'm serious," Jake tries his best to keep his voice from cracking, the weight of his feelings pressing down on him. "I was lying here, thinking about everything, and I realized something."

"And what's that?"

Jake's throat goes dry. His heart is screaming at him to say it, but his brain begs him to reconsider.

But Jake's sure he's lost all his rational brain cells for sure at this point, so he swallows hard, and braces himself for impact.

"I like you, Y/N."

The words spill out, raw and unpolished, but so utterly true.

“I mean, I really like you," Jake continues, his voice barely above a whisper now. "More than a friend, more than anything.”

The line goes silent, and for a split second, a lifetime of pure awkwardness and torture of not having you in his life anymore flashes in his vision, and he rushes to fill the void.

"I know this is probably the worst timing ever, and probably really scary...and it's okay if you don't feel the same way," his voice definitely cracks this time, laying everything bare, but he doesn't care anymore. "But I had to tell you. I can't pretend around you, not when being around you feels like the only time I'm really me."

Then, you let out a soft exhale—a disbelieving, breathless sound that makes Jake's heart skip a beat.

"Jake..."

"You're...you're everything, Y/N. You make life better just by being in it. And I haven't even seen you in four months, but you're all I think about," Jake lets out a small laugh, swallowing the remainder of all his pride and dignity. "I promise, when I'm back...I'll prove it to you. I'll show you how much you mean to me. Anything it takes. "

For once in his life, Jake feels completely vulnerable—and yet, strangely, it feels right.

Because he means it, every word.

He's never meant anything more.

The line had gone quiet after Jake’s confession, his words echoing in your ears. 

“I like you, Y/N.” 

No, not like. Really, really like. 

You spent the last few days replaying his words over and over, dissecting every syllable, every tiny inflection in this voice. At first, it didn't even seem real.  

A part of you still thinks it isn't—that this is all a cruel dream and you're going to wake up any second now back in the real world. The one where Jake Sim, the boy who turns heads and steals hearts without even trying, didn't just confess his deepest, most vulnerable feelings for you in a single phone call. 

But no. He said it, alright. Clear as day.  

First, all you felt was pure happiness. Maybe it was hearing his voice everyday, or maybe it was seeing how his face lit up through the screen when you picked up his video calls—but somewhere along the way, you knew it was something deeper. 

Something that made your heart skip when his name lit up your phone, something that left you craving his voice to make your day feel complete. And now? Now the boy who’d effortlessly become your favorite part of every day was telling you you’d done the same for him. 

But then, came the fear. 

Because what if this was just a rebound? What if you were just a soft landing for him, a way to patch up the holes left behind by his past? Here you were, standing at the edge of something terrifyingly real, wondering if you were just a step in his recovery process—a way to fill the cracks, but not the kind of permanence you were beginning to crave. 

You weren’t naive enough to see Jake’s past relationship didn’t still linger in the corners of his mind. You’d seen him struggle with it before, how hard he’d tried to convince himself he was fine. What if you were just the next step in his healing, rather than something real—a Band-Aid for a wound that wasn’t even yours to heal? 

And worse—what if you let it happen? What if you let yourself fall, only to hit the ground at an alarming speed, and...splat. Not just a regular, embarrassing tumble, no. But the kind that leaves you flattened on the pavement like a cartoon character who ignored every warning sign. 

Because that’s exactly what it would feel like, wouldn’t it? Giving it, letting yourself hope—only to crash and burn spectacularly. 

Deep down, you knew you weren’t just risking a little heartache. Because Jake? Jake had quietly claimed a permanent spot in your heart at this point. 

You were risking everything. 

And the worst part? 

You were already halfway there. 

That was the reason why you told him you needed time. The reason why all you could manage to respond was a meek, 'I just...I need to think about this.' And to his credit, Jake hadn't pushed. Of course, not.  

But now, three days later, you were no closer to an answer. If anything, the time apart had made everything worse. 

Because as the days stretched on, with every passing hour, every text you didn’t send and every call you didn’t make, one thing became gut-wrenchingly, undeniably clear: 

You were already his. 

You miss Jake’s voice, his laugh, the way he rambles about the most random things late at night. You miss how, somehow, he made you fall asleep with a smile on your face from the other side of the world. You miss him, that even in his absence, he was still your first thought in your mind when you woke up and the last before you drifted to sleep. 

And no amount of overthinking or second-guessing could change the truth that finally settled in your chest like a secret you weren’t ready to admit to yourself:

You were his. Completely. 

The only question now was whether you’d let yourself believe he was yours too. 

"Y/N?"  

"Jungwon," you groan helplessly into your phone. "Help me."  

A pause. Then, "Are you sure you meant to call me? It's Jungwon, not Jake," he teases lightly. "I can go get Jake if you meant—" 

"Jungwon!" You cut him off, panicked. "I'm being serious. It's about Jake, dummy."  

"Oh," his tone shifts instantly as he senses the seriousness in your voice. "Did something happen? Because I swear, for the past three days, Jake's been moping around like a kicked puppy, and I was gonna ask you about it because I know you guys have been talking a lot more, but I didn't want to push, and—" 

"That's exactly it, Jungwon!" You wail into your pillow, your voice muffled. Great, now you feel even worse, knowing Jake is moping around, waiting for you.   

"What's exactly it?" Your best friend presses, voice curious. "I need specifics, Y/N."  

You hesitate, the words clinging to the back of your throat like they're too heavy to admit. Finally, you take a deep breath and force them out.  

"Jake told me he likes me, Jungwon. Like really, really likes me. He gave this whole monologue about how I'm all he can think about, and it was so cute, and it made me want to explode from joy and fear all at once, and I don't know what to do!"  

A beat of silence. 

Jungwon sucks in a dramatic breath and then, "Wait, wait, wait. Back up. First of all, this is not news to me."  

You blink, as if he can see your look of shock over the phone, "What?"  

"This was obvious, Y/N. The guy's been smitten with you for months. You guys literally have been talking every day since we left."  

Your jaw drops, "So what? You and I talk every day! How is this any different?"  

Jungwon snorts, "Y/N, we text every day. About minuscule things. Like me reminding you not to forget your keys and you ghosting my last text. But you and Jake? You guys talk for hours—into the illegal hours of the night, mind you. Trust me, I know. Hotel walls are thin."  

You feel your cheeks flushing, "That doesn't mean anything."  

"Doesn't it?" Jungwon's voice is laced with amusement. "When's the last time you called me just to hear my voice?"  

"Jungwon."  

"Exactly."  

You groan again, "But Jungwon, what if…what if he's not over Jenn? What if I'm just a rebound?"  

Jungwon goes quiet for a moment, his tone softening when he finally speaks, “Jake’s not like that, Y/N. You know that. He wouldn’t tell you he likes you unless he meant it.” 

“Yeah, but—” 

“Look," he interrupts. "Jake’s a lot of things—annoyingly loud, for one—but he’s not the kind of guy who’d use someone, especially you, as a rebound. If he said he likes you, he likes you.” 

You bite your lip, his words settling over you like a warm blanket—because you know they're true.  

“And for what it’s worth,” Jungwon continues, “I think you like him too.” 

“I..,” you falter, your heart hammering in your chest. “I do.” 

“Then what are you waiting for?” 

You sigh, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the nerves coiled in your stomach, “I don’t know. I guess I’m scared.” 

“That’s okay,” Jungwon says gently. “But don’t let fear stop you from something that could make you happy. You deserve that, Y/N. And so does Jake.” 

You close your eyes, letting Jungwon's words sink in. Deep down, you know he's right, he always is.  

"Thanks, Jungwon," you say, your voice softer now, tinged with gratitude.  

"Anytime," he replies, and then, with a teasing lilt, "But seriously—you should probably tell him soon. I can't stand watching him mope around like a sad, abandoned puppy. It's seriously tragic, like, to the point where I’m gonna have to start letting him win at Mario Kart."  

A small giggle escapes you, light and genuine for the first time in three days, "I know, I know. Eventually."  

"Y/N," his voice turns playfully stern, like a parent lecturing their toddler. "Eventually isn't a time. Just call him. You've been thinking about him nonstop, haven't you?" 

Unfortunately, Jungwon knows you too well. Your silent response betrays you, and Jungwon lets out a triumphant hum.  

"Thought so. Well, you should go. You have a call to make."  

You sigh, a mix of nerves and a new determination bubbling, "Okay, okay. But if this goes horribly wrong, I'm blaming you."  

"It won't. But deal," his tone is reassuring, confident, like he already knows how this story ends. "You got this, Y/N."  

The call ends, and the quiet still of your room taunts you. For a moment, you sit there, staring at your phone, the little icon of Jake's contact picture—a selfie the two of you took together many years ago—staring back at you like a challenge.  

Your fingers hover. Your heart races, your palms feel clammy, and your stomach twists.  

But then you remember Jungwon's words.  

You deserve this.  

And so does Jake.  

You take a deep breath, then you press down on his name.  

The phone doesn't even reach the second ring before he picks up.  

"Y/N," Jake’s voice is rushed, a little breathless.  

"Hey," you say softly, suddenly unsure where to start. "Um, were you busy?"  

"No, no," he quickly responds. "Not at all. You could call me at 3AM, and I still would’ve picked up."  

"That's unhealthy, you know," your lips twitch as you lay back in your bed, taking a deep inhale. You missed this—you missed him.  

"For you? Worth it," you can hear the smile in his voice, but along with the slight tension just beneath it—the faintest tremor that tells you he's been waiting for this call, maybe agonizing over it just as much as you have.  

You swallow hard, gripping the phone tight, "Jake, about...our last call..."  

"Take your time," he says gently, though you don't miss the way his voice wavers ever so slightly. "I mean it, Y/N. There's no pressure."  

You exhale shakily, closing your eyes, “I’ve been thinking a lot, too. About you. About…us.” 

Jake stays silent, but you could hear the faint sound of him shifting, like he was bracing himself. 

You squeeze your eyes hard, as you let the words finally come out, "I like you too, Jake. A lot. So much, honestly. It's just..."  

"It's just...?" Jake's voice repeats softly, as if that's all he can manage to let out in the midst of his nervousness.  

You hold your breath, scared of what you're about to admit—to Jake and to yourself. 

"It's just...I'm scared," your voice comes out barely above a whisper, "I'm scared that this is too good to be true. That you're saying all of this because...I don't know—you're trying to move on...from the past, or because you're lonely on tour, or—" 

"Y/N,” Jake's voice cuts through firm, but gentle.  

"You're not…a rebound, or a distraction, or anything like that," he starts quietly, each word deliberate. "And this isn't about...Jenn, or me being lonely, or whatever else you think. This is about you."  

Your breath hitches as you take in his words and open your eyes, hoping that staring at the ceiling above you could somehow ground you.  

“You’re the one who makes me laugh when I’ve had the worst day,” Jake continues. “You’re the one I want to talk to, even when I’m running on zero sleep. You’re the one I think about when I’m on stage and wish I could just look into the crowd and see you there. It’s you, Y/N."  

His words are overwhelming, too much, and you're unsure how to even process them. Your throat tightens, and you can feel the subconscious tears prickling at the corners of your eyes without even realizing they were forming.  

"Are you sure, Jake?"  

"More than anything else, Y/N," he says immediately, like the words have been waiting on the tip of his tongue. "And I want to do this right, Y/N. No rushing, no expectations. Just...tell me what you need from me, and I'll do it. Whatever it takes, I'll do it."  

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. You can picture him on the other side of the line, sitting in some unfamiliar hotel room, his brows probably furrowed in that adorable way they always do whenever he tries to find the right words.  

You bite your lip, a small laugh escaping despite the tears sliding down your cheeks, “You’re so cheesy, you know that?” 

Jake lets out a small laugh, immediately easing from the tension that hung in the air.  

"Only for you," he mumbles, his voice soft but steady.  

You sigh, the sound reaching Jake on the other side. There's a pause, a moment of mutual understanding in silence, just listening to the quiet, peaceful hum of each other's breathing.  

“Jake?” You say finally, your voice trembling. 

“Yeah?” 

“I think…” You take a deep breath, and you think your heart is about to break out of your chest. “I think I want to try too.” 

The silence on the other end was electric, and for a moment, you think maybe the call dropped. Then, you hear the unmistakable sound of Jake’s laugh—soft, relieved, and filled with so much warmth that it instantly makes your own heart feel lighter. 

“You're driving me crazy, Y/N,” he says, his voice almost breathless, but tinged with humor.  

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” he says, a smile clear in his tone.  

“I hope I am,” you quip, and it makes him chuckle, the sound warm and full of relief. “Guess I’m stuck with your cheesy lines now huh?” 

“Stuck with me?” Jake repeats, pretending to sound offended. “No way. I’m stuck with you, Y/N. And trust me, I’m not going anywhere.” 

His words are so simple, yet so full of promise, and it leaves you feeling a little breathless. 

“Good,” you whisper, your cheeks warm. “Because I don’t want you to.” 

“Hi Jake,” your voice bright as you immediately pick up his call and see his face appear on the screen, his expression softening when he sees you. 

“Hey pretty,” he replies, without missing a beat, his voice laced with a soft fondness that never fails to make your stomach flip. 

You roll your eyes, failing miserably to hide the blush rising to your cheeks, “Oh, so now I’m pretty, huh?”

Jake smirks at your words, leaning closer to his phone, “Nah, you’ve always been pretty. Just didn’t have the guts to say it to your face before.”  

You groan, dramatically planting your face into your pillow as an attempt to bury the smile on your face, your voice muffled, “You’re gonna be the death of me, Jake.”

“Stop that, don’t hide. Let me see your face,” his tone dips somewhere between playful and pleading, and you give in, lifting your head just enough for him to catch a glimpse of your red cheeks. 

“Cute,” he says with a knowing grin, leaning back against the headboard of his bed. 

“Whatever,” you murmur, but the smile on your face remains. “How was your day today?” 

“Mmm, it was good,” Jake says, running a hand through his messy hair. “Busy, but good. I forget how loud the fans get each time. But it’s nice. Makes it feel worth it, you know?” 

“I’m glad,” your smile grows as you watch him speak, feeling nothing but proud of him. “You deserve all of it, Jake.” 

“Stop,” now he’s groaning, throwing a hand over his face to cover his shy expression. “You’re going to make me blush.” 

“Mm, looks like you already are, Jakey,” you shake your head, laughing softly. 

“Maybe a little,” he admits as he peeks at you through his fingers, his grin boyish and infectious, and you can’t help but laugh again. 

The call falls quiet for a moment, but it’s not awkward—just comfortable, like a shared breath. Jake shifts, turning on his stomach and propping his phone up against some pillows to make sure you can still see him. 

“I miss you,” he says suddenly, and there’s something raw in his tone, something unguarded that catches you off guard. 

Your heart stutters.

“Jake, I literally called you this morning,” you tease, your tone light and sweet. But still, you can’t resist, “I miss you too.”  

“You don’t sound convincing enough,” his eyes narrow at you, the pout forming on his lips quickly turning into a small smirk. “Say it like you mean it.” 

“Fine,” you huff, rolling your eyes. “I miss you so, so much Sim Jaeyun, that it’s physically painful and I might conbust on the spot if I don’t see you soon. Happy?” 

“Very,” he grins into the camera, making your heart beat faster. Ugh. "But please don't combust for me. Who else am I supposed to call every day?"  

"Oh, please, you'd survive," you shoot back, smirking. "I'm sure anyone else would be more than happy to fill the spot."  

Jake clicks his tongue, shaking his head dramatically. "Nope, no one could keep with you, Y/N. You're a handful."  

"Excuse me?" You scoff, mock offense all over your face. "You're calling me a handful? Jake, who's the one that texts me random song lyrics at 3AM and expects me to interpret their deep meaning like it's poetry?"  

"Okay, first of all, they are deep," he argues, his grin widening into something boyish and utterly unfair. "And second of all, I know you secretly love it."  

You let out a laugh as you roll onto your side, propping your phone against the pillow next to you.  

"Maybe I do," you admit with a shrug, trying to sound nonchalant despite the smile on your face. "Or maybe I don't. That's up to you to find out."  

Jake shakes his head, laughing softly, his eyes twinkling as they linger on your face. 

"You really are a handful, Y/N," his voice teases while his eyes remain on you through the screen, as if studying you, and it makes your stomach flip.  

You glance away, suddenly feeling shy again under his unwavering gaze, "Stop looking at me like that."  

"Like what?" His voice is innocent, his eyebrows lifting in feign obliviousness.  

"I don't know—like you're trying to memorize my face or something," you mutter, your cheeks burning.  

"Maybe I am," his voice dips, low and soft. "Honestly wouldn't complain if that's the last thing I ever got to remember."  

His words hit you square in the chest, and despite how ridiculously corny they are, they manage to take your breath away. You don't know if you'll ever get used to this newly discovered side of Jake—the one that speaks so candidly, so sweetly—like you're the only person in his universe.  

But honestly? You love it. You love how he makes you feel, how his words wrap around you perfectly like they were tailor made just for you. But as much as you love it, you fear it too.  

Because the more you fall into this feeling, the more you wonder if there's anything solid beneath it. Despite all the soft words shared and sweet nothings exchanged, at the end of the day, deep down inside you can't help but ask yourself if his words, if he, is even yours to begin with. 

"Jake..."  

"Hmm?" His voice is gentle now, the teasing edge in his voice fading.  

"You really mean it, don't you?" You ask, your voice quieter now, the question laced with your vulnerability. "You're serious about...this? About us?"  

"Of course I am," he answers without hesitation. His soft eyes stay trained on you as he sits up in his spot in bed, as if to show just how serious he is. He lets out an exhale, as if mentally encouraging himself to continue, "I know we're not...whatever this is, officially yet. But I do know that I like what we have."  

He brings his phone closer, a small smile on his face, his expression earnest, "And that I like you. A lot."  

You swallow hard, his words settling in your chest in the best way possible. Because despite everything—the doubts, the undefined boundaries—you can't deny the truth of how you feel.  

"Me too," you admit, your voice steady and honest. "I like what we have too. And I like you."  

You pause, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips as you feel the remainders of your walls crumbling down, "You make me happy, Jake. Like annoyingly happy."  

"Good. Because you make me happy too," His smile spreads wide, the kind that is contagious and could light up an entire room. "Annoyingly happy, if we're being specific."  

You roll your eyes again, though you're smiling just as much, "We really are insufferable, aren't we?"  

"Oh, completely," Jake nods, his tone playful. He's more relaxed, back to leaning against his headboard as he looks at you with a softened gaze. "We'll figure it out, Y/N. I promise. Whatever this is, or whatever it becomes, I'm not going anywhere. And honestly? I just can't wait to see you. Finally."  

"Me too," you perk up, your eyes sparkling with excitement as you bring your phone closer, "It feels like it's been forever. This tour feels so much longer than the other ones for some reason."  

"It does," Jake hums in agreement, his eyes thoughtful. "But you know what? I think It's because, this time...I actually have something waiting for me. Something—or someone—I want to come home to. And that makes every day feel so much longer."  

You think, at this point, you should check yourself into the emergency department for the sheer amount of times you thought your heart was going to pound out of your body from Jake's words alone.  

“You're ridiculous," you laugh, the sound bubbling out so naturally you couldn't hold it back even if you tried. "It's getting kind of out of hand how cheesy you are, Jake."  

"And yet," he fires back with a smirk, "you love it. Admit it. I've cracked the code."  

"Maybe I do," you tease, repeating your words from earlier as the corners of your mouth tug up into a smile you can't suppress. "But don't let it get to your head."  

"Too late," he grins. "It's already there."  

Jake [2:15AM] : can I call you?   Y/N [2:16AM]: jake isnt it like 2AM for you?   Jake [2:16AM]: well…yea but I was thinking about you so… 

Your feet are kicking before you even realize, and before you can type up a response, your phone lights up with Jake's name and contact picture. 

“Hi,” you answer softly, trying not to let the giddy smile growing on your face take over. 

“Hey pretty,” he greets, voice warm and easy as he brings a hand through his messy hair. The lights in his room are off, and the dim glow of his phone screen casts a soft light over his features, making him look unfairly good for someone who should be fast asleep.  

“You have two seconds to give me a good reason why you’re here talking to me instead of getting a good night’s rest before your concert tomorrow,” your eyes narrow in mock disapproval as you give him a knowing look.  

