#i’m so in love with him it’s ridiculous

[cressidagrey]

Wait, What?!

Summary: 

Oscar Piastri managed to keep his wife a secret on accident for nearly half a decade…

Come to think off, that was not the only one he kept a secret. 

Notes:

Part 2 of The mysterious Mrs. Piastri verse...

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Max Fewtrell

Lando: BRO. EMERGENCY. URGENT. YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS.

Max: Oh my god, what now?

Lando: OSCAR. PIASTRI. IS. MARRIED.

Max: …Yeah, that tracks.

Lando: WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT TRACKS????

Max: I mean, I didn’t know, but also… not surprised.

Lando: HOW ARE YOU NOT SURPRISED??

Max: Because, mate, I knew Oscar back in the Renault Eurocup days. And he was in love.  Properly, stupidly, pathetically in love. You think Oscar’s all calm and unbothered? You should’ve seen teenage Oscar.

Lando: I CAN’T. MY BRAIN WON’T ACCEPT THIS.

Max: Bro, this man used to sit in the  paddock and stare at his phone, smiling at texts from her. Like, full-on grinning. It was disturbing.

Lando: NO.

Max: Oh yeah. Proper gobsmacked-in-love type of obsessed. We used to rip into him for it, and he didn’t even care.

Lando: WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE DIDN’T CARE???

Max: I mean, you know how Oscar is. He’d just shrug and go “Yeah, and?” Like we were the crazy ones.

Lando: I CAN’T PROCESS THIS.

Max: Mate, he was obsessed with her. Like, actual teenage boy, head-over-heels, no-thoughts-just-Felicity obsessed.

Lando: OSCAR???

Max: YES. You have no idea. We’d finish a race, and he’d be on his phone before he even got his helmet off. Always texting.

Lando: To her???

Max: Always. If he wasn’t texting, he was on FaceTime. If he wasn’t on FaceTime, he was watching her ballet videos like they were onboard footage.

Lando: …Ballet videos???

Max: She’s a ballerina. He tried to do ballet once. It went horribly.

Lando: PLEASE TELL ME THERE’S FOOTAGE.

Max: No, but I will never forget the look of pure pain on his face when he came back from one of her classes. “Max, this is the worst thing I’ve ever done. My calves don’t work anymore.”

Lando: I AM IN TEARS.

Max: And don’t even get me started on the food.

Lando: What food???

Max: Oscar always had the best snacks, and they were always things she made him. Like pandan cakes, curry puffs, some kind of egg tarts. Man was eating good.

Lando: I THOUGHT THAT WAS KIM?!

Lando: YOU’RE TELLING ME SHE WAS PACKING HIM LUNCHES LIKE A LITTLE HOUSEWIFE EVEN BACK THEN???

Max: Not even kidding. He always had food, and it was always from her. One time, I asked if I could have some, and he was like, “No, Felicity made this for me.”

Lando: HE WAS ALREADY A WHIPPED HUSBAND BEFORE HE EVEN TURNED 18.

Max: Precisely. Man has been gone for her since day one.

Lando: Selfish.

Max: To be fair, if someone made me homemade food with that much love, I wouldn’t share either.

Lando: …Fair.

Max: Also, she’s tiny. Like, I swear, I thought Oscar was going to break her just by hugging her. It was actually terrifying.

Lando: Who even is she???

Max: Felicity Lee? Leong? Something like that. She went to school with him. Tiny, startlingly pretty. I’m talking, ‘you do a double take and forget how to speak’ kind of pretty. That girl had Oscar so whipped before they even finished school, it was ridiculous.

GRID GROUP CHAT

Charles: WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN YOU HAVE A WIFE???

Charles: OSCAR, EXPLAIN. NOW.

Pierre: I JUST SPAT MY COFFEE OUT.

Carlos: I NEARLY DROVE OFF THE ROAD.

George: YOU HAVE A WHOLE WIFE??? A LEGALLY BOUND PARTNER???

George: I’m sorry, I need someone to confirm because I think I hallucinated.

Oscar: …Yes?

Charles: OH SURE, JUST CASUALLY. "Yes." Like you didn’t just drop the biggest bombshell on live TV.

Lewis: This is the most shocking news of the year, I need a moment.

Alex: You have a wife?

Alex: SINCE WHEN???

Fernando: The quiet ones always have secrets.

Max: Why do I feel like Daniel just screamed somewhere?

Daniel: I AM SCREAMING. I AM SCREAMING IN MY HOTEL ROOM. WHAT DO YOU MEAN OSCAR IS MARRIED??

Oscar: Five years.

Pierre: FIVE YEARS????

Carlos: YOU GOT MARRIED AT EIGHTEEN???

Lando: WHILE THE REST OF US WERE STILL FIGURING OUT HOW TO TALK TO GIRLS, YOU WERE OUT HERE GETTING MARRIED???

Oscar: Yeah.

Charles: WHY DID NONE OF US KNOW???

Logan: You guys didn’t know?

Charles: YOU KNEW?!

Logan: Yeah, met her ages ago.

Lando: HOW. WHY. WHEN.

Logan: Prema? Arthur knows too, I am pretty sure. 

Pierre: YOU WERE HOLDING THIS INFORMATION FROM US.

Oscar: I didn’t think it was that big of a deal?

Charles: NOT A BIG DEAL?!

Carlos: You could have at least mentioned it.

Lewis: Does she exist? Are you lying? Do we need proof?

Oscar: …Yes, Lewis, she exists.

Lando: WHO IS SHE. WHAT IS HER NAME. WHAT DOES SHE LOOK LIKE.

Max: How did you manage this? You are… you.

Oscar: ???

Daniel: I NEED TO SIT DOWN.

Lando: YOU ARE SITTING DOWN.

Daniel: I NEED TO LIE DOWN.

Oscar: You guys are being dramatic.

Pierre: You hid a whole wife from us. We are allowed to be dramatic.

Oscar: You never asked?

George: WHAT DO YOU MEAN WE NEVER ASKED??? HOW WERE WE SUPPOSED TO KNOW TO ASK???

Oscar: I don’t really talk about my personal life.

Lando: CLEARLY.

Pierre: But why doesn’t she come to races?

Oscar: She doesn’t like the circus.

Oscar: It gives her anxiety.

Oscar: And she’s already given up enough for me.

Charles: WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHE’S GIVEN UP ENOUGH FOR YOU??

George: Bro, are you hearing yourself?? That sounds serious.

Carlos: That sounds like something from a movie.

Oscar: I don’t know why you’re all freaking out.

Pierre: BECAUSE YOU DROPPED THE BIGGEST NEWS OF THE YEAR LIKE IT WAS NOTHING???

Lando: Yeah, and now we’re finding out your mysterious wife has sacrificed things for you??? OSCAR.

Oscar: Her family didn’t approve of us getting married so young.

Lando: Okay, fair, that’s kind of understandable—

Oscar: So they cut her off.

Lando: WHAT.

Pierre: WHAT.

Carlos: EXCUSE ME???

Daniel: I’M GOING TO FIND THEM AND YELL AT THEM.

Charles: HOLD ON. YOU’RE SAYING SHE LEFT EVERYTHING FOR YOU AND HER FAMILY JUST—DIDN’T SPEAK TO HER AGAIN???

Oscar: Pretty much.

Lewis: …That’s awful.

Oscar: It is what it is.

Lando: NO, NO, IT’S NOT JUST WHAT IT IS. WHAT THE HELL, OSCAR.

Pierre: HOW HAVE YOU JUST NEVER TALKED ABOUT THIS BEFORE???

Oscar: Because it’s not my story to tell.

Carlos: That’s… actually fair.

Max: Her parents are stupid.

Oscar: Yeah, well. Nothing I can do about that.

Lewis: That must have been really hard for her.

Oscar: It was. It still is, sometimes. But she doesn’t regret it.

Lando: BECAUSE SHE LOVES YOU???

Oscar: Yeah.

Pierre: Oh my god.

Daniel: I’m emotional.

George: Okay but we don’t even know her name.

Pierre: DROP THE NAME, OSCAR.

Oscar: Felicity.

Lando: FELICITY????

Pierre: That’s so cute, I can’t even be mad.

Daniel: FELICITY PIASTRI???

Oscar: Yeah.

Lando: WHERE DOES SHE LIVE?? WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN HIDING HER???

Oscar: We live near the McLaren HQ.

Lando: YOU LIVE TOGETHER.

Pierre: OF COURSE THEY LIVE TOGETHER, LANDO, THEY’RE MARRIED.

Carlos: I feel like I need to lie down.

Daniel: You and me both.

Lewis: Alright, so when do we get to meet her?

Oscar: I’ll ask if she wants to come to Silverstone?

TEXT MESSAGES: Charles & Arthur Leclerc

Charles: ARTHUR.

Arthur: yes brother dearest

Charles: YOU KNEW OSCAR WAS MARRIED???

Arthur: uhhh yeah??

Charles: AND YOU DIDN’T THINK TO TELL ME???

Arthur: why would i tell you? i thought you knew?

Charles: WHY WOULD I KNOW??? HE NEVER TALKS ABOUT IT.

Arthur: yeah, he’s private about it, but like… he’s been married for years. i thought it was just one of those things everyone knew??

Charles: EVERYONE??? APPARENTLY NOT ME.

Arthur: ok but be honest. if i told you “oh yeah oscar got married at 18,” would you have believed me?

Charles: …fair point.

Charles: BUT STILL. HE GOT MARRIED AT 18???

Arthur: i know. we were all out here at prema still figuring out how to flirt and oscar was out here being A HUSBAND.

Arthur: like, we were panicking over texting girls back and he was making plans for dinner with his wife.

Charles: HOW DID THIS NEVER COME UP???

Arthur: idk, he’s not the type to bring it up randomly.

Arthur: but if you do ask, it’s game over. bro is OBSESSED with her.

Charles: ???

Arthur: like, i’ve seen him sit through a full engineering debrief completely unfazed, no reaction, zero emotions.

Arthur: but then his wife texts him “good luck” and suddenly he looks like he just won the lottery.

Arthur: prema days were just a bunch of kids losing their minds over instagram likes while oscar was married.

Arthur: like, we’d be debating if texting a girl twice in a row was too desperate, and oscar was over there planning his life with his wife.

Arthur: her family basically disowned her when she married him.

Charles: …what?

Arthur: yeah. they thought she was ruining her life by marrying some kid in motorsport.

Arthur: they told her she was throwing everything away for him. that he’d never make it, that she’d regret it.

Arthur: and when she didn’t back down, they cut her off completely. oscar doesn’t talk about it because he knows.

Arthur: he knows what she gave up for him.

Arthur: and he takes that personally.

Arthur: like, have you ever seen oscar get actually angry?

Charles: …no?

Arthur: i have. once.

Arthur: i walked in on him on the phone with her father.

Arthur: it was the scariest moment of my life.

Charles: OSCAR???

Arthur: YES.

Arthur: he was so calm but also terrifying.

Arthur: like, i swear to god, he said something like, “i don’t care what you think of me, but you don’t get to make her feel like she’s not worth loving.”

Arthur: And then he told the guy that if he ever so much as thought about talking to her like that again, oscar would personally fly across the world and put him in the ground.

Arthur: and the worst part? her dad believed him.

Arthur: like. i could hear it. the silence. the fear.

Arthur: and then oscar just hung up like it was nothing.

Arthur: meanwhile, i’m standing there losing my mind, trying to comprehend that my quiet, nice, mild-mannered teammate had just casually promised to commit murder.

Charles: holy shit.

Arthur: yeah. so next time you see him, just know: that man would burn the world down for his wife and daughter

Charles: ARTHUR. EXPLAIN. NOW.

Arthur: explain what?

Charles: “OSCAR’S WIFE AND DAUGHTER”???

Arthur: ohhh yeah. oscar has a kid. her name’s Bee. cutest little girl ever.

Charles: WHAT DO YOU MEAN OSCAR HAS A KID.

Arthur: i mean oscar. has a kid.

Charles: SINCE WHEN.

Arthur: since like. three years ago.

Charles: HE HAD A CHILD AT TWENTY?

Arthur: yeah, man. wild, right?

Charles: WHY AM I JUST NOW FINDING OUT.

Arthur: idk. you never asked.

Charles: WHY WOULD I ASK “HEY ARTHUR, DOES OSCAR HAVE A SECRET FAMILY”???

Arthur: fair point.

Charles: DOES THIS MAKE ME A GRANDPA.

Arthur: oh my god. wait.

Arthur: it kinda does.

Arthur: papy charles.

Charles: I WILL MURDER YOU.

Arthur: relax, grandpa.

Charles: I AM NOT A GRANDPA.

Arthur: okay, old man.

Charles: FOCUS.

Charles: WHY DID NO ONE THINK TO MENTION THIS TO ME.

Arthur: because oscar’s private? plus, it’s not like it changes anything. he’s still the same oscar. just, y’know. a dad.

Charles: I CANNOT PROCESS THIS.

Arthur: bro, when i first found out, i thought he was crazy.

Arthur: like. imagine being twenty and deciding “yeah, i’m gonna be a dad now.” insane behavior.

Arthur: but honestly? he’s so good at it.

Arthur: like. weirdly good.

Charles: HOW.

Arthur: idk man. some people are just meant to be parents.

Arthur: he’s just so patient with her. like, you know how nothing ever rattles him? that times a hundred.

Arthur: she threw a toy car at his head once and he just smiled and said “nice aim, Bee.”

Charles: ???

Arthur: i’m telling you. completely obsessed with that kid.

Arthur: also she calls him “Papa” and it’s the cutest thing ever.

Charles: I NEED TO LIE DOWN.

Arthur: is it because you’re old now.

Charles: I AM GOING TO END YOU.

Grid Group Chat

Charles: OSCAR.

Charles: I NEED ANSWERS RIGHT NOW.

Oscar: …About?

Lando: What did you do now.

Carlos: This feels serious.

Charles: DO YOU HAVE A CHILD???

Pierre: Excuse me?????

George: What.

Alex: No way.

Lando: WHAT?!?!

Fernando: Interesting.

Lewis: Oscar?

Oscar: Yeah.

Lando: WHAT DO YOU MEAN YEAH????

Lando: THAT’S NOT A CASUAL QUESTION.

Lando: “YEAH” IS NOT AN ACCEPTABLE ANSWER.

Carlos: Wait, what.

Daniel: Oh my god.

Pierre: BACK UP.

Charles: HOW DOES ARTHUR KNOW BEFORE ME???

Oscar: He met her.

Lando: HE MET HER???

Pierre: SHE EXISTS IN A FORM THAT CAN BE MET???

George: OSCAR.

Max: Is everyone going to keep screaming?

Charles: OSCAR YOU HAVE A CHILD AND NEVER TOLD US???

Oscar: No one asked.

Lando: OH I’M SO SORRY, LET ME JUST RANDOMLY ASK EVERYONE ON THE GRID IF THEY SECRETLY HAVE CHILDREN.

Alex: Three years, mate. You’ve had a kid for three years and never said a word?

Oscar: Yeah.

Pierre: I am STUNNED.

George: STUNNED.

Lando: LIKE ACTUALLY YOU HAVE A THREE-YEAR-OLD HUMAN CHILD????

Oscar: Yes, Lando.

Lando: I need to sit down.

Charles: WHY HAVE YOU NEVER BROUGHT HER TO A RACE.

Oscar: Because I promised my wife I wouldn’t buy her a kart until she’s five, and if I bring her to a race, that’s all she’ll want for her birthday.

Carlos: …She’s already obsessed, isn’t she.

Oscar: Oh, completely.

Oscar: She watches onboards for fun.

Pierre: Onboards.

Lando: WHAT THREE-YEAR-OLD WATCHES ONBOARDS????

Oscar: Mine.

Logan:  Bee is kinda obsessed lol

Lando: BEE?!?! HER NAME IS BEE?!?

Oscar: Beatrice. But we call her Bee. 

Oscar: She also gives commentary.

George: Commentary.

Oscar: Yeah. She said George is a bit too careful, but she respects it.

George: …Tell her I appreciate that.

Oscar: She thinks Alex is underrated.

Alex: Smart girl.

Oscar: She says Max and Charles are the fastest.

Charles: Oh, she has taste.