Jake laughs lightly, “Hey! Okay, hear me out. I couldn’t sleep, so I did something.”  

You raise an eyebrow, “You did something? That sounds ominous, I’m scared.”  

“Yeah. For you,” he states plainly, leaving you even more confused for a second more before he continues. “I made you a playlist.”  

Your brain stalls at how simple he says it—so casual, as if not packed with so much meaning.  

“A playlist? You—wait, why?”  

Jake shrugs, “I don’t know—I guess I just wanted you to hear what I hear when I think about you. Which, by the way, is a lot. So..”  

You blink at the screen, your mouth slightly agape at the boy who's watching you with that lopsided grin that makes it practically impossible to function. You scramble to collect yourself, but the more you try, the worse it gets, and by now, you think he definitely took some secret class on how-to-make-Y/N-completely-flustered.  

And aced it.  

And of course, he notices—because Jake always notices.  

“You okay there?” His voice breaks you out of your overwhelming thoughts, his teasing tone laced with curiosity.  

“Define okay,” you mutter, rubbing a hand over your face in an attempt to cool down the warmth spreading like wildfire across your cheeks. “Because if it means not feeling like a complete fool over a guy who’s halfway across the world, then no, I’m absolutely not okay.”  

Jake lets out a low laugh, the sound affectionate as he leans closer to the camera, the light reflecting off his shining eyes, “If it helps, you’re not the only one losing your mind here.”  

“Oh yeah?” you arch an eyebrow, “What’s your excuse, Sim?”  

“My excuse?” He tilts his head with a small, exaggerated frown, pretending to think. “Hmm…let’s see…I’m hopelessly into this girl who somehow makes being teased fun, who makes me smile just by hearing my name come out her mouth, and who—“  

“Okay! Stop, stop, enough,” your voice strangled as you try to talk through the fit of giggles you couldn’t hold down. “You’re gonna kill me, Jake. Like, actually. I’m not strong enough for this.”  

Jake laughs at your flustered reaction, holding up a hand of surrender, “Fine, fine. But seriously, look.”  

You hear the sound of faint typing in the background before your phone buzzes with a text containing a link.  

“It’s called Songs That Remind Me of Y/N. Creative, right?”  

You open the link, and your thoughts are dazed at the sight of the endless playlist of songs. Some new to you, some you recognize—all of them feeling like little pieces of Jake's heart he's handing to you.  

"I think it's perfect," you murmur softly, scrolling through the titles, the warmth and appreciation for him now feeling almost too overwhelming.  

"Yeah?" Jake's eyes shine with a mixture of pride and hope as he watches your reaction.  

"Yeah," you repeat, switching your phone screen back to his face and giving him a genuine smile. "I love it. Thank you, Jake."  

Jake hums in response, the look on his eyes gentle as a beat of comfortable silence falls between you two.  

"Well, I should probably sleep for real now, but...listen to it when you miss me, okay? Because chances are, I'm probably doing the same."  

You pause, letting the weight of his words settle over you—vulnerable, yet undoubtedly honest. "Deal. I'll listen to it right now, then."  

"Good," his smile grows, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Because I am too. I miss you, too."  

You both linger for a moment, neither wanting to end the call just yet, simply enjoying each other's pure, raw presence.  

"Sweet dreams, Jake," you finally say, your voice gentle as you slowly let sleep take over. 

"Only if they’re about you," he quips, grinning.  

You roll your eyes, your chest feeling lighter, "Go to bed, Sim."  

"Yes, ma'am," he winks, and with one last fond look, he ends the call, leaving you smiling at your screen like the absolute fool he's turned you into.  

"I can't believe you're finally coming back tomorrow," you murmur into the phone, your voice soft but buzzing with excitement as you take in the sight of Jake sprawled out on his bed. The dim glow of his phone highlights just enough of his face to remind you how impossibly cute he is—even with the pillow creases on his cheek.  

"I know," Jake sighs dramatically, flopping onto his side. His head sinks into the pillow, and you hear a soft fwump as he shifts to find a comfortable spot. "I just wish I wasn't landing so late. If I could, I'd come see you the second I land. Like, bags in hand, running to your door."  

"You'd probably trip and knock yourself out with your carry-on, Jake," you snort but then smile, the imagine of Jake rushing to get to you playing in your head.  

"First of all, I'm very athletic," Jake raises an eyebrow, pretending to be offended. "Second, that's exactly what would happen, but at least I'd be unconscious on your doorstep, which is still closer to you than I've been in months."  

Your heart does a little flip at the sound of the sincerity in his voice as you try to keep your tone casual, "It's okay, Jake. I'm not going anywhere. We'll see each other the next day? If you're free, maybe."  

Jake's face softens in that stupidly adorable way he always does when he knows you're just trying to play it cool. "Free or not, I'll find a way. Nothing's stopping me from seeing you, Y/N. Not jet lag, not my schedule, not even my manager if he tries to barricade me in the building."  

A giggle escapes you, partly at his sheer determination and partly to cover up the butterflies constantly causing the havoc in your stomach when it comes to him. And Jake, of course, looks all smug, like he knows exactly what he's doing to you. Typical Jake—sweet, determined, and impossibly endearing.  

But as much as his words make your cheeks warm, there's another reason why you're holding back your smile.  

Because, despite what Jake thinks, you're going to see him much sooner than he expects. All thanks to a message you got earlier from the group's manager:  

Y/N! Hope you’re doing well! We all miss you and can’t wait to see you soon! As you know, the boys are returning tomorrow late at night, but the staff and I want to plan a little surprise party at their apartment, they have no idea. The team’s already prepping everything. We’d love for you to come—it wouldn’t be the same without you. 10 PM! See you! 

You're practically vibrating with excitement, each passing minute on the call with Jake making it harder and harder to not just blurt it out and tell him you'll be seeing him in less than 24 hours. And, somehow, hearing his sleepy voice on the other side of the call, completely oblivious, just makes it even harder to contain yourself.  

Jake's brows furrow as he watches you try (and fail) to suppress your grin, "What's up with you? You're smiling so much, and I'm pretty sure I didn't say anything that funny."  

"Me?" You blink innocently, even though your heart skips a beat. But you shrug casually, masking your smile with a feigned yawn. "Nothing's up, you've just been acting too cute tonight. That's all."  

"You're lucky you're cute," Jake narrows his eyes at you, but even you can see through the dim lighting the red creeping across his face, "And that I'm tired. Or else I'd call you out for how you're gaslighting me right now."  

"Gaslighting?!" You sputter out, breaking out into laughter. "How am I gaslighting you for calling you cute?"  

"Because I know you're hiding something—" Jake replies, his pout audible in the way his voice drags. He yawns mid-sentence, the soft sound and the image of his eyes fluttering closed making your heart melt. "—and you're using my sleep-deprived state against me. It's not fair."  

"I'm not hiding anything!" You protest, your face one second away from cracking into a guilty smile. "Go to sleep—you're barely holding it together over there."  

"Like I'd ever fall asleep on you," he mutters, his voice heavy with drowsiness. "You're way too important for that."  

His words hit you like a train, and you have to physically restrain yourself from squealing, burying your face in your pillow before you let out a strangled, "Okay, enough sap for one night, Romeo. Go to bed."  

"Mmhm, fine, fine," Jake hums before he yawns again. "Goodnight, pretty. Dream sweet dreams, okay?"  

You let out a breath, losing the last remaining bits of your composure at this point—but in the best way possible, of course.  

"Goodnight, Jakey. I'll see you soon."  

The day flies by in a whirlwind of anticipation and sheer chaos, the emotional hurricane brewing up inside you rooting from one source and one source only.  

Because ever since you woke up this morning, every step, every sight, every breath was haunted by one inescapable thought: 

Jake.  

The morning was a blur of pacing around your room like a Sims character who was glitching after being told to "Go Here", overthinking every possible scenario for how tonight—when you finally see Jake in person—could go down.  

Because, really—how exactly do you approach the boy you've been friends with for years, who you've fallen for, in a room filled with people, including yours and his closest friends, all while pretending your heart is trying its hardest to not control, alt, delete itself?  

Not exactly something you can Google.  

Like, do you hug him? Does he hug you? What if he doesn't hug you? (Unacceptable, you decide, before pacing faster.)  

By the time afternoon rolls around, you're about 78% sure you've developed three-and-a-half migraines from the sheer pressure of it all. Not to mention, the borderline illegal amount of caffeine coursing through your veins isn't helping—why did you think drinking four cups of coffee was a good idea? (You didn't. Your brain has officially gone rogue.)  

And now, here you are. The buzzing apartment of the boys is alive with the sounds of laughter, the crinkle of party streamers being hung up, and two staff members arguing about where to put the over-dramatically large "WELCOME HOME" banner. You, along with everyone else, await for the signal, passing time by keeping up small conversation with the friends and staff you've gotten to know over the years—all the while you desperately try to keep your nerves from causing a mental crash out right here and now.  

Eventually, one of the staff gets the alert that the group has landed and is minutes away, the energy immediately shifting, both in the apartment and mentally. You settle in place in the back of the crowd, near the door but not too near the door—because 1) you're 99.99% sure you're not emotionally stable enough to be front and center, and 2) the staff and camera crew are already hogging the entrance as if this was the world's greatest comeback (and spoiler alert—to you, it really is.)  

The lights dim, the chatter fades, and the room hums with anticipation. And meanwhile? Your heart won't. Stop. Pounding.  

Any second now.  

Your nerves bubble up even more than you thought is humanly healthy, and you're not sure if you're about to a) pass out, b) puke, c) or both.

Simultaneously.  

The sound of multiple footsteps echoes faintly in the hallway, followed with muffled voices—one of them the unmistakable sound of Jake's laughter. Your breath catches.  

And then the door swings open.  

"SURPRISE!"  

The boys freeze in the doorway, their suitcases still in hand, the looks of genuine, yet pleasant, confusion plastered on all their faces. Sunghoon's eyes dart to the snacks table, Jay looks like he's deciding whether to laugh or roll his eyes, Sunoo is on the verge of tears, and Jake—Jake looks beautifully, stupidly confused.  

Your eyes immediately find Jake's face, like some natural gravitational pull you can't fight, and suddenly it hits you: he's here. In front of you. No blurry video calls, no glitchy Wi-Fi interruptions—just Jake.  

It feels surreal, like you're living in a sugar-induced dream that you aren't sure of is real yet or not. Last time you saw him in person, he was merely just Jake, one of your best friends, your go-to guy for bad jokes and late-night rants about life. But now? Now he's Jake—the boy who's somehow become the main character of your life (and brain capacity) over the past five months.  

Every memory of your late-night calls, every teasing smile, every time his sweet, groggy voice promised he'd prove himself to you—it all comes rushing back. Like those cheesy montage scenes in a rom-com, except instead of a whimsical romantic song playing in the background, it's the sound of your brain, and heart, screaming WHAT NOW Y/N?! 

But then, finally, his eyes land on you.  

The moment your eyes meet, you think your lungs give up on life. Breathing? Never heard of it. It's like someone hit the pause button on the entire universe, and you're convinced that the only thing to ever exist is Jake looking at you with that soft, unreadable expression.  

But you manage half a second of calm—half a second—before that softness on his face disappears. Just as quickly as it appeared, it's replaced by...something else. Something you can't quite put your finger on. Something you've never thought could exist on his face. A flicker of...conflict? Hesitation? Like he's staring straight at you…but also from miles away at the same time.  

His jaw tightens slightly—so slightly only you would notice with how intently you're looking at him—and for a split second, his hands fidgets at his side before he quickly clasps it over the handle of his suitcase. And right as you process it, right as you're about to convince yourself it's just the million grams of caffeine rushing through your blood that's making you hallucinate and see things— 

He looks away.  

He looks away.  

He looks away. As if you're not even standing there, as if he didn't just short-circuit your entire brain. His attention shifts to the nearest staff member, greeting them with a quick nod, and suddenly he's smiling and laughing at something they're saying like nothing just happened.  

And just like that, the universe hits the play button again, and you're left standing there—staring, blinking, wondering if the last thirty seconds of your life was, indeed, a caffeine-induced hallucination after all. Surely. Right?  

Because Jake definitely didn't avoid you on purpose. Nope. Because that would be insane. Insane, you think to yourself, as the invisible angel on your shoulder continues to whisper into your ear the same sweet words Jake's been telling you the past five months about how much he cares for you, how much he likes you—remember all those times he said it?  

Right. Right. Of course, he does. But still, you stand there frozen, trying to ground yourself, even though your hands start fidgeting at your sides anyway. Great. Fantastic. Cool, cool, cool. This is fine. 

You mentally curse yourself for not being closer to the door after all, and then, you mentally curse every single person in this room for not magically gaining telepathic powers and knowing that you, personally, were trying to have a moment.  

It's fine. You'll find him again. He's just too preoccupied with all the staff members and people to greet. Busy Jake. Social Jake. You're just imagining things. Definitely.  

Trying to distract yourself, you glance around the apartment, everything suddenly feeling suffocating. Maybe a snack. Maybe a drink. Maybe a portal to another dimension. 

Shaking your head out of your spiraling thoughts, you bite the inside of your cheek to ground yourself and turn away from the crowd, quickly settling yourself near the beverage table, pouring yourself a cup of...whatever this is—your mind too cloudy to even bother looking at the sign on the table.

You don't know how much time passes, and frankly, you don't even know if you're fully conscious. Your mind is still living in the past, lingering in that moment where you locked eyes with Jake for the first time in five months, and despite all the overthinking you did this morning of all the possible scenarios that could happen—this was not one of them.  

You're about to pour yourself a second drink just to keep your thoughts busy when you feel a tap on your shoulder.  

"Y/N!"  

Before you can fully turn around, you're engulfed in a warm hug, the familiar scent of Jungwon's cologne immediately grounding you, "Oh god, I missed you. Took me forever to find you with all these people."  

"Jungwon!" You exclaim, a genuine smile lighting up your face despite the emotional tug-of-war in your chest, because, of course, leave it to your best friend to immediately ease your inner panic. You squeeze him back, playfully ruffling his hair as you pull away, "I can't believe they made you grow out your hair. Now you actually look older than me for once."  

He stares at you, blinking. "Y/N. I am older than you."  

"Literally by a week. We all know I'm mentally older," you deadpan, crossing your arms.  

"Okay, I take it back. I didn't miss you after all," he scoffs as you laugh, pulling him into another hug for good measure just to annoy him.  

"I'm so glad you guys are back," you say as Jungwon grabs the drink in your hand and takes a sip himself as he listens to you. "I was dying of boredom without you guys."  

Jungwon raises an eyebrow, "Uh-huh. Definitely didn't sound like boredom all those nights you called Jake at 2AM."  

You freeze. Oh. Great. The one topic you were trying to avoid (how you were going to avoid it—given you're at his literal apartment, with his literal group members, and literal staff members that all work for him—you're not sure. Avoidance was a doomed plan from the start, I fear).  

But before you could answer, Jungwon continues, "So...are you guys, like, a thing now? I know you guys were just talking this whole time, but now that we're back, are you guys gonna be in a relationship and all that stuff? Because if so, I need a heads-up. As much I love you both, I don't know if I can stand you two being all couple-y right in front of me—oh, and also—"  

"Jungwon." 

"—if he hurts you in any way, I swear to god I will not hesitate to—"  

"Jungwon!"  

He stops, wide-eyed, before flashing you a sheepish smile. "Sorry. But seriously, what's happening? You haven't given me any updates!"   

You open your mouth to respond, but the words get caught in your throat. Because if he had asked you yesterday—or even an hour ago—you would've been able to answer confidently. But now? After Jake's apparent Olympic-level avoidance of you? You're not so sure anymore.  

"I...I don't know," you mumble, the words barely audible. Jungwon tilts his head, leaning closer to catch them.  

"What do you mean, you don't know? You guys haven't talked about it?" His brows furrowing as he studies your face, clearly picking up on your hesitation in true best friend fashion.  

"I, uh, I haven't...seen him yet," you admit, hoping the crack in your voice doesn't reveal the real reason you haven't approached the boy in question. "Everyone's busy, and I didn't want to get in the way."  

Jungwon gives you a look like you just said the earth is flat.  

"Get in the way? Y/N, you're insane. This is the guy who's been counting down the days to see you. If anything, everyone else is in his way."  

You give him a helpless shrug, but Jungwon isn't having it. He grabs your shoulders and spins you around, pointing across the room to one of the other snack tables past the crowds of people.

"Look. He's right there. Alone. Perfectly free to talk to you. Go."  

Your eyes land on Jake, back facing you and Jungwon, casually scooping chips into a bowl. You hesitate, scanning his relaxed posture, and the knot in your stomach tightens. Because that's exactly the problem. He's perfectly free. And if he's so excited to see you, how come he hasn't spoken to you yet?  

But before you can voice your doubts, Jungwon gives you a not-so-gentle nudge forward, "Go talk to him before I carry you over there myself."  

And next thing you know, Jake's right there. In front of you. His back is to you still, his eyes scanning the various snacks lined on the table, completely unaware of the full-on mental breakdown occurring just behind him.  

This is your moment, you tell yourself, despite the endless alarms going off in your brain. Every single nerve in your body is on high alert, screaming at you to abort mission, abort! But before you can give in to your panic, your hand is already reaching out, lightly tapping his shoulder.  

"Jake!"  

Jake turns around, and for a moment—a fleeting, fragile moment—you catch it. The way his eyes widen slightly at the sight of you. The way his lips part as if they're about to break into that familiar smile you've missed for months. But just as quickly, similar to earlier, it vanishes, replaced by that flicker of hesitation, and it's enough to make your breath catch.  

"Y/N."  

Your name on his lips used to sound like a warm promise. Now?

Now it feels like an afterthought. 

His voice is calm, steady—too steady, stripped of every ounce of emotion, and not at all like someone who's been counting down the days to see you. He rubs the back of his neck, his gaze flickering to the crowd behind you before reluctantly meeting yours, "It's been so long."  

Your stomach sinks. That's all he had to say? You were completely wrong. You spent precisely 23 minutes of your morning debating if he was even going to give you a hug—but now? Screw the hug, he won't even give you a full sentence. Something's off, and your mind races to figure out what happened, as if you missed a major chapter of your own life.  

Trying to ignore the sharp pang of something lodging itself in your chest, you offer a small smile, hoping to break the tension.  

"Are you...okay? I thought...I don't know, I thought you'd be more excited to see me," the words spill out before you can stop them, and you want to crawl into a self-dug hole from how raw and vulnerable you feel.  

Jake shifts uncomfortably, glancing at the floor, then at you, "No, yeah, of course I am. I'm just...really tired. The flight, you know. And all this," he pauses to gesture at the environment around you two, "it's a lot."  

You stare at him in disbelief, waiting for him to crack—silently begging for some sign of the Jake you thought you knew. But all you get is a shrug.  

A shrug.  

Suddenly, his words feel like a punch to the gut, let alone the way he can't even fully look you in the eyes. In just those few seconds, the invisible angel on your shoulder—whose voice sounded just like Jake's—whispering those promises into your ears suddenly disappeared with no trace in sight, as if it was never there—as if it was never yours—in the first place. Every late-night call, every whispered promise, every shared laugh. 

As if they never belonged to you.  

You swallow hard, trying to keep the growing lump in your throat from choking you, hoping your emotional turmoil isn't blatantly obvious to the boy in front of you.  

"Right," you murmur, nodding as if his excuse makes perfect sense. But it doesn't. "That's...understandable."  

The silence that follows is suffocating. Not the comfortable kind of warm silence you two used to share, but the awkward, unbearable kind that makes you claw at your own skin and makes you wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole right then and there.  

Jake shifts again, and for a moment, his eyes meet yours. There's something there—but before you can grasp it, a voice from the crowd calls his name.  

"I—I should go," he mutters quickly, stepping back. His voice is quiet, his tone almost apologetic, but his words feel like he's hammering the nails to your coffin. "I'll...see you later though, yeah?"  

He doesn't wait for an answer. He's gone before you can say anything, before you can process his words, and for the second time that night, he leaves you standing there with your heart in pieces and your thoughts in chaos.  

For a moment, you swear you're paralyzed. You can't move. Can't breathe. Your vision blurs as every doubt you'd buried for months comes rushing back, screaming in your face louder and crueler than ever. You've never felt smaller, more foolish.  