Max: A future World Champion.

Lando: WHO DOES SHE THINK I AM THEN????

Oscar: She says you talk too much.

Lando: I AM BEING BULLIED BY A TODDLER.

Oscar: And she also doesn’t understand why you always “let” Max pass you.

Max: I like her.

Lando: THIS IS CHARACTER ASSASSINATION.

Charles: I need to meet this child.

Max: Me too.

Fernando: Same.

Lewis: When’s she coming to the paddock?

Oscar: She’s not, because if she meets Max and Charles in person, I will not hear the end of it.

Charles: Oh, we have to meet her.

Lando: NOT UNTIL I WIN HER OVER.

Lando: WHO DOES SHE SUPPORT????

Oscar: She’s three, Lando.

Lando: THAT DOESN’T ANSWER MY QUESTION.

Oscar: She says she supports “everyone.”

Max: That’s diplomatic.

Charles: No, that’s suspicious.

Charles: Who does she really support?

Oscar: …She says she supports whoever wins.

Pierre: OH SHE’S A GLORY HUNTER.

Carlos: NO LOYALTY.

Alex: A ruthless fan. I respect it.

Lando: I AM SUFFERING.

Oscar: She does like McLaren. She just thinks Ferrari is “prettier.”

Charles: YES.

Carlos: This child has taste.

Lando: I AM LOSING TO FERRARI ON VIBES ALONE????

Oscar: Sounds like it.

George: This is all well and good, but I need to know—what does she think about you, Oscar?

Oscar: …

Lando: OH MY GOD.

Daniel: OH THIS IS GONNA BE GOOD.

Oscar: She says I’m her favorite after Max and Charles.

Charles: YES.

Max: Acceptable.

Oscar: But she also says I have the best helmet.

Fernando: That’s a win.

Lando: I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU HAVE A WHOLE SECRET DAUGHTER WHO BULLIES ME FROM AFAR.

Oscar: She doesn’t bully you.

Oscar: She just doesn’t understand why you let Max pass you all the time.

Max: A wise child.

Lando: I HATE IT HERE.

Charles: I demand a meeting.

Max: Me too.

Pierre: We’re all uncles now.

Lando: NO. NOT UNTIL SHE ACCEPTS ME.

Oscar: Good luck with that. She also says you sound funny when you yell.

Lando: I’M GONNA CRY.

Lando: I NEED A SECOND CHANCE.

Lando: I CAN WIN HER OVER.

Max: She sounds very intelligent.

Charles: Yes. Clearly, she has excellent judgment.

Lando: STOP SUCKING UP TO HER, YOU’RE ALREADY HER FAVORITE.

Carlos: So what does she think about the other drivers?

Oscar: Do you really want to know?

Pierre: Oh absolutely.

Fernando: I am prepared.

Oscar: Okay.

Oscar: She thinks George sounds like Peppa Pig.

George: …

Lewis: Oh my god.

Alex: OH THIS IS PERFECT.

Lando: WE WILL NEVER LET THIS GO.

George: I AM LOSING TO A CARTOON PIG.

Oscar: She heard you on the TV and asked why Peppa was driving a car.

Pierre: No, you ARE a cartoon pig.

Alex: This is the best day of my life.

George: I hate all of you.

Oscar: Moving on…

Oscar: She thinks Fernando is the “oldest driver ever.”

Charles: At least she knows the history of the sport.

Fernando: I’m taking that as a compliment.

Oscar: She also says Yuki is small and should be allowed to stand on the seat so he can see better.

Yuki: I AM NOT THAT SHORT.

Pierre: SHE SPEAKS THE TRUTH.

Oscar: Oh, and she likes Lewis because she likes his earrings.

Lewis: That is the only valid reason to like me.

Oscar: She also thinks you’re the boss of everyone.

Lewis: That is also true.

Lando: PLEASE TELL ME SHE HAS A TERRIBLE OPINION ABOUT CHARLES OR MAX.

Oscar: She thinks Charles crashes too much but is “really, really fast.”

Max: Accurate.

Oscar: And she says Max is “really good, but scary.”

Max: I am scary.

Charles: No, you just race like a maniac.

Oscar: She also thinks you and Carlos are best friends because you wear the same color.

Carlos: I am okay with this.

Lando: WHY AM I THE ONLY ONE WHO LOSES HERE.

Oscar: Get better PR.

Oscar: She likes Daniel because she says his voice sounds happy.

Daniel: SHE IS SO REAL FOR THAT.

Charles: So she wants to race??

Oscar: Oh yeah. She watches all the onboards. She says the Red Bull looks "like a rocket ship," and McLaren is "super fast now," but Ferrari is "a little bit broken."

Carlos: You HAVE to bring her to a race.

Lando: Okay but actually. Do you think she’ll do karting?

Oscar: Yeah. Probably.

Oscar: She already yells “Lights out and away we go” when she runs down the hallway.

Fernando: Oh, she’s one of us.

Lando: She’s already got the spirit.

George: Unlike Lando.

Lando: I AM GOING TO FIGHT YOU.

Max: No, because you’ll lose.

Lando: I’M STILL PROCESSING. OSCAR HAS A WHOLE CHILD. A CHILD WHO GIVES HIM PERFORMANCE REVIEWS.

Oscar: Yeah, she told me my race suit is “not very pretty.”

Charles: What does she think of Max’s?

Oscar: “It’s blue. That’s okay.” She likes yours more, because Red is good. 

Charles: She has excellent taste.

Oscar: She also said, “You should win more too.”

Lando: Has she ever said that to Max?

Oscar: No, because she thinks he already wins enough.

Max: Wise.

George: What does she think about Mercedes?

Oscar: She likes the silver one better than the black one because “it’s shinier.”

Lewis: Fair.

Oscar: But she said, “It’s not as pretty as red.”

Oscar: She also thinks all our helmets should have “more animals and less boring stuff.”

Lando: SHE IS THE FUTURE OF THIS SPORT.

Oscar: Then she told me, “You need a koala on yours.”

Alex: That’s fair.

Lando: OKAY BUT DOES SHE HAVE ANY RACE STRATEGY OPINIONS.

Oscar: Of course.

Charles: Please share.

Oscar: The other day, I was watching a race replay, and she climbed onto the couch next to me, stared at the screen, and went, “Why are you still on those tires?”

Carlos: HAHAHA.

Oscar: And I said, “Because we haven’t pitted yet,” and she just shook her head and went, “That’s silly. You should get new ones now.”

Lando: SHE’S SO SMART.

Pierre: Does she understand tire compounds?

Oscar: She knows soft tires are fast, medium tires are okay, and hard tires are “boring and ugly.”

Charles: Honestly, she gets it.

Lando: NO BUT ACTUALLY DOES SHE HAVE THOUGHTS ON DRS.

Oscar: Oh, yeah. She calls it the “flappy thing.”

Pierre: I love her.

Oscar: She saw an onboard where I opened it, and she just went, “Oooooh, flappy thing makes you go fast.”

Max: I mean, she’s right.

Alex: Does she like overtakes?

Oscar: Yeah, but she only gets really excited when I do them. Otherwise, she just watches quietly and then claps if it looks cool.

Charles: Does she cheer for anyone else?

Oscar: One time, she saw you make a double overtake and went, “Ohhhhh, I like him.”

Carlos: Betrayal.

Oscar: She likes you too, don’t worry. But I think she just thought that move was cool.

Carlos: I suppose I will allow it.

George: Oscar, have you explained to her why Lando hasn’t won yet?

Oscar: Not really. I just told her, “It’s really hard to win in F1,” and she thought about it for a second and went, “Not for Max.”

Max: HAHAHA.

Charles: She is actually too smart.

Lando: I AM BEING DRAGGED BY A TODDLER WHO DOESN’T EVEN KNOW HER OWN LAST NAME YET.

Oscar: She does know her last name, actually.

Lando: GOOD FOR HER. I’M STILL SUFFERING.

Carlos: Has she asked why you haven’t won a race either, Oscar?

Oscar: No.

Pierre: WHY NOT??

Oscar: I think she assumes I’m too busy taking care of her.

George: Honestly, fair.

Lando: I STILL CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE A DAD.

Oscar: Believe it.

Lando: I CAN’T. AND NOW I’M GOING TO HAVE AN EXISTENTIAL CRISIS BECAUSE YOUR TINY CHILD THINKS I’M BAD AT MY JOB.

Oscar: She didn’t say you were bad. Just that you haven’t won yet.

Lando: SAME THING.

Oscar: It’s okay, Lando. I’ll tell her you’re trying your best.

Lando: STOPPIT.

Lando: NO ACTUALLY I CAN’T STOP THINKING ABOUT THIS. WHAT ELSE HAS SHE SAID.

Oscar: What do you mean?

Lando: I MEAN ABOUT F1. ABOUT ME. ABOUT YOU. ABOUT ANYTHING. I NEED TO KNOW HOW BADLY A THREE-YEAR-OLD HAS DRAGGED ME BEHIND THE VIRTUAL SAFETY CAR.

Oscar: Well, she’s got a lot of opinions.

Charles: What kind of opinions?

Oscar: She has told me she doesn’t like safety cars because they’re “boring,” and that red flags are annoying because she has to wait.

Max: I respect it.

Oscar: But she does like when there’s a big crash because she gets to say, “Uh oh!”

Lando: NO BECAUSE IMAGINE YOU BIN IT AND YOU HEAR A TINY LITTLE “UH OH” OVER THE RADIO.

Max: I would retire.

Oscar: She also said if I ever win a race, she wants to do the shoey with me.

Lando: THAT’S HORRIBLE. DON’T LET HER DO THAT.

Oscar: Felicity already said no.

Lando: Good. I’m still recovering from the fact that you have a whole wife and a daughter.

Oscar: You’ll be fine.

Lando: WILL I.

Oscar: No.

Lando: GREAT.

Lando: I’M NOT OVER IT.

Carlos: We know.

Lando: YOU HAVE A DAUGHTER.

Oscar: I do.

Lando: A WHOLE DAUGHTER.

Oscar: That is usually how it works.

Lando: YOU NEVER TOLD ME.

Oscar: You never asked.

Lando: WHO ASKS, “HEY, DO YOU SECRETLY HAVE A WHOLE TODDLER?”

Charles: I might start.

Lando: I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS.

Oscar: It’s not that big of a deal.

Lando: NOT THAT BIG OF A DEAL???

Oscar: She’s just a tiny person.

Lando: A TINY PERSON WHO WATCHES F1 AND HAS OPINIONS.

Oscar: Correct.

Lando: I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS.

Pierre: Bro, breathe.

Lando: NO.

[throttleheart]

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Marked by love

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!Reader

Genre: pure fluff, crack treated seriously, very self indulgent!!!

Word Count: ~1.1k

Summary: Lando discovers a myth that moles show where a past-life lover used to kiss you, and he immediately decides it’s true for you both. Now, he won’t stop kissing every mole on your face, convinced he’s loved you before—and always will.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

It starts with Lando tracing a finger along your jaw.

You’re lying on the couch together, his head resting on your stomach, his hand idly exploring your face with lazy affection. His fingertips graze your cheekbone, then ghost over your temple, before pausing above your lip—right where one of your many moles sits.

“You know,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up to yours, “I read something the other day.”

You hum, playing with his curls absentmindedly. “That’s a first.”

Lando gasps dramatically, sitting up slightly. “Excuse me, I’m very well-read, thank you.”

You smirk. “Alright, genius. What did you read?”

He shifts so he’s propped up on one elbow, his free hand still lightly tracing over your skin. “There’s this myth,” he starts, “that moles on your face show where your lover from another life used to kiss you the most.”

You blink. “Wait, really?”

“Yup,” Lando says, tapping the mole above your lip. “And this one? Definitely my favorite.”

Your cheeks warm as you roll your eyes. “You’re just saying that because it’s the most obvious one.”

“Nooo,” he drags out, grinning. “I’m saying that because I love it.” He leans in, brushing a soft kiss right over it. “And because past-life me clearly had great taste.”

You laugh, pushing at his chest playfully, but he just shifts closer, eyes scanning your face again.

“So, if the myth is true,” he muses, fingers grazing another small mole near your jaw, “I must’ve really liked kissing you here too.” He presses a kiss to it, slow and deliberate.

“Lando…” you start, but your voice is quieter now, breath hitching slightly as he moves lower, brushing a kiss to another mole near your collarbone.

“Oh, and this one?” He smirks against your skin. “Definitely another favorite.”

You shove him lightly, trying to fight the smile pulling at your lips. “Okay, okay, I get it. You’re obsessed with me.”

Lando grins, tilting his head. “Well, yeah. That’s kind of the whole thing, isn’t it?”

You roll your eyes again, but the warmth in your chest is undeniable.

Lando hums, settling back down beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Guess I’ve loved you for more than one lifetime.”

You glance at him, heart swelling. “Guess you have.”

And as he presses another soft kiss above your lip, you think—maybe the myth isn’t a myth at all.

Lando doesn’t stop there.

For the next few days, he takes his new discovery very seriously.

Any chance he gets, he’s kissing the moles on your face like he’s mapping out where past-life him must have adored you most.

You’re brushing your teeth in the bathroom mirror when he sneaks up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Morning, love.”

Before you can respond, he leans in, pressing a slow kiss to the mole on your temple.

You roll your eyes but can’t help the smile that creeps onto your face. “Really? First thing in the morning?”

“Can’t help it,” he murmurs, lips trailing toward the one above your lip again. “Past-life me is making sure I don’t forget my duties.”

You snort, shoving him lightly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you.” He grins before kissing you properly this time, toothpaste and all.

⸻

Later that day, you’re both at the paddock, and Lando still isn’t over it.

You’re chatting with some of the team when he walks by, sending you a not-so-subtle wink. And then, when no one’s paying attention, he pulls you aside, tilting your chin up to plant a quick kiss right on the mole above your lip.

“Lando!” you hiss, glancing around. “Not here!”

“What?” He smirks. “I have responsibilities.”

“You have a race.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, but you’re more important.”

You groan, but your cheeks are warm, and Lando definitely notices.

⸻

By the time the weekend is over, the rest of the grid has caught on.

You’re standing with Charles and Carlos in the Ferrari hospitality when Lando comes strolling over. The second he’s within reach, he tilts your chin up and kisses the mole above your lip—because of course he does.

Carlos raises an eyebrow. “Mate, what are you doing?”

“Fulfilling my past-life duties,” Lando answers matter-of-factly.

Charles looks confused. “What?”

You groan, covering your face. “Don’t ask.”

Lando just grins. “It’s a long story.” Then, he leans down, whispering in your ear, “But I’ll tell you later. In bed. While kissing every single one of your moles.”

Your face burns.

Carlos looks between you two. “I don’t even want to know.”

Lando just smirks, throwing an arm around your shoulders like he’s the luckiest guy in every lifetime.

And maybe he is.

The mole-kissing obsession doesn’t stop. In fact, it only gets worse.

At this point, Lando is making it his entire personality.

Every morning? A kiss to your temple, then the one above your lip, then whatever other mole he feels like appreciating that day.

Every night? The same routine, except slower, softer, like he’s savoring it. Like he means it.

And during the day? He’s getting bold.

⸻

You’re at a post-race dinner with the team when Lando, sitting beside you, suddenly turns and presses a kiss to the mole on your jaw. Right in the middle of a conversation.

Mid-sentence. No warning.

Andrea, who was talking about strategy adjustments, just stops.

Zak Brown looks deeply unimpressed.

Oscar, across the table, blinks. “Mate… what?”

Lando shrugs, completely unbothered. “Sorry, had to.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “He thinks my moles are proof we were together in a past life.”

The entire table stares.

Oscar, deadpan: “I regret asking.”

⸻

Later that night, when you’re alone in the hotel room, you give Lando the look.

“You have to stop doing that in front of people.”

Lando grins, already walking toward you. “Why?”

“Because I am embarrassed, and Zak is considering revoking your contract.”

He laughs, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close. “Nah, he’s too scared of losing me.”

You shake your head, trying to stay annoyed, but it’s hard when he’s looking at you like that—like you hung the stars in the sky.

Then, his hands cup your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks. His voice drops, turning soft, genuine.

“I just love you,” he murmurs. “In this life. In the last one. Probably in the next one too.”