Your heart beats erratically now, fighting against the realization of the truth settling in your chest—a  heaviness so suffocating it threatens to take you under. The Jake who stood in front of you just now—guarded, distant, a stranger—was so unlike the boy who had made you laugh until your sides ached, who'd stayed up with you on countless late nights, sharing secrets no one else knew.  

The Jake who made promises.  

Your mind spirals. Maybe...maybe those promises were never meant to be kept. Maybe they were just words to fill the time.  

Maybe you were just someone to fill the time.  

Your breath starts to pick up and you're frantically scanning the room, desperate for an escape from your thoughts through any familiar face. Your eyes finally land on Ni-ki and Heeseung casually sitting on one of the couches, their carefree laughter a stark contrast to your inner implosion. You beeline to them, forcing a smile on your face as you plop down beside them.  

"Y/N!" Ni-ki grins the moment he spots you, scooting over to make room. "Where've you been hiding? Thought you ditched us for good."  

"I've been here,“ you give the boys a small smile, praying they don't notice the way your hands tremble as you sit down, “just...mingling."  

Heeseung raises an eyebrow at the faint crack in your voice, but doesn't push further, "Well, we all missed you. Pizza pig-out sesh and games tomorrow? You can tell us everything we've been missing out on."  

You laugh, trying to keep the conversation light, but it comes out shaky, your voice tight under the weight of your hidden emotions, "I think it's you guys who need to catch me up."  

Ni-ki tilts his head, narrowing his eyes at you, "Are you okay? You look...off. What—did someone spill punch on you? Lemme guess, was it Jake?"  

At his name, the knife in your stomach twists even deeper, and you look away, hoping they don't notice the way your face falls.  

But Heeseung notices. Of course. His gaze sharpens, the playful teasing in his expression replaced with a softened concern, "Y/N...what's going on?"  

"I'm fine," you reply a little too quickly, your voice a little too high. You plaster a smile on your face, turning back towards the two boys, concern written all over their faces. "Just tired. Long day."  

Neither of them look convinced, but before Heeseung can say anything else, Ni-ki nudges him and gestures towards something across the room.  

"Hey...isn't that—"  

You follow Ni-ki's gaze, and you immediately wish you didn't. 

Because just like that, your world crumbles.  

There she is—Jenn.  

You're not even wondering when she got here, how she got here, or even why she's here in the first place. No, not even.  

Because all that's occupying your mind right now is the way she's there, perched comfortably on Jake's lap on one of the couches in the distance, her arm draped casually over his shoulder.  

The way she's laughing freely at something he says, her hand lightly brushing against his as if it's second nature, her fingers briefly pushing a strand of hair away from his face.  

The way Jake doesn't even flinch, the way he doesn't pull away.  

The way he smiles at her.  

That same smile—the one you've spent weeks convincing yourself was yours—now feels like a cruel joke.  

And that does it. For the first time that night, despite all you endured, you shatter.  

You force yourself to look away, but it's too late. Your chest hollows out deeper and deeper with every passing second, until all you're left with is a final realization:  

Maybe you never really had him at all. He was never yours in the first place.  

Ni-ki and Heeseung exchange glances before looking at the expression on your face—all the color drained, as if you were merely just a body, paralyzed. Both of them open their mouths, but nothing comes out, clearly unsure of what to say, but you don't give them the chance. You're already standing, grabbing your bag at your side with trembling hands.  

"Y/N, wait—" Heeseung starts as both him and Ni-ki stand up with you, but you shake your head, his voice distant and muffled as if he's speaking to you underwater.  

"I need some air," you mumble, but you're sure neither of them hear you, your voice barely above a whisper.  

Before they can stop you, you're already weaving through the crowd, your vision blurring as you fight the overwhelming urge to break down. You stop at the door, your eyes quickly scanning the cluttered floor for your shoes. For a moment, you think you've made it—escaped the suffocating air and heartbreak clawing at your throat—but a mistake you didn't mean to make stills you.  

You glance over your shoulder, and there he is.  

Jake's eyes meet yours, and the world comes to a stop. His easy smile slips from his face and is immediately replaced by a flicker of panic, his brows drawing together as if he's just realized something, but you don't stick around to analyze it.  

Not when your heart is already in pieces on the floor.  

You quickly look the opposite way, fighting the sting of burning tears threatening to spill over as your fingers fumble desperately with the zipper of your coat when you hear a concerned voice from behind you.  

"Y/N?" Jungwon's familiar voice cuts through your haze, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. "What—where are you going?"  

"Home," you whisper, avoiding his gaze as you finally manage to get your coat on, turning towards the door.  

Suddenly, Jungwon steps in front of you, a firm frown on his face, "Hey, hey, what's wrong? Talk to me—"  

"Jungwon, I need to go," you look up at him as your voice cracks for the nth time that night, feeling Jake's set of eyes on you still, "Please, Won."  

He hesitates, clearly confused but more worried over anything else, "Okay, but I'm driving you."  

You sigh, shaking your head, "No, it's fine—"  

"I'm driving you," Jungwon repeats, leaving no room for argument as he's already grabbing his coat and walking out the door.  

Not bothering to look behind you to see if Jake's still watching, you follow Jungwon out to the hallway, the chill of the air feeling like a fresh wave of emotions crashing over you all at once: embarrassment, anger, heartbreak.  

You're too caught up in your spinning thoughts to even notice the sound of frantic footsteps behind you until a voice cuts through the silence.  

"Y/N."  

His voice is quiet, almost drowned out by the muffled hum of music and laughter seeping from the party you should've escaped from a long time ago.  

But still, you hear it anyway—because of course you do. Because it's him. And no matter how much you wish you didn't, you'd silence the entire world just to hear that voice.  

And you hate it.  

You hate how your entire body freezes mid-step, you hate how every nerve within you comes alive at the sound of his voice, you hate how your heart stumbles, as if trying to root itself in the pain you've been trying so hard to outrun.  

You turn around slowly, against every ounce of logic telling you to keep walking. And when your eyes land on him—on the raw, desperate, almost broken look on his face—you hate yourself even more.  

Because even now, even after everything, your heart still sinks at the sight. And you hate how you give him the power to break you with just one look.  

“Can we talk?” Jake asks, his voice low and unsteady as he takes a small step towards you.  

From beside you, Jungwon hesitates, his gaze flickering between you and Jake. After a beat, he nods, "I'll get the car. Wait here."  

He spares Jake a final look of warning before nudging you for comfort and stepping into the elevator.  

The elevator doors close, leaving you and Jake alone in the hallway, the air thick with unspoken words and emotions.  

You swallow hard, your throat tight, but you steel yourself, "What do you want, Jake?"  

You shift your weight and instinctively cross your arms, a defensive barrier between you and the boy you spent too long letting into your heart. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the vulnerability in them makes your resolve falter. 

He takes a hesitant step towards you before exhaling shakily, running a hand through his hair.  

“I—I messed up tonight. I didn’t mean to...," he trails off, his words fumbling, his eyes searching yours in desperation, his heart breaking at the way your tears are a second away from falling over. 

"...to completely ignore me all night? Make me feel like nothing?" You finish for him, your quiet voice breaking despite your attempt to stay composed.  

"No. God, no. You're not nothing," he says quickly, his voice faltering on the last word. "Y/N, you matter so much to me."  

“Well it definitely didn't feel that way,” your voice is barely audible, but you finally look up at him, the hurt finally bubbling to the surface. “After everything you said—promised, everything we talked about…” 

"I know, I just—" he hesitates, his voice barely above a whisper. He takes a tentative step closer, his movements slow and careful, like he's afraid you'll break if he gets too close. "I was nervous." 

"It’s been so long, and I didn’t know what to say, how to act. I wanted to get it right—to make it perfect—but instead, I just—" he stops, dragging another frustrated hand through his hair. His eyebrows knit together in that familiar way that once made your heart flutter, but now only adds to the ache in your chest. 

You let out a hollow laugh, the bitter sound foreign even to your own ears, “Well, congratulations, Jake. You managed to mess it up anyway.” 

“Please,” he looks devastated, his hands trembling at his sides. “Y/N, please don’t think I don’t care about you. I do. More than you know. I just—I don't know how to do this. I panicked and I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear."  

"Then why was...," you look at him, your eyes still stinging from all the unshed tears as you take a shaky breath, “...why was she all over you tonight? Why didn’t you stop her?” 

He falters, his shoulders slumping under the weight of your question, “It wasn’t what it looked like. I didn’t—I couldn’t—” 

“You couldn’t,” you echo, the words spilling out in a rush now, each one cutting him deeper. “I should've known. Let me guess, she wants to get back together, right?"  

Jake's silence is deafening, and it immediately answers your question. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. The way he looks at you—eyes wide and filled with regret, lips trembling as if searching for the right words—confirms everything you were afraid of. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, a shaky breath escaping your lips—a sound caught somewhere between a scoff and a choked sob. No matter how hard you try, the wall holding back your emotions cracks under the weight of it all. The doubts you’ve tried so hard to bury suddenly resurface, crashing over you like waves, each one carrying the sting of every insecurity, every fear you’ve ever had about this moment. Your chest feels tight, your heart splintering under the realization that everything you were afraid of might be true. 

"Jake, I can't do this," you whisper, shaking your head. "I can't be the person you lean on while you try to figure out what you want."  

"No, no—Y/N, I do know what I want," he pleads, his voice cracking as he tries to step closer. "And it’s you. Always been you, Y/N. Everything I said—I meant it."  

His words hang heavy in the air, the faint echo of the party music filtering through the cracks in the door and into the quiet hallway. You look away, refusing to let him see the way your tears finally spill over.  

"You promised," you let out softly and slowly, through your sniffles. “You promised you wouldn't hurt me. You said you'd prove that I could trust you, that I didn't have to be scared. You knew I was worried, Jake. And you...you hurt me anyways."  

"And I swear I meant every word I said. I still do," Jake says, his voice desperate as he shakes his head. He steps even closer, his hand reaching out and brushing against yours, but you pull back before he can close the distance. "You have to believe me. Please, Y/N. You're the only one."  

You shake your head again, the tears now freely rushing down your cheeks despite your best efforts, "I—I don't know if I can believe that anymore, Jake. I want to, I really, really do. But tonight..."  

Jake’s face falls, the weight of your pain crashing into him all at once. His lips tremble as he struggles to hold himself together, his eyes turning glassy themselves. The sight of you—broken, because of him—cuts deeper than he thought was humanly ever possible. His voice is barely above a whisper, raw and pleading, “Y/N, I’m so sorry. I—God, please. Please give me a chance.” 

You look at him—at the boy who became your safe space these past few months—and all you feel is the ache in your heart.  

"I can't do this right now, Jake," you finally let out through your broken voice as you take a step back. "I think I just need space."  

The words hang in the air like a death sentence. His breath hitches as if your words physically hit him in the face, "Y/N..." 

Your phone suddenly buzzes, a text from Jungwon letting you know he's outside. You glance down at it, then back at Jake. For a moment, you hesitate, your heart screaming at you to stay—to give him the chance he's yearning for. But your brain knows better. 

"I have to go," you murmur softly, as you take a final step back, turning away before more tears threaten to spill all over again. You force yourself to keep walking, fighting the overwhelming urge to look back—to let him pull you into his arms, where you wished so desperately you belonged.  

Frozen, Jake watches helplessly as you walk away, his chest tightening with every step you take. Everything feels like it's caving in, regret clawing at him the more he lets you walk further away. He opens his mouth to say something—anything—but the words fail him, silenced by the weight of his own mistakes.  

To Jake, the sounds of the party are now far in the distance, drowned out by the pounding in this ears. Instead, the hallway falls into a haunting silence, broken only by the faint echo of your retreating steps—a cruel reminder of what he's just let slip away.  

The car ride starts in complete silence, the only sound between you and Jungwon the soft hum of his engine and the faint sound of whatever playlist he was playing in the background. You stare out the window, watching the city lights blur together, your coat clutched tightly under your grasp as if it's the only thing keeping you sane.  

Jungwon glances at you out the corner of his eye, his hands steady on the steering wheel. He doesn't say anything at first, but you know him well enough to sense the storm brewing in his head.  

"Okay," he finally says, as if on cue, breaking the silence. "Spill."  

You don't respond, your eyes still fixed on the surrounding city breezing by you, as if the passing view could somehow erase the memory of him. Your fingers dig further into the fabric of your coat, your knuckles going numb.  

Jungwon gives you a few more moments of silence, but when you don't make any sign of responding, he speaks up again. 

"Y/N," his voice softens, but the edge of his concern cuts through. "Don't do that thing where you shut people out. Especially me, you know I hate that."  

"I'm not—" you start, but your voice wavers, and the lie dies on the tip of your tongue.  

“You are," he exhales sharply from beside you, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. "Look, you don't have to tell me everything, but don't pretend you're fine when you're clearly not."  

The words sit heavy in the air as you swallow hard, your throat burning as you finally whisper, "It's stupid, Jungwon."  

He doesn't take his eyes off the road, but his tone is firm, "I'm sure if it's got you looking like this, it's not stupid."  

You want to argue, to tell him to just let it go, but the hurt pressing down on your chest is too much. The ache in your body threatens to take over again, and you hate it. You hate how the tears form again, how you can still see Jake looking at you like that, like you were breaking right in front of him and he didn't know how to stop it.  

Jungwon waits. He doesn't push, because he knows you. He knows you're just hurting, struggling to grasp your overwhelming emotions, so he gives you the time you need. But his quiet patience is unbearable, like he's peeling back every layer of your resolve just by being there, and eventually, you give in.  

"It's Jake," you finally choke out, the name tumbling from your lips like a curse.  

Jungwon doesn't respond immediately, but you can feel the shift in his demeanor. His jaw tightens, and his fingers flex against the wheel, "I figured as much honestly, after what I saw in the hallway, but what exactly happened, Y/N?"  

You shake your head, your voice shaky, "It doesn't matter. I—I just feel so stupid, Won. Like, how could I think..." 

You trail off, biting the inside of your cheek hard enough to draw blood. Jungwon gives you a softened glance, signaling you to continue whenever you're ready to.  

You take a deep breath before you speak up again, "How could I ever think I was good enough for him, you know?"  

There's a silence that follows after your words and you hear Jungwon take in a deep inhale.  

"This isn't on you, Y/N. This has nothing to do with whether you're enough or not," Jungwon's voice is steady, but there's a firm edge to it now. "Look, I don't want to overstep or anything...and I definitely don't want to vouch for him—especially right now but...are you sure he's not just freaking out?"  

You tilt your head over at the boy next to you, "Freaking out about what?"  

"You," Jungwon says simply like it's the most obvious thing in the world.  

"That doesn't make any sense," you start shaking your head. "Why would he—"  

"Because you're you," Jungwon interrupts, his tone matter-of-fact as he keeps his eyes trained on the road in front of him. "And Jake's a complete idiot, but even idiots get scared when they care about someone as much as he clearly cares about you."  

You blink, Jungwon's words sinking into all the cracks formed within you, "You really think he cares about me that much?"  

“Are you kidding?” Jungwon scoffs, his expression a mix of disbelief and exasperation. “Y/N, the guy looks at you like you hung his moon and stars. Trust me, I’ve seen it.” 

And you don't know what comes over you, but Jungwon's words hit you like a punch to the gut, and suddenly, the tears you've been holding back come rushing forward, hot and relentless. You cover your face with your hands, your body shaking as the sobs you've been swallowing all night finally make their way out.  

Jungwon quickly looks over at you and, without hesitation, glances over his shoulder to pull over to the side of the road, the soft clicking of the hazard lights mixing in with your cries. When he finally puts the car in park, he doesn't say anything and just leans back in his seat, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder—close enough to remind you he's there, but not too much to smother you.  

"I'm sorry," you manage to gasp out between sobs, your hands going up to wipe your face as all the overwhelming emotions finally take over you.  

"Don't," Jungwon says firmly, "Don't apologize for feeling like this."  

You take a shaky breath, trying to pull yourself together as your sobs eventually start to slow down, "I just don't understand. If he cares so much, why does this hurt so bad?"  

"I don't think it's about how much he cares," Jungwon sighs, as if carrying your pain alongside you. "Sometimes...sometimes people care so much that they don't know what to do with it. They panic. They overthink. And they mess up in the worst ways because they don't know how to handle what they're feeling."  

You look up at him, your face still wet with tears, "So you're saying it's an excuse."  

"No," Jungwon replies, quickly shaking his head fervently. "Definitely not an excuse. Jake screwed up, Y/N. Big time. And it's 100% on him to fix that, not you. But—"  

He pauses and thinks for a second, his words deliberate, "—it doesn't mean his feelings aren't real. Or that he doesn't care about you."  

You look away, glancing down at your hands in your lap, fiddling with the hem of your coat as you take in Jungwon's words.  

"It's just feels like...like I'm the only one who got hurt here, Won. Like I'm the only one who..," you trail off, unable to form your thoughts into a coherent sentence, but leave it up to Jungwon to always fully understand you.  

"You're not the only one," he says softly. "He's hurting too, Y/N. Maybe not in the same way, and maybe he doesn't deserve any sympathy, but I can see it. I've seen it. Jake...Jake isn't Jake without you. And honestly? That idiot is probably tearing himself apart right now."  

Your lips part, but the words don't find you. Instead, you let the weight of Jungwon's words sink in, unsure what to do with how true they may be.  

"You don't have to forgive him right now," Jungwon adds after a moment. "Hell, you don't even have to forgive him at all. Honestly, that might satisfy me just a bit. But maybe...maybe you owe it to yourself to hear him out. Not for him, but for you."  

You turn to Jungwon, your lips forming into the smallest pout, "But what if it just makes everything worse?"  

He gives you a faint, grounding smile, equal parts reassuring and honest.  

"Then you walk away knowing you did everything you could—for yourself. And if it does come to that," he shrugs lightly, "we'll figure it out together."  

You're quiet for a long moment, the thought of walking away from Jake and everything he means to you terrifying you…but you know Jungwon's right. You owe yourself the chance to try—even if the unknown outcome fails you.  

With a shaky breath, you nod, brushing away the last of your tears, "Thanks, Jungwon."  

"You're welcome," Jungwon hums in acknowledgement before his lips curve into a small grin, the atmosphere lightening slightly, "but, uh, could you at least use the tissues in the glove compartment before my seats turn into a snot rag?"  

You manage to let out a small scoff of disbelief as you roll your watery eyes, "You're the worst."  

"Nah," Jungwon replies with a cheeky grin as he shifts the car back into drive, but not before he reaches over to ruffle your hair playfully. "C'mon. Let's get you home."  

The knocking at Jungwon’s door comes at the worst possible moment. 

He’s halfway through organizing his desk—something he only attempts when he’s too frustrated to sit still—and the last thing he expects to see when he swings the door open is Jake, standing there looking like he hasn’t slept a millisecond all night. 

Jungwon makes no sign of saying anything or making a move, just staring at the older boy in question. Jakes shifts uncomfortably, running a hand through his messy hair, not used to seeing Jungwon in this sour, expressionless mood.  

"Hey," Jake finally says, his voice hesitant.  

“What do you want?” Jungwon deadpans, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He knows he sounds harsh, but, frankly, he doesn’t care.  

Jake falters for a moment, his gaze dropping to the ground, "I...I need your help."  

Jungwon's eyes narrow, "With what, exactly?"  

He knows what, but he's not letting Jake off that easily. Not after last night.  

"With Y/N," your name hangs in the air between them as Jake's voice cracks, and Jungwon clenches his jaw before he lets out a frustrated sigh.  

"I don't think you're in any position to be asking me for help right now."  

"I know," Jake says quickly, his hands raising in surrender. "I know, okay? I screwed up big time. I—God, I don't even know where to start, Jungwon. I just...I don't want to make things worse."  

Jungwon lets out a bitter, humorless laugh, stepping back and motioning his head to let Jake enter his room, "You've already got a good head start on that, I see."  

Jake steps inside, awkwardly hovering near the door as Jungwon moves to sit on the edge of his own bed. He doesn't offer Jake a seat, and Jake doesn't ask for one.  

"She cried, you know," Jungwon says after a few moments of silence, his voice stone cold. "I had to pull over because she couldn't even hold it together long enough for me to get her home. I've known her my entire life, and I don't think I've ever seen her cry that hard, Jake."  