Your breath catches.

Lando presses a kiss to the mole above your lip, slower this time. More meaningful. Then another to the one on your jaw. And another on your collarbone.

You sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck. “You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah,” he smirks, kissing you properly. “But you love me.”

You do. In this life and the next.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

[astars-things]

“why are we cuddling on the floor” with luke please 🫶🫶🫶

Drunken Cuddles

You blinked, your vision slightly blurry as you registered the warmth wrapped around you. Your head was resting on something firm yet comfortable, and there was an arm draped lazily over your waist. Your body was tangled with someone else's—Luke.

“Why are we cuddling on the floor?” Luke's voice was groggy and confused, his face half-buried in your shoulder.

You barely had time to process his question before another voice cut in. “Because you two got too drunk,” Jack said, arms crossed as he stared down at the two of you with a mix of amusement and judgment.

You groaned, squeezing your eyes shut in an attempt to recall how you ended up like this. The last thing you remembered was you and Luke deciding it would be a great idea to have a little drinking competition. Well, more like you challenging Luke, and him—being the competitive guy he was—accepting without hesitation.

“I don’t feel drunk,” Luke mumbled, tightening his hold on you and nuzzling into your neck.

Jack snorted. “Yeah? Tell that to the fact that you guys are literally spooning on my living room floor like two love-drunk idiots.”

You peeked up at him, blinking slowly. “Well, the couch looked uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t even try the couch!” Jack shot back, exasperated.

You and Luke exchanged glances before bursting into giggles, the alcohol still making everything feel funnier than it actually was.

Jack sighed dramatically. “Unbelievable. I leave you two alone for one night, and this happens.”

“We’re not hurting anyone,” Luke reasoned, his voice muffled as he rested his head back against your chest. “Just vibing.”

Jack groaned. “You’re not ‘vibing.’ You’re passed-out drunk on the floor of my apartment. Do you know how ridiculous you look?”

You grinned up at him. “Nope. But I bet we look cute.”

Jack gave you a deadpan look before pulling out his phone. “Oh, don’t worry. I already took pictures. Plenty of them.”

Luke groaned, attempting to swat weakly in Jack’s direction but failing miserably. “Delete them.”

Jack laughed. “Not a chance, buddy. These are getting saved for blackmail purposes.”

You pouted. “Jack, that’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair,” Jack shot back. “Now, do you two plan on getting off my floor anytime soon?”

Luke hummed thoughtfully, hugging you even tighter. “Mmm. Nope. Floor is nice. Y/N is warm.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “God, you’re so whipped.”

You laughed, but instead of arguing, you only snuggled further into Luke’s embrace. He was warm and comfortable, and your fuzzy brain decided that you had no desire to move.

Jack huffed. “You guys are impossible.”

“Love you too, Jack,” you mumbled sleepily.

Jack groaned. “That’s it. I’m stepping over you. Don’t be surprised if I ‘accidentally’ kick one of you.”

You and Luke barely reacted, just letting out sleepy giggles as Jack muttered to himself about how annoying you two were.

As you started drifting off again, Luke squeezed your hand. “Best drunk decision ever.”

You hummed in agreement. “Definitely.”

Jack, from across the room, groaned. “I hate both of you.”

[veilstqr]

𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐩 •᷄ɞ• ♡. ₊˚⊹ ✩

๋⋆｡˚ downbad!ni-ki ♡ fluff and crack x ni-ki being whipped and the members not letting him breathe & w.c 1.1k

─── ɴᴀᴠɪɢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

author's note: saw this pic of ni-ki and i just had to write on it, he's just so cute

Ni-ki has been smiling at the fluffy duck plushie for over twenty minutes now. His members, watching from a safe distance, were seriously contemplating whether an intervention was necessary (Jake already has the number of a psych ward dialed onto his phone).

“What is he doing?” Jungwon whispered to Sunoo, both of them huddled on one side of the couch, unsure of what to make of their younger friend.

Sunoo narrowed his eyes. “I have no idea, but he looks ridiculous.”

A quiet giggle escaped Ni-ki, his arms tightening around the plushie as he nuzzled his chin into its soft, yellow head. He sighed dreamily, eyes twinkling as if he had just discovered the meaning of life.

Jungwon and Sunoo exchanged glances. This was getting out of hand.

“Should we snap him out of it?” Jungwon asked hesitantly.

Sunoo shrugged. “I mean… do you want to risk getting drop-kicked?”

Before they could decide, Ni-ki turned to them, eyes glowing with an almost unsettling level of affection. “Guys,” he whispered, voice filled with unshakable devotion. “Look at him. He’s perfect.”

Sunoo blinked. “Ni-ki, it’s literally just a stuffed duck.”

Ni-ki gasped like Sunoo had just personally insulted his entire bloodline. Hugging the plushie even tighter, he scoffed, “How dare you.”

Jungwon exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “Yeah. He’s gone.”

“I don’t get it,” Jake said from his spot on the floor, brows furrowed in genuine confusion. “Is this… some kind of puberty thing?”

Sunoo snorted. “Yeah, Jake. Ni-ki hit phase two of puberty, and now he’s hopelessly in love with a stuffed duck.”

Jake hummed, considering it. “I mean… it’s possible.”

Jungwon shot him a deadpan look. “No. No, it’s not.”

Meanwhile, Ni-ki was completely oblivious to the conversation happening about him. He simply cradled the duck plushie closer, gently stroking its tiny wings with the kind of tenderness usually reserved for priceless artifacts.

A dreamy sigh escaped his lips. “Don’t listen to them,” he murmured to the plushie. “They just don’t understand our bond.”

Sunoo stared. “Okay, yeah, we’re calling that psych ward.”

“Where’d you even get that thing from?” Jungwon asked.

“Well, first of all, he has a name,” Ni-ki said, clutching the plushie tighter.

Jungwon blinked. “Right. Of course he does.”

Jake leaned forward, intrigued. “Okay… what is it?”

Ni-ki looked down at the plushie with pure affection before answering, completely serious, “Sir Quacksalot.”

Sunoo choked on air. “You’re joking.”

Ni-ki gasped, horrified. “How dare you disrespect Sir Quacksalot like that?”

Jungwon decided to tread carefully. “Okay… and where did Sir Quacksalot come from?”

At that, Ni-ki’s face turned a shade pinker, his grip on the plushie tightening ever so slightly. “Nowhere.”

Sunoo narrowed his eyes. “Ni-ki.”

Jake gasped dramatically. “Wait. Someone gave it to you, didn’t they?”

Ni-ki scoffed, looking everywhere but at his members. “No.”

Jungwon crossed his arms. “Ni-ki.”

“…Maybe.”

Sunoo’s jaw dropped. “Who?”

Ni-ki hesitated, then muttered something under his breath.

Jake leaned in. “What was that?”

Ni-ki groaned, hiding his face behind Sir Quacksalot. “Y/n, okay? She won it for me at that arcade the other day.”

The room fell silent for exactly two seconds before—

“Oh my god.” Sunoo gasped.

Jake shot up to his feet. “YOU’RE SMITTEN.”

“I am not—”

Jungwon pointed at him. “That is exactly what someone who is smitten would say.”

Meanwhile, Sunoo was already dialing Jay’s number on his phone, a smug grin spreading across his face. “You owe me 10 bucks, pay up now.”

Jake let out a low whistle. “I’m honestly impressed. I didn’t think the duck plushie was part of the plan.”

Ni-ki, now fully flushed, groaned and buried his face in the plushie again. “You guys are ridiculous.”

Sunoo grinned as Jay’s phone picked up. “Hey, Jay. You’re welcome.” He paused, listening to the muffled voice on the other end. “Yeah, I said pay up—you owe me.”

Jungwon raised an eyebrow. “How much are we betting on the next step in this disaster?”

Sunoo flashed a wicked grin. “We’ll see how long it takes for him to start writing poems for her.”

Just then, Ni-ki’s phone went off, the screen lighting up with a contact name that made him freeze: Pretty Girl <3

Ni-ki’s hand shot out to grab his phone, but Jungwon was quicker, leaping theatrically to snatch it from his grasp. He swiped up to accept the call before Ni-ki could protest.

“Jungwon, no!” Ni-ki hissed, his face going pale. “Give it back!”

But Jungwon was already holding the phone up to his ear with a dramatic flair. “Hello, is this Pretty Girl?” he said, his voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Ni-ki’s very good friend—he’s, uh, just a little shy right now.”

Sunoo cackled from the sidelines, unable to hold back. “Oh my god, this is gold.”

Jake, unable to contain his amusement, added, “Tell her Ni-ki’s too busy with Sir Quacksalot to talk right now.”

Ni-ki’s eyes widened in horror, but Jungwon ignored him, continuing the act. “So, Pretty Girl, how’s it going? Got any plans for today? I’m sure Ni-ki is totally free right now to spend some quality time .“

“Jungwon!” Ni-ki yelped, diving for the phone, but Jungwon struck his leg out to block the boy. Laughter echoed through the room as Jake and Sunoo rolled around the floor, struggling to catch their breaths. By now Jay, Sunghoon and Heeseung had already emerged in the dorm room after Sunoo broke the news.There was a short pause on the other end before Y/N’s voice came through, light and teasing. “Oh? Is he now? Well, could you let him know I was thinking of him and that I’d love to see him later tonight?”

Jungwon’s grin stretched wider as he glanced at Ni-ki, who was practically melting in embarrassment. “Oh, I’ll definitely pass that along,” he said with an exaggerated wink. “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear from you.”

Ni-ki grabbed the phone out of Jungwon’s hand in a panic. “Y/N, hey! I—uh, I’m sorry about that—”

The rest of the members were in hysterics by now, clearly loving every minute of this.

“Don’t listen to him,” Ni-ki mumbled into the phone, his voice barely above a whisper, but the smile in his voice was clear. “I’m really looking forward to seeing you later.”

Sunoo, still wheezing from laughter, muttered, “Yeah, right, Ni-ki. You’re totally not whipped.”

The boy just glared at the others, muttering a stream of curses under his breath as he trudged out of the apartment. But before he fully left, he grabbed the fluffy duck plushie from the couch and clutched it tightly against his chest, as if it could somehow protect him from the relentless teasing. His face was a deep shade of red, but no one could miss the way his hands were fidgeting, already mentally preparing for the meeting with Y/N.

As he passed by the living room, Sunoo couldn’t help but call out, “Good luck, Ni-ki! Don’t forget to wear your lucky strawberry panties!”

Lord have mercy.

200325

© veilstqr 2025. do not copy, translate or upload any of my works without my permission

tag list: @s1rawb3rry @hollyoongs @w2hoonki @httpenhoon comment or dm me if you want to be tagged in every update <3

[aleksatia]

Xavier – Six Days of Silence

Alright, guys! Your reaction to MC’s dramatic disappearance (and the even more dramatic meltdown from the LADs—especially Xavier 👀) has been absolutely wild! I can’t thank you enough! 💖

I couldn’t just ignore your cries of despair and leave you hanging, so... I wrote a continuation with Xavier. 😏🔥

If you didn’t suffer enough in the last part, well—buckle up. 😈 But seriously, I’m beyond grateful for all the love and engagement, and now I’ve got just one question... who’s next?! 👀💀

Previous Part

The door closes behind you with a quiet click.

Silence settles.

It doesn’t matter that the apartment is empty. Xavier is still here.

Not physically. But in the way the air still feels heavy with the weight of his words. In the way your phone stays too quiet, too still, despite how many times you check it. In the way his white hoodie—the one you never returned—hangs loosely around your shoulders, fabric slightly too big, smelling faintly of something cold, something distant, something unmistakably him.

You should take it off. 

You don’t.

Not even when you curl up on the couch, pressing your face into the collar, trying to pretend that it doesn’t ache.

Trying to pretend that you don’t miss him.

But you do.

And it’s only been one night.

Day One – The Silence

The apartment is too quiet. Too hollow. The kind of silence that isn’t empty, but suffocating—thick with the weight of something unspoken, something unfinished.

Xavier doesn’t message you.

Not in the morning. Not in the afternoon. Not even at night, when the absence of his voice becomes unbearable, pressing down on your chest like a phantom weight.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That this is what you wanted. That he deserved it.

And yet, every time you reach for your phone—every time your fingers hover over the screen, itching to type something—anything—you stop.

Because if you start, you might not be able to stop.

And if you see his name flash across the screen, if you hear his voice—cold, restrained, the way it was when he told you to ask him again in six days—you might break.

And you refuse to be the first to break.

You told yourself you wouldn't do this.

Wouldn't pace the apartment, wouldn't reach for the door only to stop before your fingers brush the handle, wouldn't let yourself hover by the window as if expecting to see him below, walking with that same unshakable stride, hands in his pockets, the night folding around him like a living shadow.

You bite the inside of your cheek and turn away. This is ridiculous.

But it doesn’t stop your mind from unraveling the last time you saw him, the words that still sit on your skin like a bruise, aching, pulsing.

Two Weeks Ago

"You did it again."

Your voice was tight, measured, but it carried that dangerous edge, the one that meant you weren’t just angry—you were done.

Xavier stood in the doorway, his coat draped loosely over his shoulders, blood darkening the sleeve where it stuck to his arm. His own.

And yet, his expression remained unchanged.

"I handled it."

Effortless. Dismissive. As if bleeding out in the doorway wasn’t a cause for concern.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides. "You went into the No-Hunt Zone alone."

He exhaled slowly, unbothered, unconcerned. "Yes."

You wanted to shake him. Wanted to rip through that maddening, unflinching calm that always seemed to turn every argument into a chess match—where he never lost control, never let emotion slip past the surface.

"You promised," you said, quieter now, not because the anger had left, but because it was worse—quieter meant sharper, meant it was sinking in.

His gaze flickered. Not quite hesitation, but something close. Something annoyingly unreadable.

"I never promised," he corrected. "I said I’d be careful."

"You almost died last time," you snapped. "Or did you forget?"

A slow blink. "I don’t forget anything."

The weight of that truth settled like ice in your stomach.

"Then remember this." Your voice wavered just slightly. "You’re not immortal, Xavier."

His lips twitched, a fraction of amusement in the gesture. "Debatable."

You took a step forward. "You think longevity makes you untouchable?"

"I think," he said, tilting his head slightly, "that I’ve survived worse."

You stared at him. At the blood drying against his skin. At the way he stood so still, so effortlessly unaffected.

And that’s when you understood.

He had already made peace with his own death. And he expected you to do the same.

The thought made something break inside you.

"You want me to be a widow before I even get to be a wife?"

It came out before you could stop it, before you could think.

A flicker of something crossed his face—not shock, not emotion, but stillness. A brief, split-second pause.

And then, he shut it down.

"You’re being dramatic."

You stepped back as if struck. You didn’t realize your hands were shaking until you curled them into fists.

And then you laughed—soft, hollow, bitter. "You’re unbelievable."

"I’m realistic," he corrected.

That was when you left. You turned on your heel and walked out, before the frustration, the helplessness, the aching, consuming anger could drag you under.

And he let you go.

***

Now, you’re the one left behind.

You should have told him then. Told him how much it terrified you, the thought of coming back one day only to find his body on a slab, cold, lifeless, just another statistic in the war against Wanderers.

But you didn’t. Instead, you left. And now you’re here.

Alone.

Your phone is still on the table.

You stare at it for too long, the words forming and dissolving in your mind. You should write to him. It’s always been easier to write than to say it out loud. Because words—especially the ones that matter—come with too much weight, too much risk of cracking, of unraveling.

You start to type.

📱 You: Xav, I—

Your fingers freeze. You stare at the unfinished message for too long.

Then you delete it.

You sigh, rubbing your hands over your face, trying to chase away the exhaustion clawing at your mind.

At some point, you fall onto the couch, curling into yourself. The hoodie is still wrapped around you, the fabric worn and familiar, carrying the last traces of him.

Your eyelids feel heavy. Just for a moment, you close them.

A sharp vibration against the glass table jolts you awake. For a brief, heart-stopping second, you think it’s him.

Your fingers scramble for the phone, your pulse hammering, already too desperate for his name to appear on the screen.

Instead—

A message from a random, meaningless system notification.

You let out a slow breath. Your hands are shaking.