Jake flinches, the words physically hurting him, "I didn't mean to—"  

"Yeah, I know," the younger boy cuts him off, his voice sharp, his anger rising on behalf of you. "You didn't mean to hurt her. But you did. And now you're asking me to help you fix it like it's that easy."  

"It's not easy," Jake mutters quietly, his hands fumbling with the edge of his hoodie. "Nothing about this...none of it is easy. But I know I messed up, and I—I can't just leave things like this, I can't lose her, Jungwon. I care about her too much."  

Jungwon deadpans at his friend, fighting back the urge to scoff in his face, "If you cared about her, you wouldn't have let her walk out of that party looking like her entire world was falling apart."  

Jake looks up, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with something Jungwon can't quite name...desperation, maybe. Or guilt. Or both.  

"I didn't know what to do," Jake finally admits, his voice still barely above a whisper, as if admitting to himself for the first time, too. "I saw her, and she looked so...broken. And I—I panicked, I didn't know what to do, and by the time I realized, she was gone."  

Jungwon leans back, groaning as he runs a hand over his face. The anger bubbling within him hasn't fully faded, but he knows there's something else now—something softer, something that makes it harder to keep his protective guard for you up.  

Because he knows Jake isn't lying.  

"You don't get to half-ass this, Jake," Jungwon finally says after he thinks to himself. "She's not some random girl you're trying to impress, she isn't Jenn. This is Y/N. If you want to fix things, you have to be ready to own up to everything. No excuses, no backing out. She deserves that much."  

Jake nods quickly, his eyes wide and hopeful at Jungwon's slight change in demeanor, “I will. I swear, I will.” 

"And don't think she's going to forgive you right away," Jungwon adds. "She's hurt. You have to give her time. This isn't about what you want—it's about what she needs."  

Jake swallows hard, nodding again, “I just want to talk to her. To explain. To tell her I’m sorry and—”  

His voice cracks, and he looks down, his hands trembling slightly. Jungwon lets out a sigh, his mixed feelings turning more into something closer to pity. Because as much as he wants to stay mad for your sake, he's known Jake long enough to know that he's a good guy—and that his heart is in the right place.  

But even more than that, he knows you. And he knows how much Jake means to you, even if you won't admit it, especially not now more than ever.  

"You're actually an idiot," Jungwon says after a few beats, his voice carrying a lighter tone now. "But for some godforsaken reason, knowing her, I think she might actually miss you."  

Jake looks up from his hands, his eyes searching Jungwon's face for any flicker of doubt, "You really think so?"  

Jungwon shrugs, standing up and moving towards his door, "I think you've got a lot of work to do if you want to earn her trust back. But...I think you still have a chance."  

Jake doesn't say anything as he follows Jungwon to the door, but the look on his face says enough—there's a new slight look of hope. It's small, but he's clutching onto it like it’s his lifeline.  

“You know," Jungwon says when he reaches the doorway. "Y/N’s not the type to let people in easily. She puts up walls—but with you…she let them down. You’re special to her, Jake, even if she doesn’t say it. Don’t throw that away. For her sake, and yours.” 

“I won’t,” Jake promises, his voice steady now. “Thank you, Jungwon.” 

Jungwon nods at the older boy before giving him a faint smile, "And just so you know, I defended you yesterday. So don't prove me wrong or I'm actually going to deck you."  

Jake lets out a weak laugh as he hangs outside Jungwon's door, "Noted. I promise I won't let her down again."  

Jungwon doesn’t respond, just closes the door with a soft click, and hopes—for all their sakes—that Jake means it.  

Jake [5:12PM]: hi Y/N   Jake [5:12PM]: i know I'm the last person you want to hear from right now. and i don’t blame you at all   Jake [5:13PM]: but i cant just stay silent and let this sit between us, and i value you too much to not respect you needing space and just show up at your door  Jake [5:14PM]: even though it’s killing me to stay away  Jake [5:14PM]: after you left the party last night, i went back inside. i told jenn that whatever we had in the past is exactly that, the past. and i swear to you, Y/N, there’s nothing between us. there hasn’t been for a long time. and it’s my fault for making it seem otherwise.   Jake [5:15PM]: and as for how i acted…i don’t even know where to start. i fucked up extremely. nothing will excuse my actions and i don’t expect you to forgive me. but i need to apologize properly, you deserve that much.   Jake [5:17PM]: please let me see you, Y/N. i don’t deserve it, and i don’t deserve you. but you mean everything to me, and i hate that i hurt you. and i promise, if you let me, i’ll do everything to make it up to you.  

You stare at the phone in your hand, the messages feeling like salt to an open wound. The words on the screen begin to blur together as tears prick your eyes, spilling over before you even realize it. You don't bother wiping them away—the sting in your chest too raw, too heavy. Each word feels like Jake is standing right there in front of you, his voice soft and broken, tangled with regret.  

You tell yourself to stop reading. You've already gone through the same messages at least a hundred times in the past ten minutes, overanalyzing each syllable as if they hold the answers to all of your questions.  

And yet, you can't stop.  

You want to be angry. You are angry. Or, at least, you think. Because beneath the flame of your anger that's already threatening to die out? There's an ache you can't ignore—a small, stubborn part of you that refuses to let go to the sincerity in his words, clinging onto the hope that he's telling you the truth.  

You mean everything to me, and I hate that I hurt you. I promise, if you let me, I'll do everything to make it up to you.  

The ache twists harder, curling into doubt. What if he means it? What if he's telling the truth?  

But of course, the fear rises just as quickly. Because what if he's not? What if you let him back in, and it all falls apart again? What if you let yourself believe in him, giving him the second chance he's asking for, only to have your heart shattered worse than before?  

And then, there's Jungwon's voice, soft but steady, cutting through the chaos brewing in your mind: "Even idiots get scared when they care about someone as much as he clearly cares about you."  

Your breath catches.  

Because that's the worst part. Knowing that maybe—just maybe—Jake really does care. Knowing that maybe he's telling the truth—and you're the one too afraid to take the risk, ready to build up the walls Jake's managed to get through.  

Your phone screen suddenly dims, pulling you out of your thoughts and back into the moment. You blink rapidly, wiping at your face, your mind a mess of emotions you can't untangle or describe.  

Fear. Hope. Doubt. 

And something else—something you're afraid to admit, but you know is unmistakably real.  

And it's stronger than the fear churning in your chest—it's something that's pulling you forward.  

Your heart pounds almost out of your rib cage as you let out a shaky breath, the weight on your shoulders pressing harder and harder with every second you hesitate. The ache doesn't let up, but neither does your hope.  

So you stop thinking altogether, letting your heart take control instead.  

You shut your eyes, as if bracing yourself for a crash, take a deep breath, unlock your phone, and let your fingers fly across the screen, each word feeling like a leap off a cliff.  

You hit send.  

Y/N [5:30PM]: hi jake  Y/N [5:30PM]: you can come over 

The soft knock at your door startles you, even though you know it’s coming.  

“Y/N?” 

His voice. Jake’s voice.  

Your heart clenches painfully, a conflicting mix of longing and hurt washing over you all at once. It hasn't even been a full day since the party, but the weight of his absence has already hollowed you out, leaving a hole you can't ignore. You know he's the one who caused it—that the cracks in your heart are his doing—but at the same time, the stubborn part of you whispers that he's also the only one who can mend them.  

You make your way to the door, your movements hesitant as you crack it open, peek out, and...there he is.  

"Hi," Jake says softly.  

He's a mess. A beautiful, saddened mess—his hair messy, like he's been running his hands through it all day, his eyes rimmed with the kind of exhaustion that isn't just physical. One hand is buried deep in his jacket, and in the other— 

"Flowers?" You ask, raising a brow in surprise.  

Jake's ears turn red. "Yeah. Uh, I didn't know if you had a favorite, so I got—"  

You open the door wider, revealing the full bouquet—daisies, tulips, roses, all wrapped together in crinkled tissue paper.  

"—a little bit of everything," he finishes awkwardly, his voice trailing off, pausing for a second before holding them out to you with a sheepish smile.  

Your lips twitch subconsciously, despite everything.  

"Jake, you're literally allergic."  

His mouth opens, then closes, the redness from his ears now spreading to his cheeks.  

"Well, yeah, but—," Jake mumbles, shifting on his feet. "—not, like, deadly or anything dramatic like that."  

He pauses, his voice dropping into something softer, more vulnerable, "I just wanted you to have them. That's all."  

You feel your insides tighten, the sincerity in his voice getting to you. For a moment, all you can manage to do is stare at him—at the way his eyes are silently pleading, wide and unsure.  

You hesitate for a second, then step back and open the door wider.  

"Thank you," you say quietly, your fingers brushing against his as you take the bouquet, sending a flicker of warmth through you. "Come in."  

Jake hesitates, his eyes searching yours like he's not sure if he's actually allowed to. When you turn away and walk towards your kitchen, he finally steps inside, kicking off his shoes quickly and hovering by the door like he doesn't know what to expect next.  

You set the flowers down on the counter, adjusting them carefully before turning back to him. He's still standing there, stiff and uncertain, the distance between you feeling larger than ever before.  

"So..." You say, crossing your arms tightly across yourself, shifting your weight as a way to ground yourself—though the lump in your throat makes it feel impossible.  

Jake exhales shakily, his hands fidgeting by his sides and gaze darting to the floor before finally landing on you, "I came to apologize. Properly."  

You blink at him, expression unreadable, "You already said sorry."  

Your voice comes out sharper than intended, surprising even yourself, but the words leave before you can stop them. Jake flinches, just slightly, but he nods, knowing he deserved that. 

"Not like I should have," he says, stepping closer, his voice low and careful, like he's afraid you'll run out of your own apartment. "I know I messed up. I hurt you, and I hate that I did. I hate that I made you feel like you weren't enough or that someone else could ever compare to you, Y/N."  

Your arms tighten around yourself as if the words might knock the breath out of you as look away, unsure if you can meet the rawness in his eyes.  

"Last night," Jake continues, his eyes filling with guilt, "I didn't handle last night right. And not just how I handled Jenn, but I let my own insecurities and stupid fears of being perfect for you get in the way. I let it happen and mess everything up. I let you think that you didn't matter to me, and I will never forgive myself, Y/N."  

His words hang in the air, heavy yet sincere, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him as you process his words slowly.  

"And I don't expect you to forgive me either, Y/N," Jake's voice wavers before he continues, "but I need you to know that I'm so, so sorry. No excuses. For all of it—for making you feel like anything less than everything, for making you feel like you weren't my first choice. Because you are. You're my only, Y/N." 

His words hit you with a force that crashes over the walls you tried so desperately to build. They're overwhelming yet tender, like rediscovering a piece of yourself you hadn't even realized you lost. And you want to let them comfort you, you do. But the pain from last night lingers deep down, reminding you of why you built those walls in the first place.  

For a moment, the silence stretches on longer than you intend, the weight of his words settling in the air between you. Jake doesn't look away though—his gaze unwavering, vulnerable, and raw.  

As though he's laid himself bare before you, giving you the power to either accept or shatter him completely.  

When you finally find your voice, it trembles despite your best efforts, "Jake...I don't know if I can just forget what happened."  

"I'm not asking you to forget," he says quickly, taking another step closer until there's only a few feet left between you. "I just want the chance to fix us. I can't lose you like this, Y/N."  

Your breath catches at the proximity, his presence pulling you in like gravity. The pain from last night tries to claw its way back into your heart—sharp and bitter—but his warmth reminds you of something else that refuses to be ignored.  

That flicker of hope that's demanding your attention, screaming at you to just let him in—not just for his sake, but for you. 

You take a deep breath, finally meeting his gaze. "Jake, I don't need you to...to be this perfect person. I don't need you to prove anything to me."  

You pause, pushing past the lump in your throat, "Because since the beginning, I always believed you. And...I think I still do. Even after last night, I still believe you, Jake. No matter how hard I try to."  

Jake lets out a breath he thinks he's been holding in for hours, "Really?"  

"Yeah," you nod slowly, as if reassuring yourself as much as him. "But I don't need any of your promises or proof or any of that. I just...I just need you as you."  

His eyes soften at you as he nods so quickly it's almost desperate.   

"And I need you to be honest with me, Jake," you continue before he can speak. "If we do this, I need to know I can trust you. Because I don't know if I can do this...this waiting game anymore."  

"You can," he says immediately, closing the distance between you two, making your breath hitch. You can see the way his hands are trembling, the slight quiver in his lips. "You can trust me. No more hesitation. I'm all in, Y/N. This is it for me, you're it."   

You search his face for any sign of doubt, any speck of hesitation. But all you find is his sincerity—so hopeful and so real—the kind that makes you want to let him in fully and let your walls crumble all over again.  

So you do.  

"Okay," you say softly, almost as if you're testing the word.  

Jake's eyes widen, the relief and hope flooding his features. Slowly, as if asking for permission, he reaches out, his fingers brushing against yours tentatively.  

"Okay?" He whispers, his voice barely audible to you as his eyes flicker between your hands and your face.  

You nod, your own hand turning over so your fingers curl around his in an instinctive gesture that feels so natural it makes you want to scream. The warmth of his touch feels like the first real comfort you've felt in forever, and it's enough to make your resolve slip.  

"But," you add softly, your eyes not leaving the way his hand wraps around yours so perfectly, "this doesn't mean everything's fine. We need to talk. We need to figure out where we stand, and where we go from there."  

Jake nods again, his grip on your hand tightening slightly, "We will. Whatever it takes, Y/N, I'll do it. I need you to know how much you mean to me and I'll never stop trying to show you that."  

You let out a shaky breath as you take in his words, finally looking up from your intertwined hands to meet his eyes, your own slowly filling with the tears you've been holding back. 

"You really hurt me, Jake," you say quietly, your voice breaking from the sheer weight of your vulnerability being laid bare.  

Jake's face crumbles instantly, guilt etched into every line of his expression. Without hesitation, his free hand comes up to gently cup your cheek, his thumb light brushing away the tears that fall, as if he's afraid you might pull away.  

Your eyes flutter closed at the warmth of his hand, and despite the emotions raging inside you, you let yourself lean into him. It feels both reckless, yet inevitable, like free-falling and trusting—knowing—he'll catch you.  

"I know," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion he can't swallow down. "And I'll spend as long as it takes to deserve you, Y/N. I'll never make you feel like that again."  

You nod weakly, and before you can think too much, he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into the safety of his chest, his chin moving to rest on top of your head as his warmth envelops you completely.  

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself break, burying your face into his chest as the tears flow freely, the weight of everything finally breaking free as you let yourself melt into his tight embrace.  

It's not perfect. It's not a fix-all.  

But as Jake holds you close, whispering quiet reassurances into your hair, you know it's a start.  

And a start is all you need.  

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

epilogue:

“Hi, pretty.”  

“Hi, Jake.”

On the other end of the call, Jake lets out a playful scoff. Even with the slight lag, you can see his lips twitch into that familiar pout—the one that still gives you butterflies, no matter how many times you've see it now, even a year later.

“After all we’ve been through, you still won’t give me a cute pet name?” 

You roll your eyes, biting back a grin, “What do you want me to say? Hi, my handsome, perfect, kindest, funniest, boyfriend in the whole wide world?”  

Jake leans closer to the camera, his expression completely serious as if you should already know his answer, "...Yes." 

Giggles burst out of you, shaking your head at his antics. “You’re too cute to be doing all that, Jake. Pick a struggle.” 

He clutches his chest dramatically, “You know, what? You’re my struggle—I fly across time zones, run on three hours of sleep, and you still won’t give me a crumb of your affection?” 

“You’re exhausting.” 

“And yet…,” Jake trails off with a teasing smirk, his voice dropping into that playful, yet low lilt that still makes your stomach flip to this day. "Here you are, calling me at 1AM in the morning.”  

Your cheeks flush as you glance away from the screen, trying to ignore the way his teasing gaze makes you feel, "Don’t' get confused, it's not like I wanted to or anything. I just figured someone should remind you to go to bed or else you'll look like a zombie tomorrow at the fanmeet."  

Jake laughs softly, the sound grounding you in a certain way only he ever can. "You're so thoughtful, babe. My number-one hater and number-one fan, all at once. I'm so lucky."  

You send him an air kiss, the teasing grin on your face mirrored by the fond one tugging at his lips. He looks at you like he did in that first-ever call way back then—like you're his whole world, and he can't believe you're real.  

"How's the jet lag this time?" You ask, steering the conversation to safer ground.  

"It's not so bad," he shrugs, despite the clear exhaustion in his voice. "At least this trip is only for a few days. Then I can come back to the comfort of our bed."  

You raise an eyebrow, "My bed."  

Jake's eyes narrow, "Our bed. Just admit it—you miss me."  

You pause. "Maybe. Just a little."  

His grin widens, and for a moment, neither of you say anything, the conversation lulling into an easy silence—the kind of warmth that only comes with knowing someone so well.  

Finally, you shift under your blanket, getting comfortable as Jake watches you through this screen, his gaze tender, as though memorizing the curve of your smile, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear.  

"You should sleep," you murmur, holding your phone closer to your face. The glow of your phone reflecting off your soft features sends palpations to Jake's chest so loud he almost doesn't hear your words. 

"Mm, I really should," Jake sighs, though he doesn't move an inch. "I'll talk to you soon, yeah?" 

"Mmhm," you hum, your eyes closing at the softness of his voice.  

“Sleep tight. I love you,” his says, voice soft and deliberate, making sure you feel every word. 

“Goodnight, Jakey,” you tease, letting the smirk creep into your voice, peeking an eye open just to catch his reaction. 

Jake groans dramatically, running a hand down his face, “Y/N…not this again.”  

You giggle, the fondness within you growing tenfold as you take in his face—the slight pout of his lips, his messy hair, his eyes shining with unwavering adoration for you. 

“I said I love youuu,” he whines, dragging out the last word, his lips tugging into the tiniest of smiles, his entire universe reflecting from his eyes.  

Finally, you give in, smiling sweetly.  

“I love you, too, Jake. You already know.”  

And you’ve never meant anything more.  

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

Songs that Remind me of Y/N:

From the first call to forever—you've always been my favorite melody.   Yours, Jake <3

"As I Am" – Justin Bieber (ft. Khalid)  

"Daylight" – Taylor Swift 

"DIE 4 YOU" - Dean 

"Psycho, Pt. 2" – Russ 

"Heaven" – Bazzi 

"Every Kind of Way" – H.E.R. 

"Off My Face" – Justin Bieber 

"Before You" – Benson Boone 

"Sunflower" – Post Malone & Swae Lee 

"Pink + White" – Frank Ocean

"No Doubt" – Enhypen <3 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

update! if you enjoyed this and want more of no doubt!jake & y/n, check out my sequel series linked here for drabbles of their relationship <3

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

the end! if you made it all the way, this is for you:

⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡♡♡♡♡♡

p.s. i wanted to leave the ending kinda up to interpretation—hence the time skip to a year later..but lowkey what if i wrote short drabbles/scenes of things jake does to gain Y/N's trust again, from small to big gestures etc etc..lmk if that's something anyone would wanna see !! (update — linked above now!)

<3, addie

m.list here!

tag list (love you all <3):

(i hope it let me tag everyone!)

@thesassy-mia @ikeulove @renaishun @xylatox @puma-riki @blackberryrains @dreamiestay @junislqve @lamin143 @dreamy-carat @etherealhan @vvenusoncasual @belovedsthings @somuchdard @sumzysworld @mirouie @almondtofu006 @fancypeacepersona @vivimura @hollxe1 @missthang600 @sugarikiz @sanasour @enhamonsterghoul @etherealriki

[dawnfire12]

Becoming a Family

Pairing: Saja boys (Kpop Demon Hunters) x You (female manager)

Summary: You have been feeling nauseous lately. Not only that but also a bit more sensitive and it seems your period is late. The boys’ wish of you becoming pregnant may just be true. 

Warnings: smut content, light fluff

Word Count: 2049

A/n: for @ackerkisses and @grandesteartherquakedreamer who wanted to see what would happen if you were pregnant. Hopefully delivered!

Gasps, moans, groans and slapping of skin are all that can be heard in the dressing room as Jinu holds you up against the wall pounding into you. Your panties are dangling around one ankle while your high heels are struggling to stay on and your shirt has been pulled to have your breasts exposed. Jinu sucks on your breasts that seem to be more sensitive as of lately. You moan from feeling his tongue circle your nipple and ultimately this leads to your orgasm. He doesn’t last long as your walls squeeze him and he finishes in you with a groan and lazy pumps.