Because you had been waiting for him. Because some part of you still hoped.

You curl deeper into the hoodie, pressing your face into the fabric. And finally—you let yourself admit that you miss him too much.

Day Two – What Remains

The knock is barely there. So soft, so hesitant, like a ghost of sound rather than something real.

For a fleeting second—your heart leaps.

You open the door. The hallway is empty.

A cold draft brushes against your skin, slipping under the fabric of his hoodie.

But there, at your feet—a small black bag.

You kneel. Fingers brush over the label.

Painkillers. Electrolyte supplements. Emergency field rations. The essentials.

Your phone vibrates.

📱 Xavier: Take these.

You stare at the message, breathing out slowly through your nose.

A moment. A hesitation. Then—you type.

📱 You: Didn’t realize you made house calls.

📱 Xavier: I don’t. But you looked like you were about to collapse.

The words sink in too fast. Too easily.

Because of course, he noticed. Because of course, he knew. Because even now—even after everything—he’s still watching.

Your grip tightens around the phone.

📱 You: So you’re keeping tabs on me now?

📱 Xavier: No need. I already know how reckless you are.

A pause.

Then—

📱 Xavier: Take the damn medicine.

You press your tongue against the raw sting of broken skin, the inside of your cheek already torn from the habit, fingers hovering over the screen.

You could ignore him. Could let the pills sit untouched, just to prove a point. Instead, you close your eyes. And swallow the first dose dry.

It’s not an apology. Not even close.

But it’s something.

And that’s why it hurts more.

***

The night stretches long and restless.

You wake in intervals—too hot, too cold, too aware of the ache in your chest that no amount of painkillers can dull.

Somewhere between sleep and waking, your fingers drift over the phone again.

You hesitate. Then type—

📱 You: You said six days.

A second passes. Another.

Then—

📱 Xavier: I did.

A breath catches in your throat.

He answered.

You don’t know why that surprises you. You don’t know why you expected silence.

📱 You: Then why are you here?

The response comes too quickly.

📱 Xavier: I’m not.

It shouldn’t sting.

It does.

***

Morning comes slow and suffocatingly heavy.

You don’t want to move. Don’t want to pull yourself from the warmth of the couch, the stale comfort of yesterday still clinging to the air.

But the world doesn’t stop just because your heart is cracked along the edges.

So you get up.

Force yourself into autopilot—shower, dress, coffee that you don’t even drink.

Your phone vibrates again.

📱 Xavier: Eat something real today.

You exhale sharply, tilting your head back against the kitchen counter.

Then—you type.

📱 You: Didn’t realize you were my dietitian now.

📱 Xavier: I’m not. But someone has to be.

Your jaw tightens.

📱 You: I’m fine, Xavier.

📱 Xavier: You’re lying, but okay.

The breath punches out of you before you even realize you’ve been holding it. Because he sees through you. He always does.

And you hate him for it.

You want to be angry. Want to tell him to back off. Want to remind him that he left first.

But instead—

📱 You: Did you eat?

A pause.

📱 Xavier: Of course.

You don’t believe him. But you let it go.

***

The day drags forward, sluggish and unforgiving.

By the time night falls again, you’ve checked your phone at least twenty times. You tell yourself it’s just habit.

It’s not.

You curl back into the couch, fingers ghosting over the hem of his hoodie, feeling the fabric twist between your hands.

You don’t know what you’re waiting for. 

You don’t want to know.

Day Three – Ghosts in the Rain

The rain is relentless.

It starts while you're still at work—a slow, heavy downpour that turns the streets into rivers, neon lights smearing across the wet pavement. You watch it for a moment through the glass, jaw tightening when you realize you left your umbrella at home.

Perfect.

By the time you finally step outside, the water is already pooling at your feet, seeping into your boots, soaking through the edges of your sleeves. You shove your hands deeper into your pockets, hunching your shoulders against the cold, and walk.

It isn’t far. Just a few blocks. Just enough time for the silence to creep in again.

Your phone stays still. Xavier doesn’t message you. You don’t message him.

You’re not even sure what you would say.

The air in the apartment is thick with dampness when you finally push open the door, shaking the water from your fingers. You toe off your boots, leaving a faint trail of wet footprints across the floor.

You reach for a towel—and stop.

Because there, just by the door, is a folded dry sweatshirt.

Not yours.

A white hoodie. 

His.

And next to it, a small, neatly sealed packet. Heat packs.

Your stomach twists.

Your hands tremble as you reach for your phone, wiping away the water still clinging to the screen.

📱 You: You’ve got to stop breaking into my apartment.

A pause.

Then—

📱 Xavier: I didn’t. But you always forget an umbrella when it rains.

You exhale sharply, pressing your tongue against the sting of broken skin inside your cheek.

📱 You: Right. You’re psychic now?

📱 Xavier: No. Just observant.

You hesitate, running your fingers over the fabric of the hoodie before pulling it over your head. It’s warm, slightly oversized, carrying the scent of him beneath the clean detergent—something golden, like sunlight caught in the fabric, soft and caramel-sweet at the edges, but beneath it, barely there, something sharper, something darker, like the last trace of dusk before night takes over. Unmistakably Xavier.

📱 You: You’re really committing to this whole passive-aggressive monitoring thing, huh?

📱 Xavier: Aggressive. There’s nothing passive about it.

The response is instant. Too quick. As if he’s been waiting.

Your chest tightens.

📱 You: And yet, for all your keen observation, you still don’t seem to notice when you do the exact same thing.

A longer pause this time.

📱 Xavier: Clarify.

You roll your eyes. Of course, he’s going to make you spell it out.

📱 You: No-Hunt Zone. 

📱 Xavier: That’s different.

📱 You: Oh? Because it’s you?

📱 Xavier: Because it was necessary.

You let out a bitter breath, pressing the phone against your forehead for a moment, closing your eyes.

📱 You: Right. That word again.

📱 You: I suppose me being gone was necessary too, then?

📱 Xavier: That was a choice.

📱 You: So was yours.

Another long pause.

For a second, you think that’s the end of it. That he’s not going to reply.

Then—

📱 Xavier: You’re still wet. Change before you get sick.

A sharp inhale.

📱 You: That’s all you have to say?

📱 Xavier: For now.

You stare at the screen.

For now.

It isn’t an admission. It isn’t anything close to forgiveness. But it’s not a dismissal, either.

It’s an opening. A crack in the wall.

You exhale, curl deeper into the hoodie, and let your eyes slip shut.

For the first time in days, the silence doesn’t feel quite as heavy.

Day Four – Running in Circles

You don’t sleep.

You try. You close your eyes, shift positions, breathe slow and deep, count the seconds, then minutes, then hours. But your mind refuses to settle. The silence is unbearable, pressing into your skin, sinking into your bones.

By the time the sky begins to pale, the city just beginning to stir beyond your window, you give up.

The clock reads 6:04 AM when you lace up your running shoes.

The air is sharp, crisp with the last bite of night still lingering in the wind. The streets are nearly empty, save for the occasional early commuter, their footsteps swallowed by the sound of your own—steady, rhythmic, a heartbeat against the pavement.

You push yourself hard. Harder than you should.

It’s reckless, this need to move, to exhaust your body so completely that your mind has no room left to think.

Because when you think, you remember.

You remember the way Xavier looked at you that night. How his voice never wavered, how he turned away before you could say anything at all.

"Ask me again in six days."

You push faster.

Your breath burns in your throat. The ache in your legs spreads, deep and insistent, but you don’t stop. You can’t.

You run until the edges of your vision blur.

Until the exhaustion feels like something you can hold, something real, something that drowns out the ache in your chest.

Until the smell of coffee pulls you to a stop.

You’re standing in front of the café before you even realize it.

Your fingers curl against your palms, your breath still uneven. The air inside is warm, rich with the scent of espresso, cinnamon, something familiar.

Habit. Instinct. A mistake.

But still—you go inside. Still—you stand at the counter, order without thinking. Still—you reach for the cup, staring down at the neat label printed on the side.

Cappuccino. No sugar. Just how he likes it.

Your fingers tighten around the cup. You don’t hesitate. You walk straight back to his apartment, jaw clenched, pulse hammering in your ears.

And without a second thought—you leave the cup by his door.