He sets you back on the ground and dresses you.

As he buttons your shirt back up he comments, “Your boobs seem a little bigger recently.”

You raise your eyebrow at him as he zips up his pants and goes to the mirror, “Really?”

He comes up behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist, “Yeah and you seem to be glowing.”

You blush, “That’s cause we just finished.”

“Not just that. But lately in general.”

You turn in his arms to face him and your eyes tear up, “I’m glowing?”

He looks a little taken aback, “Yeah glowing. You’re beautiful.”

You sniffle, placing your hands on his cheeks, leaning up to kiss him, “I love you.”

He sighs into the kiss, “I love you too.”

You stay in his arms for a few more moments before kicking him out so he can get ready to perform on the variety tv show the boys are appearing on. Taking this one moment of silence, you make a cup of ramen and get ready to slurp it up when a wave of nausea hits you. You place your hand over your mouth and run to the bathroom to vomit. You tear up a little bit as you kneel on the floor, emptying the contents of your stomach. You place the palm of your hand on your forehead and take deep breaths to control your breathing. Once your breathing is controlled, you flush the toilet and wash your hands. This is at least the fourth time this week you’ve thrown up. You can’t be sick as you have no fever, runny nose, or sore throat. You just happen to vomit at the smell of certain foods which is totally normal.

You examine yourself in the mirror and realize you are glowing even though you did just throw up. You do also feel that your boobs have been feeling swollen and it feels so good when the boys massage them. Usually, you get swollen before your period…. Period. You blink at the mirror. You can’t remember when your last period was. Your heart clenches. There is no way you are pregnant, maybe your period is just late from stress. You smile weakly at the mirror.

Oh who are you kidding? You may be pregnant! Let’s be real here. The boys never use condoms and it’s not like you demand them to wear anyone. Half the time you are pounced on before you can even think. Not to mention the fact that they take any chance they can to not only be in you but to also finish in you. 

You slap your cheeks. Okay. All you have to do is buy some tests to make sure and take it when the boys aren’t looking. You look at your watch and see that the boys will just be heading to the stage. You quickly walk backstage to see them about to enter the main stage. Their heads turn at your heels clacking as you wave them good luck. They smile and nod back at you. You stand there for 10 minutes before telling the PA you have to pick some food up for the boys. It’s not really a lie, you just happen to be getting pregnancy tests with some snacks.

You rush to the convenience store, putting a bunch of snacks in your arms and grabbing four pregnancy tests. You get up to the self-checkout aisle, put your stuff in the bag and run back to the studio. You don’t even drop the snacks off, you bring them with you to the bathroom so you can pee on all four sticks. As you wait for all four to turn whatever color you pace and bite your nails. Your timer went off and you looked at all four sticks that said the same thing, positive. 

You place your hand against your forehead and lean against the wall. The breath has been knocked out of you. You feel your heart race as well as your mind. What are you going to tell the boys? You would imagine they would be happy with the way they constantly have to have their dicks in you. But what if they would change their minds? What would you do with this baby if they left you? What are you going to do with this baby period?

As you start to spin out a little bit more, you get a text from the PA stating the show has 10 more minutes left before ending. You are at work, you have to stay professional. You nod your head and fix your clothing before grabbing your snacks and heading backstage. You make it in time for the boys to start walking off.

Baby pouts at you, “Where were you?”

You hold up the bag, “I went to get snacks.”

Baby smiles, “Okay, not mad at you anymore,” he takes the bag and runs off.

“Hey! Those are for all of you!” You shout after him.

“Hello gorgeous!” Romance purrs at you and hugs you.

You melt in his arms, “Hi,” and you feel another pair wrap around you, “Hi to you too Abby.”

Abby playfully bites your ear, “Missed you.”

You slap the back of his head and wiggle out of the hug, “Go to the car now.”

He pouts and tries to protest when Romance drags him away. Mystery gently grabs your hand and you pet his head. He nuzzles into you before following the boys. Last but not least Jinu approaches you.

His eyebrows furrowed, “You okay?”

You nod, “Yeah, just a little tired.”

He hums, “Okay.”

You walk out together into the waiting car. On the car ride home, you fall asleep and wake up to being carried in Abby’s arms. You snuggle into his chest and he tightens his arms around you. He places you on the bed and tucks you into bed. 

You grab his arm as he goes to walk away, “Stay. Cuddle with me.”

He grins, “Ohh you wanna cuddle? That’s all you want to do huh?”

“Abby.” You whisper with pleading eyes.

He freezes at those and just nods, slipping in right beside you and pulling you to his chest.

For the next week, the boys notice how anxious and sick you seem. Constantly biting your lip or thumb, shifting your eyes rapidly, and not to mention your abrupt timing to go to the bathroom. Unable to take it, one of them confronts you in the kitchen, caging you with both of his arms placed on either side of you at the kitchen counter.

“You are starting to worry me. Are you okay?” Jinu asks.

You open your mouth and close it a few times before you look to the side.

“Y/n. You can tell me. Please let me help you.” He pleads.

A tear or two falls from your cheek before you look at him, “I’m pregnant.”

At first, he looks saddened from your tears. Shocked by your words. Then the biggest grin you have ever seen.

“Really?” He beams.

You nod and he lifts you up, swinging you around.

“Boys!” He shouts and they all run into the kitchen, “We are going to be daddies.”

They all cheer and take turns hugging you. You laugh and wipe your tears.

“Yeah! I’m gonna be a dad!” Abby flexes and spins you around.

“Hey! No spinning the pregnant lady!” Romance scolds him, rubs your back and kisses you on the forehead.

“My baby is having a baby!” Baby smothers you to his chest until Mystery pulls you from him.

Mystery kisses you softly, placing his head on yours and whispers, “I can’t wait to have this baby.”

You had no reason to worry. 

For the next few months, you are pampered. Romance makes sure to rub your feet and back. Baby constantly talks to the baby. Abby and Jinu make sure you don’t lift anything heavy or do too much labor. Jinu makes sure the apartment is babyproof. Mystery sits with you when the other boys start to become too much and you need a calming spirit. 

You give birth to a beautiful black haired baby boy who is a carbon copy of his daddy Jinu. All the boys tear up when they first hold him. 

Jinu is very tentative to the baby. First time he cries, Jinu is up by the crib and rocking him back to sleep. Baby has a video camera always pointing at the baby as he wants every moment to be saved. Abby always picks him up in the air to hear his little giggles. Romance smothers the baby with kisses and Mystery is the best naptime partner to be with.

They all love their baby, however seeing him as a carbon copy of their leader, they also want a carbon copy too. So once the okay is given by the doctor, Jinu is locked out of the bedroom while the boys get hard at work in your foursomes.

Not very long after you are pregnant with twins! You give birth to a baby boy who looks exactly like Abby but with your eyes and a baby girl who looks just like Romance. Since it’s the first girl born all the boys swear with their fists raised and fire in their eyes no man will ever be enough for their baby girl. 

Mystery and Baby soon kick Romance and Abby out of the bedroom to get to work on their mini mes and no surprise you're pregnant again giving birth to a beautiful baby girl with silver hair and your eyes. All the boys coo at her giggles and wiggle her toes.

Baby then gets to have you all to himself and he’s not complaining. He gets to go as many rounds as he likes and no one can stop him. You soon give birth to a mini-me baby.

As you stand in the doorway to the kitchen and living room rocking your newest baby, you feel so much joy watching each boy playing with their kids. Mystery and baby Myara lay on the couch together staring at Abby and baby Leo where Abby pretends to eat his toes. Romance is brushing baby Suki’s hair to put it into cute braids. Jinu is playing his bipa for baby Ryo and baby Ryo claps again. Baby comes from behind you to snatch baby Ava.

You smile as you see the family you created and while you try to memorize this picture, arms wrap around your waist and you feel a kiss on your cheek. You look to see Jinu smiling and you lean up to kiss him. He shifts your hips so you are fully facing him and presses you against the counter. He deepens the kiss as his tongue traces your mouth, remembering how you taste and he moans. He grips your hips and you lean your head back, which leads him to trail down your neck leaving soft kisses.

“Jinu. The kids are all right there.” You whimper. 

He trails his kisses back up and looks you in the eye, “Well I haven’t gotten my fair share of you in a while. I’ve missed your taste. And so have the others.”

You feel yourself get a little wet at his confession. You have missed everyone too. He pulls you to the closet and lifts you up.

“Let me show you how much I’ve missed you.” He sucks on your neck.

Good thing the boys are all distracted because Jinu definitely shows you how much he’s been holding back and missing you. You won’t be surprised if you get pregnant again.

[luveline]

𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

Spencer calls you drunk and in need of rescue. You confess a few secrets to him while he won’t remember them (or so you think). 3k, fem

cw drunk!spencer, mentioned past drug use, confident/bombshell!reader, flirting, spencer getting some well deserved comfort, a handful of his drunken compliments, insecurity, intense mutual pining

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You’re blissfully sleeping in the arms of a REM cycle when your phone rings. It pulls you by the chest, a punch of shock and expectancy at once. It’ll be someone calling you into work, Hotch himself if you’re lucky. 

You search blindly for your phone. If you’re even luckier, it’ll be a wrong number. Your fingers curl around the little body of your phone and you bring it to your ear without checking the number, frazzled. “Hello?” you ask hoarsely. 

Total quiet. 

“Hello?” You pull the screen away. The caller reads: SPENCER. You pull it back rather than hang up. “Hey, Spencer. Are you there?” 

“Hello.” He laughs. “Hello, are you there?” 

“I’m here, Spencer, where are you?” 

“That’s an interesting question, actually, and I’m sure there’s a great answer, but…” 

“But what?” You sit up quickly, your throat aching with sleep. Your room is black as coal pitch. “Spencer, what time is it, my love?” 

“You shouldn’t call me stuff like that.” 

“Stop being weird and tell me where you are.” 

He laughs like a hyena. You can see it in your mind, his smile and all his pearly perfect teeth. You love it when he smiles like that and he rarely ever does. “I’m somewhere and I need your help getting home!” he says with another funny laugh. 

“Are you alright? You sound…” He sounds inebriated. 

Spencer struggled with his drug problem for so long before you found out. You just hadn’t been around enough, and when you were he’d gotten good at hiding it. You can still remember how furious you’d been with everyone, including him, because you could’ve helped, would’ve done anything to support him through it. If he’s hurting now and hasn’t told you, you love him, but you’ll be insanely angry. 

“Spencer?” you ask quietly. 

“I went for drinks with a girl but she didn’t like me and I may have drowned my sorrows too much,” he admits. “Um. Did you know gin is very strong?” 

“Aw, baby. You’re cheating on me?” 

“I’m afraid so,” he says, and hiccups. 

“Where are you?” 

After some hassle wherein you persuade Spencer to give the phone to someone else in the bar for a slightly less drunk interrogation, you dress and gather your bearings for the drive. You zip a hoodie up over your pyjamas, stuff your feet into some old converse, and set out into the dark to find him. 

He calls you again as you’re parking. “Hello,” he says as soon as you answered. “I need you to come and get me.” 

Spencer called you twice to save him. Even if he doesn’t remember, he’s called you to come and get him when he knows he needs help, and that realisation is hard to ignore. “Spencer, I’m two minutes away, I’m parking. You’re still where you were?” 

“Where was I?” 

“At the bar, sweetheart. Are you still there?” It’s scarily dark out and you didn’t grab any sort of defensive measure before you came, which you regret now, climbing out of your car to walk the dimly lit road. The bar glows like a beacon to be followed. 

“Still where?” 

“Did you hit your head?” 

“Not to my knowledge. Though I’m not sure I have much right now. I feel like I’m forgetting everything I’ve ever read, and I’ve read a lot. You know I can read about eighty average length novels in one hour on an e-reader? The buttons make it faster.” 

“You haven’t told me that before.” You shiver against the nighttime winds, footsteps heavy on the grey sidewalk. 

“I’m trying to be more conversational. Emily says it’s not working.” 

“You’re conversational. Isn’t the only condition of being conversational to prompt a conversation? We’re always talking.” 

“…What?” 

You laugh like crazy. “Spencer, you don’t need to change the way you talk.” 

“I annoy people.” 

“You don’t annoy me.” 

You approach the door of the bar, a ramshackle sheet of plywood over what looks to be a glass door. The bar building seems in similar dessaray, with modern features wrecked by scratches and smashed panes. It’s a real dive. Spencer couldn’t have meant to come here. 

You war with both hands to open the door and find yourself faced with a long and empty corridor leading to another door. Worried you’re going to get kidnapped, you bring the phone back to your ear, Spencer’s chatting an immediate greeting. “…telling me I’m doing something wrong without telling me what it is, it’s impossible.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, can you come to the door?” 

“I don’t think I have control of my legs,” he says without inflection. 

“It’s definitely the building with the smashed door?” 

“Yesssss. Are you here?” he asks excitedly. 

“I better not get murdered, Spencer Reid.” 

“Am I in trouble?” 

“How are you even keeping the phone to your ear right now?” 

“I’m on speaker phone. Milly showed me how to do it. Say hi, Milly.” 

“Hi Milly,” a new voice says. 

You rub your eyes with one hand and square your shoulders, prepared to defend yourself if the creepy door leads to a creepier room. 

Spencer is immediately visible from the get go. You open the door on to a rather cosy looking bar, which you’re thinking might be the whole point; wretched exterior, secret attraction. Warm orange light ebbs into the space from sconces and a faux fireplace, while a wrestling match playing from the small TV behind the bar casts brighter light down onto Spencer’s shoulders. He looks out of place, dressed in a white oxford shirt and a suit jacket, his tie loosened and hanging from either side of his neck, compared to the lingering patrons who sit dotted around the room in booths and on barstools. One such patron sits in a plaid shirt and a trucker hat, her hair to her back, thick and dark. 

You hang up the call and put your phone in your pocket. Spencer gasps like he’s been smacked and picks his own phone up from the bar, clicking at buttons with clumsy fingers. “No,” he hums sadly. 

“Spencer,” you say, not wanting to disturb the people spending their sorry-looking night here. “Spencer. Hey, Spence!” 

His phone tips between his fingers. The woman you assume to be Milly catches it and offers it back without looking too far from her beer. 

“Hey,” you say gently, crossing a wide empty space to meet him. The room itself is shaped like a horseshoe, the bar taking up a surprising amount in the centre, and booths and tables placed around it. Spencer’s off of his barstool as you approach, eyes like puppy dog’s, arms extended. “You okay?” you ask. 

You can feel eyes on you both from every angle, but it doesn’t matter, not when Spencer’s falling into your arms (or on to them —he’s surprisingly tall when you aren’t wearing heels). “You alright?” you ask again. 

“You don’t have to be worried, I’m fine.” 

He’s less coordinated in real life than he’d sounded over the phone, his slurring unmissable, his hands like jumping fish as he tries to hug you. It’s weird and straining to take his weight but you do it without complaint. He smells the same, at least, only his cedary cologne is sharpened by the tang of gin on his breath. 

“Thank god you’re here,” he whispers. 

“Why?” you ask, pulling away to check for danger. 

“I missed you.” 

“I missed you too, handsome,” you say, genuine but laying it on thick simultaneously as you ease his head back to cup his cheek. You can’t help yourself. He’s the prettiest man you’ve ever met, and it gets worse every year. 

He frowns at you deeply. “I don’t like first dates.” 

“Then don’t go on them,” you suggest, “you don’t need to until you’re ready.” 

“I’m ready for love,” he says. You pull your lips into a flattened line, unsure of what to say, how to explain that it’s waiting for him, but his chin dips towards his neck and his eyes lock onto your face. “You’re not wearing makeup. God, you’re so pretty.” 

You flinch away from him. “Fuck, Spencer.”

“I’m sorry! It’s not that you don’t look pretty with makeup, but I never see you without it!” 

You’d forgotten you weren’t wearing any. Makeup isn’t a shield, exactly, but you like putting your best foot forward, so to speak. You’ve no clue what you look like tonight, hadn’t managed to look in the mirror, you’d been focused on getting to Spencer before he got lost. You can imagine the puffiness.

Spencer touches your cheek. You let him turn you mostly because he’s surprised you, his eyes roving up and down your face with a fawning curiosity. 

“You’re beautiful. You know that already, but people don’t tell you enough,” he says, his hand falling from your cheek. 

“Spencer,” you say softly, “let’s get you home.” 

You thank Milly for her help and grab Spencer’s bag from the floor to hang on your shoulder. You’d make a joke about how heavy it was if you didn’t think he’d take it from you, and, considering how drunk he is, topple over from the imbalance it provides. His shirt is clammy where you push your hand through his arm to link them, his footsteps wobbly. 

“I didn’t want to go on a date,” he says. 

“Then why did you go?” you ask, helping him over the door jam into the long hallway. 

“I don’t want to be alone forever.” 

“Spencer, you won’t be.” It doesn’t feel like the best time to bring up how much you like him. You’re sure he thinks you’re kidding, doesn’t everybody? Don’t torture him, they say. Don’t toy with him. Every time you flirt with him the team acts like you can’t mean it, and for a while it worked for you; you weren’t in love with Spencer. You weren’t playing with his feelings, but you didn’t love him, and then you joined the team and got to know him, watched him fluster at every comment you made or under any soft looking and realised you could love him. It was easy to fall for him. You liked doing it. But now he’s determined to write your affection off as a joke and going on dates? 

In the morning, when he’s sober, you’ll have to tell him how you feel. Or you could let him find someone more like him… ugh. It’s such a mess. 

You grapple with the size of your feelings for him as he hums and laughs his way down the hall to the glass door. On the street, he squints and straightens his back, fighting to regain his arm from your hold to cover your shoulder instead. “It’s cold,” he says in surprise. “You okay?” 

“I’m fine, I got my jacket. It’s a short walk, come on.”

His arm stops acting as protection and starts to use you for support. “I didn’t mean to drink so much.” 

“Drowning your sorrows is always a terrible idea because it tends to work,” you lament, less scared of the dark with him at your hip, though what protection he might offer is negated by the alcohol. 

“She kind of looked like you.” 

You squeeze your eyes together quickly. “Oh.” 

“I didn’t know she was going to. But she didn’t– she didn’t– it’s hard to talk. She didn’t listen like you do,” he says, lightly slurring, “she just stared at me like everyone used to in high school. Like she could tell there’s something wrong with me.” 

“Spencer, there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“I know,” he says. 

“Do you?” 

“Yes.” He frowns. “No, I don’t know. I don’t feel like there’s something wrong with me,” —his voice turns to a nearly indistinguishable mumble— “but everyone else always does.” 

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.” 

“Is that why you make all your jokes?” 

“What jokes, babe?” 

“Like that! Like babe. It’s funny ‘cos you’d never date me.” 

You’d slow if he weren’t already walking at a snail's pace. “That’s not true. Let’s talk about it in the morning, okay?” 

“I won’t remember to ask you in the morning.” 

“Spencer, you remember everything.” 

He drags his feet. “I wish I wasn’t so weird,” he whines. It’s playful at the forefront but desperate otherwise, and it gives you pause. “I wish I was normal, and you could like me normal.” 

You look down at your hands, panicking, a flash of Is this a good idea? like an alarm in your head as you turn on the sidewalk to face him. He’s looking at you like he’s begging you to disagree with him. 

You’re happy to. 

“Spencer, I like you like this,” you insist loudly. His eyes and all his sweet lashes track the movement of your hand as you touch your chest, and your neck. “You’re not normal, I’m not normal. Do you know how many times I’ve been rejected? Just for being me? I’m too bossy, too outspoken, too– too high maintenance. I've had friends with good intentions tell me I need to lower my standards, need to relax, because otherwise I’m going to end up alone for the rest of my life. I feel alone all the time.”

“But you’re perfect,” he says, puzzled. 

“To you. And you’re perfect to me.” Your hand crawls to the base of your throat. “So don’t say you’re weird like it’s ugly, honey. And don’t think I don’t like you, ‘cos I do. You think I’d come and get anybody else in the middle of the night dressed like this?” you ask him, gesturing to your ratty pyjamas and your dingy converse. 

“You look so cute,” he says mournfully. 

You roll your eyes. He’s too wasted for this conversation. “Come on, sweetheart. You can think about this too much in the morning. Let’s just get home in one piece.” Physically and emotionally. 

“Can I come home with you?” he asks. 

That had always been the plan. “Ask me nicely and I’ll consider it on the way.” 

— — 

Spencer shuts his eyes, hands itching to clap over his ears as you scratch the head of a spatula across your frying pan. “Is three eggs too many? People usually have two but that’s never enough for me.” 

“I think…” Oh my god the metal screeching is so loud. “You should have as many as you want. You know your body. There’s this study on intuitive eating…” I'm too hungover for this. “Three eggs is better than two.” 

“So you want three?” 

He cannot eat right now. “Yes. Please.” 

Spencer’s half sick with dehydration and half grief. He stayed at your house last night and he was too drunk to be nosy. He slept in your bed. He slept in your bed. He woke up to you at your vanity doing your hair, the nutty smell of hair oil mixed with the heat of the hair tool on high and realised with a start that he’d missed something he thought about all the time. 

You’d tipped your head back to smile at him. “There’s my boy. Sweet dreams?” 

He didn’t dream, but if he had, it would’ve been another agonising wish where you were his girlfriend, or his wife, or just there looking at him with love. He wakes up feeling sick because it isn’t true. And now you’re making him breakfast, humming a tune under your breath, sourdough sizzling under the grill and a shoddily blended avocado sitting in the bowl in front of him. 

You asked him for one thing. He picks up the fork and starts to mash the avocado again. He can’t fight the foreignness of sitting in your kitchen, a gap in his memory. 

He knows he told you about his date, how she looked like you, how she didn’t seem to like him much, but he’s struggling to collect the finer details. Why had you picked him up? He must’ve called you, but you could’ve said no. He remembers thinking you looked beautiful, but he always thinks that. 

The avocado is making him feel sick. 

“Here,�� you say, sliding a plate of toast in front of him. “Do you want butter?” 

“I think I'm gonna throw up.” 

“You’re okay.”

“I can’t believe how I acted,” he says, pressing his palms to the hollows of his eyes. 

You turn off the hob. Fat bubbles and pops until it’s cooled. The clock on the wall by the refrigerator ticks incessantly. His slept-in shirt feels too tight despite the undone button. 

“Hey…” You round the island but don’t touch him, your voice gentle. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

He drags his hands down his face. “I can barely remember what I said.” 

“You were really nice to me… told me I looked pretty without my makeup, n’ that I was perfect. You were really nice.” 

Your tone is off. No flirtatiousness, no endless confidence, you sound wistful, like you’re glad he said it. You take the bowl of avocado he’s made a mess with and put it aside with the toast, resting your arm on the counter, and leaning into his space. “Spencer, last night? You didn’t do anything to be embarrassed of. You were nice, and kind. You tried to open the car door for me and you almost lost your eye, but you were fine. You don’t have anything to be worried about, really.”

“But it’s you.” 

“Gonna touch your hair,” you say, giving him enough time to move away as you reach out and rake back his fringe. His heart leaps into his mouth. “You said something last night like that, you know? Do you remember that? You said if you were normal.” You grace the skin beside his eye with the tip of your thumb, your perfume floating his way as you move. “And I said–”

“I’m not normal,” he says, remembering now. 

You’re not normal, I’m not normal, you’d said.

But you’re perfect, he’d said. 

To you. And you’re perfect to me.

“Right. We’re not normal, Spencer Reid, so forget that girl. She didn’t deserve you anyways,” you say. 

You draw a short, silken line down his cheek with the side of your pinky. To be touched so lightly has his stomach in knots —he’s not shocked by the swiftness with which your affection can make a bad situation good again. 

You turn away. “Now we should eat before everything goes cold.” 

He watches your shoulders move, and he remembers one last detail. So don’t say you’re weird like it’s ugly, honey. And don’t think I don’t like you, ‘cos I do. 

The way you’d said it… you couldn’t really mean…

“How’s your appetite? Still feeling sick?” you ask. 

Spencer smiles to himself, the ghost of your touch glowing warm on his cheek. “I’m feeling a lot better, actually.” 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading!!! please like/reblog or comment if you enjoyed, i appreciate anything and it always inspires me to write more<3!! my requests are pretty much always open for bombshell!reader (even though this one strays a bit from their usual story haha) so if you wanna see more let me know❤️

[nereidprinc3ss]

hi!!! here for a request. can we have a imagine where reader has a wound from surgery or whatever on like in a rib and she hides to change the bandages but then spencer sees her and he’s like ‘lemme help you’ and…

you do you for the rest!

in which spencer helps BAU fem!reader change her bandages in the bathroom at work. it's intimate, and he's adorable and awkward, and it only fuels her terrible, terrible crush.

warnings/tags: fluff, talk/description of wound, brief talk of being stabbed (does not actually occur in this fic lol), reader wears a bra, spencer undoes said bra but not sexually, lots of suggestive humor and teasing, a TINY sprinkling of angst but not really, idiots in love

a/n: i'm picturing early seasons spencer and it is filling me with so much unbridled joy. I. LOVE. HIM. thank you for the request!! and lets not talk about how inconsistent my formatting for requests is pls and thanks!!

It’s not like you meant to bend down so quickly that your wound reopened—but here you are, suffering the consequences of your actions in the women’s bathroom at Quantico as you try to assess the injury before you re-bandage it. And your shoe is still untied. 

Unfortunately, the fact that you had quite literally been stabbed in the back last week makes it hard to reach said injury—especially when you’re at work and so can’t take off your shirt like you normally would. And all this struggling means it’s taking longer than it should, so now you’re focused on the wound and its scabby, wet edges and all the things it’s secreting rather than hurrying to give another statement of the entire event to Hotch since the first one had apparently been too sparse on the details. 

A knock sounds on the open door. Spencer calls your name. 

“You in there?”

The angle of your neck has your voice slightly strained as you call back, “yeah, what’s up? Is it Hotch?” you pause to hiss as you accidentally scratch at the wound with a nail. You don’t even want to know how much bacteria you just introduced to it. “Tell him I didn’t forget our meeting, I’ll be there in—”

“It’s not Hotch. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay with your back? I know you said you were going to check on it, but you’ve been in there a while.”

You sigh, dropping your sore arm as you continue to hold up your shirt with the other and regarding the reflection of your back in the mirror. 

“Actually—could you come in here?”

There’s a pause. 

“You want me to come into the women’s restroom?”

“Yes, Spencer. It’s fine. There’s nobody else in here. I just… I need some help, I think.”

The last part is admitted quietly, with an air of defeat. To admit to needing help, is, by your standards, the same as failure. Spencer knows this, which is probably the only reason he puts aside his hesitations and shuffles uncertainly into the tiled room. If you’re asking for help, it’s because you really need it. 

“What do you need help with?” he asks, sweeping his gaze suspiciously around the lavatory as if you were lying about there not being any other women present and this whole thing might be a trap of some sort. 

“It’s gross, and you can totally say no.”

He raises his brows expectantly, before spotting the weeping wound on your back. Unconsciously he steps closer, leaning forward. It’s not your fault, and the gore is not specific to you—anyone’s body would react this way to being stabbed. But you still feel embarrassed by the close attention to such an ugly marring, which nobody besides you and your doctors has actually seen up close.

“That doesn’t look good,” he mutters. The expression on his face is irritatingly familiar—the drawn brows, tightened eyes, barely parted lips—but it takes a moment before you realize what it is. 

“Reid,” you complain. He’s still stooped over slightly to examine the wound, and looks up at you through dark lashes with those infuriatingly warm puppydog eyes.

“What?”

“You’re looking at me the way you look at a dead body on the slab.”

His nose scrunches.

Some might say it scrunches adorably. 

“No, I’m not. That’s just my face.”

“Okay, well stop. It’s freaking me out.”

He pouts—actually pouts. Subtle, but bottom lip jutted out and all. It’s ridiculously endearing. 

“My face freaks you out?”

“Wh—no! That’s not what I said! You have—you have a great face! I didn’t mean—” 

You manage to claw yourself out of the hole you’re digging when you see the dopey smile growing on his face. 

Oh. He was fucking with you. 

He never used to do that. It’s unnerving to be the fucked with instead of the fucker for a change. Especially when it’s Spencer. 

“What did you need me for?” Spencer asks by way of peace offering. You close your eyes and sigh, attempting to collect your thoughts without his presence re-scrambling them.  

“Um—I just need you to put this bandage over it. I can’t reach without taking my shirt off.”

And now you’re forced to wonder if he’s thinking about you shirtless as much as you’re thinking about you shirtless.

“Yeah—don’t do that,” he says absentmindedly, stepping again closer to get a better look before turning to the nearest sink.

For some reason, this offends you. 

“Why not?”

Spencer pulls another face as he washes his hands—you love the constant flow of expressions he always seems so unconscious of. Even when they’re not pleasant and directed at you.  

“Are you asking me why shouldn’t you take your shirt off?” he clarifies. 

“I know why I shouldn’t take my shirt off, but I want to know why you think I shouldn’t take my shirt off.”

“Because we’re at work?” he observes astutely. You frown deeply at his completely logical reply. Spencer chuckles as he dries his hands and approaches once more, taking the square of gauze pre-lined with medical tape from your hand. “I mean, I can’t stop you. But it would be kind of a weird choice.”

“Oh, so me shirtless is weird?”

Cool fingers meet the comparatively hot skin of your back—where everything is still sensitive because the wound wreaked havoc on your nerves there. You flinch slightly. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs gently. Though his touch is so incredibly light it doesn’t really hurt—it hurts much less than when you’re tending to the wound, anyway. It’s almost soothing. After a moment he continues, a bit louder. “And that is not what I was saying. But I am completely comfortable asserting that it would be weird for you to be shirtless at work.”

The gentle touches contrast with his teasing words and serve to disorient you as you’re shaken back in to your usual dynamic. Which is markedly more sarcastic. 

“Well—”

Before you have to think of something to say, Spencer interrupts you. 

“Your, um—I think your… brassiere… is in the way.”

As soon as he says it you burst out laughing. It echoes through the room. 

“My brassiere? Are you actually 70 years old?”

His brows knit even tighter and his face gets very pink very quickly. He can’t meet your eyes over your shoulder. 

“That’s what it’s called.”

“Spencer, you may be the first person to use that word since 1952. Say bra.”

“I don’t want to,” he complains. Your laughter only grows as your head tips back. 

“Why? How is brassiere better than bra?”

“It’s—it’s too colloquial! I’m trying to be professional!”

“Call it a bra or I’m going to rub my dirty hands all over my back,” you threaten, adopting a poker face so he knows you mean business. His eyes widen immediately. 

“Oh my god! Bra! Do you want to introduce staph and meningitis and g—do not do that!”

“See? How hard was that?”

“I hate you,” he mumbles, face still flushed and adorable. “And you still have to take it off.”

“Excuse me?” you grin, pretending to be affronted because you know he didn’t mean it like that but it’s fun to pretend he did. Fun for you, of course. Not so much for him. He's utterly flustered by this point.

“Or at least undo it! It’s in the way.”

With a deeply bored sigh, you go to unclasp your bra—but as you go to do it your shirt drops down. You grimace, humor briefly forgotten as the fabric brushes the damaged skin. 

“I can’t—”

“Okay, just—I’ll do it,” Spencer says. “Just move your shirt again.”

So you do, watching his reflection as he works.

And you have not one joke to break the heavy silence with as you feel his knuckles gently pressing into the middle of your back, as he unclasps the bra with his characteristic tenderness and a surprising amount of agility. It’s quiet except for your pulse in your own ears as he carefully pushes it out of his way, holding it down with a hand to your rib cage and fingertips slipping just under the fabric of your shirt—unintentionally and certainly non-sexual, no doubt, but skimming under your heart in a way that still feels so intimate you’re realizing how touch-starved you are. 

“You do that often?” you find yourself asking, because you’re stupid, and you need to cool the tension before it chokes you, and you can’t help yourself even though you don’t actually want to know the answer. 

“I,” he begins, voice quiet as rustling paper, tongue darting over his lip and eyes narrowed. The sentence stalls as he focuses on placing the patch just so. “Do not think that is an appropriate workplace question.”

Something aches in the pit of your stomach. 

Something resembling jealousy. 

It was not the timid evasive linguistic maneuver of someone who is insecure about the thing they’re discussing. It was not the awkward fumbling no but I don’t want to tell you that which you were expecting from Spencer Reid. 

Nor is it an easy yes—an admission between friends. He doesn’t want to tell you. 

You swallow and try to act like yourself. 

“Yet here you are, in the woman’s restroom at our place of employment, undoing my bra. I think we’re past professionalism.”

“When you decontextualize it like that it sounds like something it’s not. This is professional, because I’m helping you with a wound you sustained on the job. I’m being a good colleague.”

Your lips twist into a smile he can’t see. 

“A great colleague would kiss it better.”

“It's almost like you want me to file a sexual harassment complaint with HR," he says through a little smirk as he smooths the bandage over. Before you can snip back, he steamrolls over his own teasing—you’ve both been speaking in almost reverent tones since he started but his voice loses the sarcastic edge from a second before and reverts back to concerned and sweet. “Does that feel okay?”

You rotate your shoulders best you can without letting go of your shirt or flashing the good doctor to check if it feels secure.  

“It’s good. And hey—if I were going to sexually harass you I would do a lot better than that. You think that’s my best material? That’s just the tip of the iceberg. I keep so many inappropriate comments to myself. You’d be shocked by some of the things I have almost said to you.”

He laughs, secures the band of your bra and begins fitting it to the clasp you’d had it on—and at that precise moment Emily walks in. 

“H—woah.”

“It’s—I’m—I was helping her!” Spencer panics, immediately removing his hands from you like his palms are burning and holding them up defensively. 

“Oh, you helped me alright,” you tease, pulling your shirt back into place. 

“Don’t say it like that!” And then, to Emily, “I was changing out her bandage!”

“Changing my bandage,” you emphasize, winking more than is advisable. 

“That’s—this is a hostile work environment! I feel unsafe!” Spencer almost yells, half laughs, as he scampers towards the door. “I’m going to HR!”

“Shut up! You love it!”

His laughter audibly travels farther away for several moments as he presumably goes back down the hallway to do his actual job. 

You have the stupidest grin on your face, but you wipe it off when you notice Emily staring. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head and looking away, moving toward a stall. “You’re just… you guys are funny.”

“What do you mean funny?” You demand, standing right outside her stall as she closes it. 

“Wh—I mean funny! Are you going to listen to me pee, you weirdo?”

You frown. 

She makes a good point. 

Unfortunately, giving Hotch a more detailed statement is just as bad as you’d thought it’d be. Despite how cheery you’ve tried to remain about the whole situation, despite the way you insisted that the wound was so shallow you didn’t need more than a few days off work, despite the jokes you make about forgetting it’s even there because it’s on your back—it’s hard not to remember exactly how the glass felt twisting under your skin, how you’d felt suddenly so hot and lightheaded and sick to your stomach and the way Morgan hollered because he didn’t know how deep it had gone after you crumpled quick from shock, when you’re asked to describe it all in excruciating detail. 

It only takes ten minutes, but they seem to drag on and on and by the time you’re leaving Hotch’s office you feel utterly drained. You hurry back to your desk, covertly wiping away moisture that you refuse to allow to become tears. Once seated, and having dodged sympathetic looks and avoided any do you want to talk about its, you allow yourself a few deep breaths with your eyes shut. 

When you open them, you realize there’s a fresh cup of your favorite tea on your desk, in the Snoopy mug the team is always fighting over. Now his little black nose is covered by a square of yellow paper. You’re already smiling as you peel away the sticky note and hold it closer. 

On it is an adorably odd smiley-face, and a note in familiar, messy looping scrawl. 

I would never report you to HR beautiful

That would be a stab in the back!

You snort loudly and clap a hand to your mouth—but you’ve already drawn the attention of almost everyone in the bullpen. 

When you turn to look at Spencer, he’s not looking back. Instead, his eyes are firmly trained on his computer screen. But he’s got his chin propped on his fist over the desk, and his knuckles are doing a poor job of concealing a giant self satisfied grin. He is the only person on the team who knows you well enough to make such a distasteful joke. And he also knows you well enough to know that it would make you feel so much better after your meeting with Hotch than all the well-meaning sincerity in the world ever could.

Funny. 

Maybe that is the right word for what you two are. 

[tahbhie]

Creating Emotionally Devastating Scenes.

Crafting a scene that earns the total sympathy of your readers can be challenging, but it's not impossible. Most emotionally devastating scenes fail at two things, but when these are done right, the results can be powerful.

⚪ The Important Concepts for Writing an Emotionally Devastating Scene

1. The Build-Up,

2. Breaking the Dam.

Before I explain these concepts, let me share a case study.

⚫ Case Study

I wrote a story about a young orphan named Jackie and her younger brother. Their village was burned down, leaving them as the only survivors.

For the next few chapters, readers followed their painful journey and their struggle to survive. The younger brother had a heart problem, and Jackie vowed to become a cardiologist to save him.

She was very ambitious about it, but at the time, it was very ironic. Later in the story, when they encountered a tragic living condition with a family, the brother died while telling his sister how much he missed their parents.

When her brother was fighting for his life, she was sent out of the room, only to be let in again to see his cold, lifeless body.

⚪ Explanation of Concepts

1. The Build-Up

The build-up is extremely important when you aim to convey strong emotions. Here's a secret: if you plan for a scene with strong emotions, start leaving breadcrumbs from the very beginning of the story.

Take the previous case study. I carefully built up their journey so people could easily relate and feel the pain of the older sister during her brother's sudden death.

You need to give the situation enough reason to feel utterly hopeless and devastating. Gradually cultivate the tension until it's ready to let loose.

⚫ Understanding the Use of Breadcrumbs.

Breadcrumbs in stories ensure you utilize the time you have to build up certain emotions around your characters.

At the beginning of my story, Jackie’s fate was already pitiable, but she survived every hurdle. This gave the readers enough to feel for her while still leaning away from the outcome. When I built enough, I introduced her brother's sudden death.

Hence, leave your breadcrumbs while leaning away from the outcome.

⚪ How to Properly Leave Breadcrumbs

When building up your story, consider these elements:

☞⁠ Character Relatability: The characters need to be realistic to draw readers into the story. This helps readers invest themselves in your story.

☞⁠ Realistic Emotional Pain: Just as characters need to be relatable, their emotions need to be realistic and not appear forced.

☞⁠ Create a Strong Emotional Attachment: Give them something they care about or that has the power to ruin their lives in any way. It could be something that makes them happy or something their happiness relies on. When it's time, snatch it away without remorse.

☞⁠ Have a Backstage Struggle: This struggle keeps readers occupied, so they won't see the outcome coming. For example, Jackie’s constant struggle to find food and shelter keeps readers engaged while the impending tragedy looms in the background.

☞⁠ Attach Believable Elements: For a realistic character, emotion, and struggle, attach believable elements. It could be death, ailments, sickness, disorder, disappointment, failure, etc.

Now that we've covered the build-up, let's move on to the next crucial part.

2. Breaking the Dam

This is when you make your readers feel the strong emotions alongside your characters. All the tension you’ve been building up is released, making all emotions come into play.

☞⁠ Break Your Strong Attachment: Cut off your strong attachment from your character when they least expect it or at a point when they couldn't use more struggles (i.e when they are helpless).

This will not only evoke readers’ emotions but also pique their curiosity as they wonder how the character will survive the situation.

☞⁠ Description of Sensory Details to Invoke Emotions: The advice of "show, don't tell" will be really helpful here. It's crucial to ensure that the final execution matches the build-up.

A well-crafted build-up can fall flat if the emotional release isn't handled effectively. To avoid this, blend the climax seamlessly into the narrative, making it feel natural and impactful.

Reblog to save for reference! 💜

[moonstruckme]

Ohh now that I have permission to request, could I request newgirl au rommates!marauders with a reader who is very independent and tries to do and deal with everything on her own. I mean we know how codependent the boys are and I would love to see how they would interact with a reader who is the complete opposite

Thanks for requesting (you never need permission babe haha) !

roommate!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

Sirius lets out a low whistle, crossing his arms as he leans his hip against the couch to watch you. “Training to leave us for the circus?” 

“Ha ha,” you monotone. Your voice falters slightly as you wobble on the ball of your foot, standing on tiptoe atop a pile of thick books atop a chair in order to reach the uppermost shelf of the bookcase in your sitting room. “Do you guys never clean up here? It’s gross.” 

“Sounds like you’ve just answered your own question,” he says. “Why are you messing with it?” 

“Because,” you strain your reach, running a dusting wand along the shelf and stifling a gasp when your pile of books threatens to tip, “it’s the only empty shelf, and I have stuff to put here.” 

“Shit, babe, can’t your stuff wait a while? Remus will be home soon.” 

“So?” 

“So,” says Sirius, “he’s a tall bloke. He could at least reach up there without so much…peril.”

You make a dismissive noise. “I’ve got it.” 

You overextend your reach a tad, the books leaning precariously. The ball of your foot shuffles a few inches to the left in a semi-frantic instinct to regain your balance, but after a second you have to bail out, hopping down onto the chair and then the ground with a thunk that’s sure to win you favor from your downstairs neighbors. 

“Yeah,” Sirius drawls. “Looks like it.” 

You make a face at him. James comes out of his room as you’re moving the chair a couple feet to the left to climb back up. 

“I can’t decide…uhh…” He watches you ascend with brows drawing together in concern. 

“She won’t be deterred,” Sirius says swiftly. “What can’t you decide?” 

James’ eyes stay stuck on you as you pick up the dusting wand to try again. “I, erm, can’t decide what to have for tea.” 

“You said the other day that you were craving Thai,” Sirius offers. “Order takeaway?” 

Though you’re turned away, you can practically hear the smile enter James’ voice. “Genius. You want in?” 

“Sure. Pad see ew, please.” 

“Got it. What about you?” James asks you.

“No, thanks.” The duster looks suspiciously clean for how far you’ve gotten. You attempt a little hop to see the shelf. “I’ve got leftovers.” 

“Right, okay—god, please don’t do that.” James’ voice pitches when your books sway after another hop. “It’s a long way down the stairs if you break your neck and we have to call 999. Why did you say we can’t stop her?” he asks Sirius. 

“I tried telling her to wait for Remus—” 

“That’s a good idea. Remus is tall, love, let him do it.” 

“—but she wants to do it herself.” 

“Oh.” Similarly to how you could hear James’ smile before, now you can hear the lack of it. “I see. This is like the jar thing?” 

“The jar thing?” Sirius asks with mild interest. 

“Yeah. I found her struggling with a jar of spaghetti sauce the other night” —you roll your eyes; struggling seems a bit superior— “so I tried to help, but she wouldn’t let me. Accidentally shattered the whole thing in the sink trying to get it open.” 

At this point, you can feel both James’ and Sirius’ pointed stares at your back. You keep about your business as though you can’t. 

“We can’t have you breaking bones the way you broke the jar,” says James. “We don’t have liability insurance.” 

You huff a laugh. “I’m not totally familiar with how insurance works around here, but I don’t think you need that if you’re not employing me.” 

“Whatever.” Sirius’ voice is dispassionate. “If she wants to break her neck to prove a point, that’s her prerogative.” 

James sounds about to protest, but then you hear the door open. 

“What the fuck?” Remus asks under his breath, as though speaking to no one but himself. “What are you doing up there?” 

“It’s fine,” you insist, though admittedly it takes some willpower to continue dusting when your quietest roommate sounds so horrified. “I’m cleaning.” 

You hear the door shut and the lock click. There’s a papery shuffle as Remus sets down whatever he brought inside. “Why?” he asks, bewildered. 

“Uh, because I don’t want my books on a dusty shelf?” 

“Let me take care of that. Come down from there.” You start turning to give your rebuttal the same as you had to Sirius and James, but before you can Remus’ hands are at your waist. Your balance falters. 

“Careful,” he tsks, his grip on you tightening momentarily. “Step down, one foot at a time.” 

You find that, with his hands on you and his tone so resolute, you have a harder time refusing him. You put your foot down on the chair. 

“There you are.” Remus doesn’t seem inclined to release you until you have both feet on the ground, but he turns to give James and Sirius a look. “You were just going to let her do this by herself?” 

“We tried to tell her,” Sirius defends them. “She won’t have any help, she’d rather smash things.” 

Now Remus turns back to you, bemused. “Smash things?” 

“It was an accident,” you mumble. “I wanted to open my own jar.” 

“You’ve got to let James handle jars, babe,” Sirius tells you sagely. “He needs it, it makes him feel good.” 

James shrugs as though this may or may not be true. 

“Please,” Remus pinches the bridge of his nose, “no smashing anything while I’m away. Jars or bones.” 

“That’s what we were trying to tell her,” James says helpfully. 

You cross your arms, avoiding anyone’s eyes. “Fine.” 

Remus sighs. “Thank you.” He sets a fond hand on the top of your head, and the familiarity of the gesture sends a pleasant warmth all the way down to your toes. You feel a tad less aggrieved. 

“Thank goodness,” says James. “Hey, does this mean I can start opening your jars for you? And you’ll have takeaway with us tonight?” 

Your flatmates all look at you. “Sure,” you relent. “That would be nice, thanks. But I’m not going to start joining you for those bedtime stories you do in Remus’ room every night.” 

“I’m an unwilling participant in those,” Remus protests unconvincingly. 

“You should rethink that one,” Sirius advises you as he sits down on the couch, pulling out his laptop to begin ordering dinner. “We’re reading the Wrinkle in Time series right now; it’s riveting.”

[rottingpink]

put your money where your mouth is | multi

masterlist

cw: multi x reader, brat taming, size kink, car sex, breeding, doggy, reverse cowgirl, established relationship

synopsis: reader underestimated her quiet boyfriend and paid the price

You find yourself draped on your boyfriend's lap, positioned with your back pressed against his muscular chest as he bounces you on his massive, throbbing cock with deep, slow thrusts so that you feel every inch of him each time he slides his throbbing shaft against your gummy walls. "F-fuck, ba-babe..." you slur, voice a broken mewl as he slams you up and down on his cock with your back to his chest, using you like a sex doll.

You're crushed in his lap, legs spread wide and shaking, dress pushed up and panties down by your ankles as he keeps both hands locked on your hips while he rocks you down, again and again. He fucks you on his cock like you're nothing but something to use.

You've gone dumb with it, dizzy and sweaty and barely able to breathe through the choked little gasps that leave your mouth every time he lifts your hips and slams you back down again.

His car shakes just enough to be suspicious as you get ravaged in the parking lot of the bar he took you to to meet some of his childhood friends. The plan had been to get you to meet some of the guys he'd grown up with, and hopefully get you all on good terms, but you couldn't seem to behave for one night.

A couple drinks enough to get you tipsy paired with your loud nature had been enough to get you to go too far.

"He's -hic- totally my bitch, you guys," you’d said with a grin that took up your whole face, waving your hand dramatically. "He acts all tough, y’know, like all big and quiet and scary or whatever, but I swear to god," you leaned in across the table like you were telling a secret, all conspiratorial and smug, "this man says yes ma’am with a mouth full of my p-"

"That’s enough," he’d said then, right next to your ear, and you should've stopped, but you didn't.

The second everyone laughed, loving it, you only leaned further into the moment, letting out this airy little laugh and nudging his thigh under the table like you were just being cute.

"You guys don’t even know," you giggled, tipsy and teasing and leaning too far into it now, your voice a little too loud. "He’s literally obsessed with me. Like, full-on whipped. If I even hint that I want something? He’s already got it in the cart. If I want it in bed? He’s already on his knees. Like, he’ll beg for it, beg, and he’s so good at it too, you guys, it’s actually kind of pathetic,"

He didn't even say anything as he excused the two of you from his friends, hauled you out of the booth, and dragged you out towards the car for a "talk", and now here you are.

Your boyfriend remains surprisingly focused, but you can tell he's furious. His huge hands are gripping your hips so rough that his thick fingers leave indents on your flesh. Soft, rhythmic groans leave him as he stares at your fucked out expression, watching the way you shudder on him and struggle to take him in.

"You think you're so cute and funny, hm?" he grunts, his voice hoarse and deeper than you’ve ever heard it. "You think I'm your bitch?"

He punctuates the question with a sharp thrust that makes your whole body jolt, your eyes fluttering shut as a broken cry escapes your lips.

"Said that shit in front of my goddamn friends?" His hands push your body forward so that he's arching you harder so he can get deeper inside you. You can feel his huge, fat cock rubbing against your sweet spot with each thrust now. "Sat there and lied to their fuckin' faces like I don't handle you whenever I want?"

You try to respond, but you can't whimpering and moaning stupidly to try and convey that you didn't mean it, but with how he's splitting you open, you can't.

"Should’ve pulled you outta that bar by your hair the second you opened that pretty little mouth," he snarls, hips snapping into you harder, dragging you back onto his cock and stretching you out with each thrust. "Sat there giggling, acting cute, telling stories about me begging for you."

His hand moves from your back to your throat, wrapping around it to guide your head back so you're forced to hear every word he spits against your ear.

"Does this feel like I'm the one begging, baby?' he mutters, dragging his cock out almost all the way before slamming it back in, grunting as your body tightens around him. "You’re dripping. Can barely fuckin’ hold yourself up."

"Ngh, I-I'm sorry!" you mewl, lips parted as moans leave your lips. His cock feels so good inside you, and each time he pushes himself in completely, his cock leaves a soft kiss on your womb.  His fingers squeeze, sinking into your skin as he pulls you down onto his cock, impaling you over and over. His breath comes hot and heavy against your neck, his tongue lolling out to lave over your sweat-sheened skin, tasting you. 

His free hand finds your nipples, rolling and pinching the stiff peaks roughly, sending jolts of electric pleasure shooting straight to your core. He tugs on them, pinches them, as if trying to pull you even closer.  Your tits swell in his palms, aching and tingling from his groping, the hard points of your nipples feeling warm as he rolls the pads of his fingers over them, groping your breasts shamelessly while sinking his teeth into the column of your throat.

"Still got something to say? Huh?" he snaps, squeezing your throat hard enough to make your vision sparkle as he keeps driving into you, relentless and heavy, like he’s trying to fuck the brat out of you. "Go ahead. Say it again. Tell me I’m your bitch." You try to catch your breath, head swimming, and whisper something like "I didn’t mean-" but he shuts you up with another hard thrust that makes your eyes roll back.

His hips rise and fall with powerful thrusts, his massive cock disappearing into your plump, soaked pussy again and again. The thick, pulsing shaft stretches your entrance obscenely, your slick walls struggling to accommodate its girth. Each thrust forces lewd, wet squelches from your core, the obscene sounds of your juices being stirred up and splashed around his dick. 

"Stupid mouth, always running," he breathes against your hair, his grip on your neck tightening just slightly. "Sayin' shit that makes me want to lose it. But I still show up for you. I still take care of you. I still let you act like a fuckin' brat because I love you."

You moan, turning your head to press your lips against his, hoping it shows him that you’re really sorry and love him just as much, and to your delight, he accepts it, pressing an open mouthed kiss to your mouth in response, his tongue rolling over yours. The head of his cock kisses your gummy sweet spot with every thrust, battering against the entrance to your womb, as if he intends to force his way inside and shove his cum right into your depths.

Suddenly, with a sudden, sharp tug on your hips, he pushes you forward off his lap. Before you can catch your balance, he's gripping your hips and pulling them back, shoving your upper body down onto the seats so you’re folded in half. The leather is cold and smooth against your palms as he positions you in front of him with him fucking into you from behind.

He wastes no time, gripping your hips hard enough to leave finger shaped bruises on your skin as he hilts inside you with one brutal, balls-deep thrust. The angle is different like this, allowing him to plunge even deeper, his spongy tip slamming into your cervix as he grips your hair and tugs your head back.

You're forced to arch your back, neck craning to look up in front of you as your boyfriend sets a vicious pace pounding into your slick pussy. Drool drips down your chin, a strand of saliva connecting your lower lip to your chin as garbled moans and desperate cries spill from your plush lips. "Fu-fuck, I’m s-sorry baby... f-feels so good, I... m-more,"

Your words come out slurred, broken by every hard thrust that rocks your whole body forward, his grip iron tight on your hips as he keeps you exactly where he wants you, bent over in the seat like a perfect little mess just for him. The second that needy little more slips out, he lets out this ragged groan through gritted teeth, one hand releasing your hip only to come down with a sharp smack on your ass, making you jolt and whine.

"Oh, now you’re sorry?" he growls, voice dark and low, laced with that edge of fury he’s barely holding onto. "Didn't sound sorry when you were running your fuckin' mouth back there."

Your ass jiggles and ripples with every impact of his pelvis against your rear, the lewd slaps echoing in the chamber. Your plump pussy lips hug his shaft like a fleshy vise, the puffy skin stretched taut around his girth, glistening with your arousal, and each time he draws his thick cock back, you grip onto him, almost sucking him back in.  Your soaked cunt makes the filthiest squelching noises as his cock plunges in and out, stirring up your juices and coating his balls with your slick essence. 

Your boyfriend moans unabashedly, head thrown back as each thrust brings him nearer to orgasm, his eyes fluttering shut. "Oh fuck, you take me so well… Shit, gonna make me cum inside you, aren't you? Can feel you tightening around me like you want it," With one last thrust, he slams your hips back against his groin, grinding your ass into his pelvis as he hits your cervix dead-on.

He throws his head back, a guttural, animalistic groan tearing from his throat as he finds his release. His cock jerks and throbs, pulsing as it paints your insides white with his hot, thick cum. Rope after rope of his seed floods your womb, filling you to the brim.

The feeling of his hot cum gushing into you triggers an overwhelming orgasm of your own. You scream, back arching almost painfully as pleasure crashes through you like a tidal wave. Your pussy clamps down on his spurting cock, the muscles rippling and milking him for every last drop of him.

He grinds against that sensitive spot deep inside you, rubbing and thrusting as he rides out the aftershocks of his climax. Every movement sends sparks of ecstasy shooting up your spine, drawing out your own mind-blowing orgasm. Your juices gush around his shaft, mixing with his cum as it squirts out around his cock with each press against that soft little sweet spot.

As the last spurts of cum paint your insides, your boyfriend leans over your back, his chest pressing into your shoulders as he pants heavily. His hands release your hips to trail slowly up your sides, almost tenderly, as if savoring the feeling of your sweat slicked flesh.

He huffs, low and warm against your skin, pressing a kiss to your shoulder now that he’s spent and still inside you. "Now we're gonna get you cleaned up and you're gonna tell my friends you're sorry for acting up. Let 'em see who you belong to."

[cherryyluvs]

Can you write some smut of mark?🫣 Totally understand if you ignore this. Love your fanfics 🥹

Yes ma’am🫡

Don't Wake Up My Parents

You're staying over at Mark’s house. He sneaks into the room late at night and things get… risky ◝(๑>𐃷•́๑)◜

You were staying over at Mark’s house, sleeping in his bed while he crashed on the floor in a different room. This was supposed to be innocent right? Just friends having a sleepover and all that. But it was midnight and yet here you are laying in bed wide awake, hearing the soft hum of the ceiling fan doing nothing to calm the heat building up in your body.

You moved under the blanket, the fabric of Mark's shirt brushed against your bare thighs. You had stolen it earlier to sleep in, it smelled just like him.. clean and a little sweet. You bit your lip, rubbing your legs together as you felt something in between your legs.

Your heart raced as you heard soft footsteps approaching the bedroom door. The door creaked open, you quickly sat up. Heart pounding in the dark.

“Mark?” He didn’t answer but you could hear him. The soft sound of his footsteps padding across the carpet. “you awake?" Mark whispered, his voice low and rough with sleep. He took a few more steps closer to the bed. Until you could make out his features in the moonlight filtering through the window. Then the bed dipped beneath his weight as he slid under the covers with you.

"Couldn’t sleep” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the hum of the fan.

“Me neither” He was close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, and could smell the clean scent of his. His arm brushed against your thigh, you didn't even notice how high his shirt had ridden up, peeking at his abs. Until his fingers intertwined with yours, his breath hitching. “Mark..” you whispered. Feeling butterflies in your stomach as he slid closer to you. His face now mere inches from your own.

“You know you shouldn't let me this close.” He whispered, his hands slipping under your shirt to caress your bare skin. “But you're not stopping me.”

You felt warmth on your cheeks “yea–” before you could say another word he pressed his finger against your lips. “Shh”

“My parents are asleep” your heart raced as his hand went down to your waist, fingertips slowly tracing circles. “You look so good in my shirt” he murmured. His lips were right by your ear, breath hot and shaky. “mark ..”

“Tell me to stop” he whispered, lips trailing down to your neck. You gasped, back arching as he softly sucked at the sensitive skin.

You couldn't and didn't, instead you grabbed his face and pulled his mouth to yours. Mark groaned into the kiss, his body pressing against yours. “Mhmm, you taste so good.” whispering against your mouth as his hands slide down, fingers slipping into the waistband of your panties.

You moaned softly when his finger rubbed your clit, body jolting at the contact. “You have to be quiet, unless you want them to hear” You slowly nodded, legs shaking as he pushed a finger inside you.

His pace was slow and steady, his forehead pressed against yours as he watched you struggle beneath him, “You're so wet for me already” pulling his hand out of your panties. Slowly going up in your shirt, caressing and squeezing your breasts gently, as he grinds his hips against yours, You can feel the hardness though his pajama pants, the heat making you squirm. “Please” You whimpered.

“Please what?” his hand stood still. “Use your words”

“I want you” he smirks, pushing his boxers down just enough, teasing your entrance with the tip. “You sure?

“Yes” Without hesitation he pushes it inside you, slow and deep, stretching you inch by inch until you are gasping into his mouth.

He starts to move, hips rolling in a steady rhythm. Each thrust sending waves of pleasure. Your walls clenching around his throbbing length. “I love the way you feel around me” he moans softly.

You bit your lip, muffling the sounds that threatened to spill out, his hand covering your lips. “You're gonna wake them up” he teased “Is that what you want?”

The thought of Debbie and Nolan walking in on you guys was something you didn't want to think of.

You shook your head frantically. Tears gathering at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure. “You sure?” His thrusts slowed “Because you're squeezing me so tight right now”

The bed creaks and shakes beneath you with the force of his thrusts, the headboard slamming against the wall. The slapping of skin on skin, your mingled moans and gasps. “Ungh”

Your back arched as your orgasm tore through you. Mark groaned low. He takes a moment to catch his breath, slowly pulling out his cock, pussy dripping. You can feel the warm thick cum start to leak out and trickle down.

You take a good lock at it, girthy and a white milky ring around the base of his cock.

Staring at each other, giggling as he pulls you into his chest. “Think they heard us?” you whispered breathlessly.

Mark’s lips curled into a lazy satisfied smile. “Guess we'll find out tomorrow.”

[mariasont]

What if the team has slowly been finding out that Spencer has a girlfriend, so one day while on a case they basically play 20 questions trying to figure her out. However, Spencer is struggling to answer because he’s dating reader and she works with the BAU. (sorry if that isn’t broad enough, I just wanted more of the secret relationship trope)

Dimple Deductions - S.R

summary: when morgan & jj notice spencer reid acting suspiciously happy, they do what they do best — profile him. unfortunately, spencer's biggest tell is your dimples pairings: spencer reid x fem!reader warnings: fluff, secret relationship, reader has dimples, morgan & jj being shit stirrers wc: 1.4k

Watching Spencer read feels vaguely inappropriate. His fingers ghost over the page before settling, skimming the text like he's absorbing it through sheer proximity. His lips part, just slightly, like he's tasting the words, rolling it over his tongue before swallowing it down, taking it apart, making it his. The cabin light catches in his hair, making his curls glow like some kind of bookish deity.

It's distracting, the way his throat bobs when he swallows, the unconscious flick of his lashes as his mind devours information faster than you can process a single thought.

He's mesmerizing in a way that feels almost unjust, a spectacle of intellect wrapped in a body far too beautiful for reason.

You don't even realize you're staring until he speaks.

"I will pay you to stop talking."

It's not aimed at you, Morgan and JJ are doing what they do best, picking apart his every move, but the sound of his voice breaks through you like a snapped thread, severing whatever trance you'd fallen into.

Morgan whistles, all amusement. "Now, why would you be so eager to change the subject, pretty boy?"

Spencer finally looks up, dragging his gaze upward with the slow resignation of a man who knows resistance is futile. He sighs, shaking his head.

"Because I value my peace?"

JJ grins, practically giddy now. "Too bad. We don't."

Your magazine is just a forgotten accessory now, lying stiff and ignored on your lap. Pulling your eyes from Spencer feels unnatural, but somehow, you manage.

You turn at last to JJ and Morgan, who are, without question, enjoying this way too much.

"What exactly are you guys talking about?" you ask, flipping the magazine with indifference, as if that somehow proves you'd been deeply invested in its pages and not making heart-eyes at Spencer.

JJ's eyes gleam with unfiltered delight. "Oh, just that Spencer here has been acting different lately."

"Suspiciously different," Morgan corrects, side-eyeing Spencer. "Relaxed. Preoccupied. Dare I say... a little too happy?"

"So, let me get this straight, you're bullying him for being in a good mood?" You cross your arms, biting your lip to keep from laughing, while Spencer looked genuinely offended.

Morgan stretches his arms behind his head, looking quite pleased with himself. "We're observing."

Spencer, who returns his gaze to his book, doesn't even flinch. "It's harassment."

"Wait. Wait." JJ points at Spencer, squinting. "Are you seeing someone?"

You tell yourself to be cool. Unbothered. Just another face in the crowd, a neutral bystander in this totally-not-terrifying conversation. You even try to breathe like you're not on high alert, but your body immediately mutinies, shoulders locking up, throat tightening, nerves snapping taut like piano wire. 

A single stupid, microscopic flinch that must, on some subconscious profiler level, set off JJ's internal alarm bells. Because she looks at you.

It's quick, so quick you almost miss it, but you feel it like a pinprick of static against your skin. A flick of her eyes, a fleeting brush of attention, there and then gone. 

Just as swiftly, she's back on Spencer.

Across from you, Spencer freezes for half a second. It's subtle enough that if you weren't staring at him, directly, shamelessly, obsessively, you might have missed it entirely.

Instead, you watch as he carefully schools his expression, turns a page, as if it matters, as if you couldn't see the calculations running in that big, brilliant brain, trying to find the most efficient escape route. 

And then, with a levelness that would be impressive if it weren't so obviously practiced, he finally says, "I don't see how that's relevant."

Morgan's smile is positively wolfish. The kind of smile that spells out, he smells blood in the water. "Oh, so that's a yes."

You watch Spencer. Closely. Nothing. Just that calm, emotionally bankrupt expression as he lifts his gaze, eyes so flat, so opaque, they may as well be made of glass.

"That's an assumption."

But Morgan isn't buying it. And then, he leans in. Hands clasped. You already know where this is going.

"Alright. First question. Is she blonde?"

"I am not doing this," Spencer says flatly.

"So... not blonde."

JJ taps her fingers against the table. "Brunette, then?"

Spencer exhales through his nose, all restrained patience, all carefully manufactured impassiveness. If you didn't know better, you'd think he still wasn't affected by the topic of conversation.

But you do know better.

He does this thing, barely a tell, not noticeable to an unloved eye, where his jaw tenses just slightly, the muscle feathering like a tremor beneath his skin. It's the same thing he does when you're being particularly difficult, when you're testing him, teasing him, saying something so unserious that he refuses to dignify it with anything more than this.

"This is ridiculous."

"You being weird about it is way more suspicious than just answering." Morgan shrugs.

Spencer clamps his mouth shut so hard, it's a miracle his teeth don't crack.

"Freckles?"

Spencer just presses two fingers to his temple like the headache they are causing him has officially become chronic. "This is — as I have said — harassment."

Morgan smirks. "Dimples?"

It stops Spencer mid-motion, like a misfire.

His fingers twitch, pull away from his temple, then hesitate midair, caught between freezing and fixing whatever just broke his expression. His mouth presses into a firm, flat line, but not before he falters, just once, lips parting like a reflexive inhale of shock he didn't mean to take.

JJ practically convulses, hands flying to her mouth as she gasps. "Oh my god, she has dimples!"

"See that? That was a pause, man. You're cooked."

Spencer snaps his book shut, the sound sharp, final, entirely too loud. 

His gaze cuts to you, like maybe he's checking to see if you're as deeply mortified as he is, and then he's back on Morgan and JJ.

"Even if, she hypothetically — had dimples, that means absolutely nothing," he starts, too fast, too precise, like he's clinging to logic as a life raft. "Dimples are present in roughly 20-30% of the population. That is millions of people. Trying to deduce someone's identity from that alone is not only statistically absurd, but frankly, beneath you."

Morgan and JJ exchange a look, one of those wordless, holy shit did he just say that? looks.

"So there is someone's identity to deduce?" 

A pause. A smirk.

"And she has dimples?"

They had kept going. Of course they had. 

More questions, each one shot off like a bullet with no time to dodge. What's her favorite colors? Does she drink coffee or tea? Dogs or cats? Landmine. Landmine. Landmine.

What does she do for work?

That last one had been dangerously close to blowing your cover.

Spencer had paused. Just long enough for you to panic. Long enough for your reflexes to kick in (literally), and you'd kicked him, hard enough in the shin under the table to snap him out of it. He'd blinked once, then shrugged, as casual as ever. 

Something intellectually stimulating, he'd said.

Which was, technically, not a lie. 

And Morgan and JJ had finally, finally let up after a while, though not before making sure Spencer left with at least three lingering smirks, two unsubtle eyebrow raises, and one last dig at his mysteriously happy mood.

It had been exhausting, but that was a tomorrow problem, because now you were home. 

Spencer's couch was too big for him but just right for you, and at some point, you had stopped being separate from him altogether, folded yourself into every available space he had left vacant, legs draped over his, arms wrapped loosely around his waist, cheeks smushed against his chest. 

It wasn't cuddling so much as absorbing him, your entire body molding to his like a particularly determined barnacle.

"You really almost sold us out there," you murmur, basically burrowed into his sweater. Your face is half-hidden, mostly because you are simply too tired to function, but also because he deserves to be shamed for this.

"The dimples, Spencer? Really?"

Spencer sighs, his chest rising and falling beneath you, fingers brushing over your spine. "I can’t help it. I really like your dimples."

You squint up at him. "Yeah, I noticed."

Spencer's lips twitch, just the faintest pull at the corners, like he's not entirely willing to let it happen. "They're cute."

His thumb presses into the hollow of your cheek, just barely, just enough to test it. Like he's confirming that, yes, it's real, it exists, and it belongs to him now.

Before you can roll your eyes and tell him to stop being ridiculous, he leans in.

And kisses it.

Like he's stamping his approval.

You let out a slow, lazy sigh as he pulls back, stretching out against him. "You really need to work on your poker face."

Spencer hums. "You think so?"

"I know so," you tease, shifting just enough to get a good look at him. "I mean, if I had been interrogated like that, I wouldn't have cracked."

His brows lift. "Oh really?"

"Not even a little."

You should have seen it coming, the way his fingers tighten at your waist, the way something sharp and knowing flickers behind those honey-brown eyes, but you don't.

Not until you're flat on your back with the couch swallowing you whole and Spencer braced over you, grinning in pure satisfaction.

"Oh?" His voice is smooth, as he leans in just a little closer, close enough that the warmth of his breath kisses your skin. “So if I decided to test that theory — ask you a few things — you wouldn’t crack?”

Your stomach flips.

"...That's not what I meant."

Spencer's laughter is soft but wicked, full of certainty, full of amusement at your expense. His fingers trace absentminded shapes against your hip, a contrast to the sharp intent in his voice.

"Mm. Too bad." His voice dips lower. "Because I already know you would."

Your part your lips to argue, but no sound comes out.

"See?" he murmurs, brushing his lips over your jaw. "Cracking already."

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[theobservatory]

｡⁠☆Loser Boyfriend｡⁠.ﾟ⁠+⁠ 

☆Cw: one use of "her", Mina calls you girl once, embarrassment, fluff, humor, rookie!prohero!deku

"Izuku, dude, no offense, but how did you land that?"

Izuku turns to Denki, looking just as lost as he does. There's a little flush on his cheeks and a wide eyed expression on his face. The boy looks like a confused baby dear, which truly only adds to Denki's confusion.

"Your guess is as good as mine."

"Teach me your ways." Denki says, comically whipping out a notepad from his pants pocket. "Did you grovel? Cry? Feed her a love potion but disguise it as juice so that she would drink it, but have no clue what it was?"

"N-No of course not!... And I'm pretty sure that would be illegal anyway..."

Denki shrugs, "Hey I don't know your life. You could be into some weird shit on the down low, you seem the type!"

Izuku responds with an eye roll. If anyone 'seems the type' it's Mineta and Denki himself. They turn back towards you instead of continuing the conversation. You're still in the same position you were in before; fully leaned over the back of the couch, legs closed with one slightly hanging in the air, while the rest of you is inside Mina's personal space giggling at something she's showing you on her phone.

You're in some cute little outfit that Izuku helped you pick out, a rare case, since Izuku still wears almost exclusively punny t-shirts and sweats. The only reason he helped is because it's your first time meeting his friends and former classmates, you just wanted to make sure the outfit wasn't too little or too much. This is not to say he was much help.

Izuku feels almost entranced by you, and you're not even looking at him. You haven't glanced his way since Mina took your attention, actually. Izuku could start pouting if he wasn't too busy ogling your backside. He's so busy he misses the picture Denki snaps at the enraptured look on his face.

"C'mon man, let's go raid the snacks before Kaachan forces us to leave the kitchen."

Denki's arm around Izuku's shoulder shakes him out of his stupor and he nods in agreement, not really having heard what he said at all. He allows Denki to lead him to the kitchen with only minimal glancing behind his back, just to get a little more time to soak in your image.

But he doesn't expect your eyes to catch. He has no time to prepare for the heat in his pink cheeks to spread to his ears, no time to prepare for your smile to make his heart thump in his chest. It makes him lightly stumble in his steps and turn to face forward again, feeling incredibly embarrassed.

"Oh, Izu! Can you come back for just a sec?"

Izuku breaks out of Denki's hold with not a single lick of hesitation, embarrassment be damned. His world shortens and zooms in when you talk, the feeling of embarrassment, as well as Denki's voice, becomes muffled in the face of it. None of that matters if you're the one who needs him.

"Look at this picture Mina has of you!"

It's the picture All Might took of him before he bulked up. The one where he's dirty and sweating and crying after trying to haul a fridge across a beach. Izuku thinks he might die. Where did she even get that picture?

His face must say a lot, because both you and Mina burst out laughing. You're trying to reassure him, but you're laughing so hard you're struggling to gain a breath to string words together. If the floor swallowed Izuku whole right now, he would be grateful. It was a terrible idea to bring you to meet his classmates, especially a gossip like Mina.

"Oh, baby no, don't look like that!" You gasp, placing a hand on his shoulder. It's not nearly as comforting as you're trying to make it be.

"Izuku you look like a total loser, good thing you gained some muscle there, pipsqueak!" Mina chortles.

"Oh stop it! He doesn't look like a... Loser... I think it's cute!"

"Keep telling yourself that!"

Izuku has never considered the merits of getting hit by a bus before, now is a better time than ever to start.

Your arms wrap around him, and he instinctually hugs you back. You press your still smiling face into his chest, and turn towards Mina, still a little breathless.

"It's okay Izuku, I'll protect you from Mina's mean words." You giggle.

Mina is quick to start booing you, but Izuku doesn't miss the picture of him being sent to an unsaved number in her phone. Oh she's going to get it next time they spare together, and he will make absolutely sure it is soon. She doesn't get to run away from the enemy she has created today.

"Whose side are you even on, girl?" Mina huffs playfully, turning back to her phone and sitting back down on the couch.

The party goes smoothly after that, mostly because Izuku doesn't leave your side for the rest of the night. He refuses to let any of his other classmates show you blackmail. Even when you go to the bathroom he stands right outside the door, waiting for you to come back. At one point during the night Katsuki told him he looks like a stray puppy, and before he could deny it, you responded, "it's cute, part of his charm". He elected to ignore the way it made his chest puff out.

He likes to believe you think of him less as a puppy and more of a guard dog. He will not be confirming or denying this with you.

Before long, the party is over. Despite the little mishap with Mina earlier, he's satisfied. You were both fed well, and you very clearly had a good time with his friends, so he considers the night a success. He knew that you'd been nervous about the whole thing, his reassurances hadn't done much to sway you, but you had a great time. Just like he said you would.

As he's pulling the car out of the driveway, you turn to him, a mischievous smile spread across your face. Izuku hopes you don't notice how heavily he swallows when you look at him, your expression is making him nervous.

"Mina sent me that picture of you."

The car lurches as he slams on the brakes. "She gave you her phone number?! Noo she's gonna show you how much of a loser I am!" He whines, putting his head into the steering wheel.

"Izu, my love, you are a bonafide prohero who's about to hit the top 30 barely two years out of highschool, you are not a loser."

Izuku turns to you with a wobbly smile, forehead still lying on the steering wheel. "U-Uhm no, I totally am. Hero work aside."

You giggle, his heart stutters again.

"Well you're my loser then."

"Yours?" Izuku flushes.

"Mine."

And well, being a loser isn't so bad if it means he gets to be yours. Your boyfriend. Your guard dog. Your puppy. Your loser. Your anything. He can be anything, as long as he's yours.

Love men who are losers and very smitten for their sweethearts, what can I say

｡⁠☆Requests open

[freaktoru]

summary: sung jinwoo x reader - boyfriend headcannons. sfw and nsfw included. warnings: fluff, smut, idk this is silly authors note: ty for reading, hope u enjoy. likes and reblogs always appreciated <3 ── .✦ mood board here

sung jinwoo is super introverted and literally so oblivious to anyone liking him so it'll take a while before the two of you get together

but when you do it'll be sooooo good. so so good.

jinwoo is terrible at communicating his feelings, and he will struggle to show you that he loves you at first

so you will be the one saying "i love you" first

his love languages would be acts of service, physical touch and quality time because this man seriously needs a hug but also loves doing things for you

he likes his space and alone time, but he would love to be in the same room together while the two of you do your own thing.

he'd be surprisingly really good at cooking because he's super detail-oriented and attentive

that also applies to your feelings, if you're feeling a certain way, he'll catch on instantly

but he won't really know what to do, he's pretty cold sometimes so he's not great at comforting people.

terrible texter. he texts like my dad. "ok", "👍" he's just super dry and doesn't feel the need to say more than he has to over text.

very blunt and honest, if you need advice he'll never sugarcoat. he'll tell you how things are straight up, even it it's the last thing you want to hear. he's a very no bullshit kind of guy.

arguments with jinwoo would actually be the worst. he hates being wrong and will argue until you give in and agree that he's right. he'll also fuck you while arguing to really drive the point home.

possessive. so possessive. will never let anything bad happen to you, and likes knowing that you are only his.

on that note, he also gets really jealous. but he won't make it obvious in public. however you will pay for making him feel that way later when you get home.

i imagine he looooves having his hair played with.

and just loves feeling taken care of in general. he's always taking care of everyone else that the feeling of having someone take care of him is so new but so intoxicating to him.

hates pda. he thinks that shit has a time and place (and i mean he ain't wrong) the most he will do is wrap an arm around your waist in a crowded area

but in the car? hand GLUED to your thigh. at home? always touching you or coming by to give you a kiss.

speaking of cars, he'd be a really good driver. but why have a car when you have kaisel.

BUT when jinwoo is being a normal member of society (aka not getting around on a literal shadow wyvern) hear me out, he would totally ride a motorcycle.

omg can you imagine riding on the back of it with him, the wind blowing against you while you tightly wrap your arms around his waist to hold on. fuck.

really hates valentine's day (he thinks it's stupid and a waste of time)

but that doesn't mean he still won't go all out for you and buy you flowers, chocolate, a huge teddy bear and fucking pink and red heart shaped balloons (he's so extra)

also hates his birthday, to him it's just any other day. that's when you have to come together with beru and igris and plan something out to make this man feel special.

fav season would definitely be fall or winter. he seems like someone who would despise the heat.

really annoying when he's sick. he'll pretend like he's fine and then he will act like he's dying. (he secretly just wants someone other than beru to take care of him)

forehead kisses. he loves to kiss you on your forehead, it's one of his favourite ways to show intimacy.

also gives really good hugs. he just has a really comforting aura (at least to you. others would likely disagree.)

really likes seeing you wear his clothes, particularly his hoodies. or when you sleep in his t-shirts. drives him absolutely mad.

has really good hygiene. i imagine he always smells really good.

with that, he's also a clean freak, and really hates making a mess and will get mad at you if you leave your clothes on the floor.

not a huge fan of pet names but will mostly stick to calling you "baby", "my love" when he's fucking you in missionary late at night, or "kitten" when he's feeling playful.

he's a cat person. i don't make the rules.

huge fan of the rain. he loves rainy days because they're an excuse to relax and lay in bed all day with you. and fuck.

hear me out, he would definitely be a reader. i can picture him enjoying a nice rainy afternoon with a good book. (anything to not socialize with other humans)

NOT a morning person. he likes to sleep in if he has nothing to do that day.

on that note he's a very light sleeper and has trouble falling asleep. so when he does u better not wake him tf up.

super competitive. if you're playing any games or making any bets with this man, best of luck to you. he will do anything to win.

lowkey a gamer. he's got a nice, expensive setup and he likes playing video games. especially when you're sitting on his lap while he plays.

hates being in pictures. good luck getting this man to smile in a photo.

stares at you a lot? (kinda creepy ngl) but he just really likes looking at you

now lets discuss the sex:

realistically he wouldn't be very experienced because this guy spent all his time in gates instead of talking to women.

but ofc its sung jinwoo so he'll be instantly good at anything he does

very respectful towards you overall

i imagine he's actually pretty vanilla, at least at first because he hasn't had many opportunities to explore kinks

unless he's mad. then ur getting it babe. and ur getting it good.

he will push your head into the sheets and take his anger out on you, pounding into you mercilessly while whispering dirty, degrading things into your ear.

"act like a bitch, get fucked like one" attitude when he's mad.

he's not very vocal himself but looooves to hear you make noise

lowkey size kink cuz hes tall af (6'3 i think?)

despite being kind of vanilla and abit of a clean freak this man gets filthy with you when then two of you fuck.

really likes cum play. and oral sex. he will spend hours eating you out like there's no tomorrow. he also loves getting head.

like i said he's not very vocal but if you give this man a blow job. whew. he will make the hottest sounds you'd ever hear coming out of a mans mouth. can you imagine him breathing heavily, his voice all raspy saying "fuck baby keep going, just like that" while he grabs your hair, choking you on his cock. bye.

and licking. holy shit. once he starts he wont stop. he will lick you from ass to clit. no questions asked.

really likes edging you— "what was that baby? i couldn't hear you" he'd mumble against the sensitive skin surrounding your clit after eating you out for a whole hour, pushing you so close to the edge but denying you your sweet release. by this point you're panting, tears are prickling the corners of your eyes and you've become completely incoherent. "p-please jinwoo. p-please ah, i need to c-cum" you'd utter, taking all of your energy to form that one simple sentence while tugging on his messy hair. "mmm kitten i know. but i'm not done. you just taste soo good" he'd mutter drunkenly in response and continue licking and sucking you until you've quite literally lost your damn mind.

hes so pussy drunk omfg

dacryphilia. really likes seeing you cry from his edging or overstim during sex

"you're mine. only mine". constantly whispering this in your ear while you fuck. (like i said, the man is possessive)

has the prettiest cock (just like him). not wide but he makes up for that shit in LENGTH. def above average length. good luck fitting that shit all the way in (if u say u can't he'll make u)

one word: fingering. yeah. those long, slender fingers will be exploring every inch of your clit and pussy. and you'll be loving every second of it.

loves to cum together. he's a big fan of creampies.

big handcuff enthusiast. likes to see you struggle.

his favourite position would be missionary. like i said, he loves looking at you and hearing the noises you make. missionary is ideal for him.

very big fan of shower sex. something about getting home after a long day and having a good fuck in the shower is so appealing to him.

"good girl" yeah mhm. he'd say this. a lot.

praises. these will be rare with jinwoo and you'll really have to earn it but he will praise you so good when you do.

ass > boobs. like i said, i don't make the rules babe.

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