You don’t knock. You don’t wait. You just leave.

Your hands still tremble when you reach your own door. You exhale, rubbing at your face, trying to push down the erratic rhythm of your pulse.

Then—you see it.

A second cup. Sitting neatly on your doorstep.

Your breath catches.

Fingers shake as you reach down, pressing against the warmth of the cup, the familiar weight of it. The label stares back at you, bold and unmistakable.

Latte. Just how you like it. From the same café.

The realization slams into you like a fist to the ribs. You were thinking of him. He was thinking of you.

At the same damn time.

Something twists, raw and sharp, in your chest. Then, as if he feels it—your phone buzzes.

📱 Xavier: Pushing yourself that hard after days of poor recovery is reckless.

Your fingers clench.

📱 Xavier: I suggest reading this.

A link. An article. Something about the dangers of sudden overexertion without proper conditioning.

A laugh bubbles up, breathless, bitter.

Of course. Of course he would turn this into a lecture.

📱 You: You’re unbelievable.

📱 Xavier: Clarify.

You wipe at your face, not even realizing your skin is damp, whether from sweat or something else.

📱 You: I’m not a civilian. I’m a Hunter. A trained fighter, just like you.

📱 You: I might not have your experience, but I’m not fragile. I don’t need a babysitter.

The response takes longer this time. A long, stretching pause.

Then—

📱 Xavier: Noted.

The words are too even. Too carefully chosen.

You see it immediately. He’s upset. But instead of fighting back, instead of defending himself, he just—withdraws.

It infuriates you.

📱 You: That’s it?

📱 Xavier: Would you prefer I argue?

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, hard enough to sting.

📱 You: Maybe.

📱 Xavier: Why?

Because at least then it would feel like something. Because at least then he wouldn’t be slipping away from you, wouldn’t be treating you like you weren’t worth the effort.

You suck in a breath, trying to calm the wild, uneven rhythm of your heart. Then you do something stupid.

Something reckless. Something you’ll regret the second you hit send.

📱 You: Funny how you only care about my recklessness when it’s convenient for you.

Silence.

One second.

Two.

Then—

📱 Xavier: Understood.

Just that. No defense. No cold, razor-sharp argument. No more words at all.

You stare at the screen. Then you hurl the phone at the wall.

The crack is instant, the screen splintering on impact. It falls to the floor, dark, dead, useless.

Something burns behind your eyes, frustration, exhaustion, anger collapsing into something too heavy, too unbearable to name.

Your hands quiver. You press them to your face, breathe through the ache blooming in your chest.

Then—

You stand. You grab your coat. You don’t stop to think.

You need a new phone.

Because what if he messages you?

Because even now—after everything—you still want him to.

Day Five – The Breaking Point

Silence should be a relief.

After four days of his constant, cold precision—the quiet should feel like a gift.

But it doesn’t.

It’s suffocating.

For the first time since he left you standing in that room, there’s nothing.

No message. No sarcastic remark. No quiet proof that, despite everything, he still gives a damn.

The absence cuts deeper than you expect.

You go to work anyway. Because you have to. Because stopping means thinking, and thinking means tearing yourself apart with what-ifs.

***

"Our agent successfully retrieved the Aethor Core." Captain Jenna’s voice carries through the room, steady, matter-of-fact.

A holographic map flickers to life above the conference table, casting shifting blue light against the faces of those seated around it. 

Your mission. Your work. Your risk.

You keep your expression neutral, spine straight, hands folded in front of you.

"Undercover infiltration into the Vasquez Syndicate was a success."

Murmurs spread across the table. You don’t move. You feel him before you see him.

Xavier.

Seated across from you, back straight, jaw locked, completely, unnervingly still.

You make the mistake of looking up. And that’s when you see it.

Not his usual sharp, quiet calculation. Not cold detachment.

No.

This is something else. This is contained rage.

It sits just beneath the surface—controlled, measured, but undeniably lethal.

Your stomach twists.

The Vasquez Syndicate. A name that sends ripples of unease through even the most hardened Hunters.

And you had gone there alone.

Undercover.

Without telling him. Without telling anyone.

You lower your gaze back to the table. Captain Jenna continues.

"Their leader was eliminated. Aethor Core secured. Minimal collateral damage."

The words should be a victory. You should feel something. Instead, your phone vibrates against your leg.

Once.

Then again.

Then again.

A steady onslaught of incoming messages.

Your fingers tighten against your thigh. You don’t have to check. You already know.

📱 Xavier: You have a death wish, then?

📱 Xavier: That’s what this is?

📱 Xavier: Of course. That makes sense. Why else would you walk into Vasquez’s den ALONE?

📱 Xavier: Did you think you were being clever?

📱 Xavier: Or was it a game? A test to see how close you could get before you were skinned alive like his last five victims?

📱 Xavier: Tell me, did you at least get a look at the furniture?

📱 Xavier: I hear human leather is in this season.

The blood drains from your face. You type quickly.

📱 You: Xav, I—

More messages slam into your screen before you can hit send.

📱 Xavier: Or wait—

📱 Xavier: Was it worth it?

📱 Xavier: Was the thrill of playing martyr that exhilarating?

📱 Xavier: You must have loved the dramatics of it. Walking through their front door, knowing exactly what would happen if they figured you out. How noble. How self-sacrificing.

📱 Xavier: I’m sure they would’ve written songs about you.

📱 Xavier: Would you like me to start composing one now?

Your stomach twists into knots.

📱 You: Xavier, stop.

📱 Xavier: Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?

📱 Xavier: Wouldn’t want that. Not after you’ve made me spend the last six days believing you were DEAD.

The breath catches in your throat.

📱 You: I wasn’t—

📱 Xavier: No? You weren’t?

📱 Xavier: Oh, forgive me. I must have been mistaken. You must have sent me a message before walking into the hands of a man who decapitates people for sport.

📱 Xavier: Oh, wait. You didn’t.

📱 Xavier: Because you didn’t tell anyone.

📱 Xavier: Because you thought you could handle it.

📱 Xavier: Because you think you’re invincible.

📱 Xavier: Because you learned absolutely nothing.

📱 Xavier: Because you’re a fucking idiot.

Your chest tightens, fingers shaking as you try to respond.

📱 You: I retrieved the Core, didn’t I?

The moment you send it, you regret it. The reply is instant.

📱 Xavier: Ah.

📱 Xavier: So that’s how little your life is worth?

📱 Xavier: A glorified rock?

📱 Xavier: Good to know.

You glance up, breath unsteady, and realize your mistake.

Because Xavier is looking at you. And his expression is unreadable.

No sarcasm now. No amusement. Just something flat and cold, buried beneath something much darker.

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the table.

You stand.

Move toward him, as if closing the space between you will break whatever this is, will fix whatever new fracture you’ve carved into the already fragile thing between you.

But the moment you take a step closer—he moves. A single flick of his fingers. A gesture.

Dismissal.

Like you are nothing. Like you aren’t even worth the fight.

And in his eyes—that unreadable fire.

You open your mouth. Try to speak. He beats you to it.

"You think I’m mad?" His voice is low, quiet, lethal. "You think this is anger?"

A slow, sharp inhale. Then—he stands. Looks at you like you’re a stranger.

"If you ever do something that fucking stupid again—"

A pause. A razor-thin breath.

"Don’t come back."

Silence.

It lands like a blow. It shatters something you don’t even have a name for.

And then—he walks away.

And for the first time, you wonder if six days was a mercy.

Because now—

You’re not sure this will ever end.

Day Six – Between Love and War

The knock against his door is sharp, deliberate.

No answer.

Your fingers tighten, knuckles aching as you knock again, harder this time.

Still nothing.

The realization sinks in slow, cold. You know where he is.

No-Hunt Zone.

Of course. Of course.

The hypocrisy of it claws at your ribs, burns hot behind your eyes.

He spent days throwing your choices back in your face, dismantling them with surgical precision, making sure you felt every ounce of his anger. And yet—he’s doing the exact same thing.

Alone. Again.

Without backup. Without you.

The fury in your chest solidifies into something unshakable.

You don’t think. You move.

You tear off your civilian clothes, slip into the gear that feels like a second skin, strapping on your weapons with methodical ease. Your mind is calm. Your body is not.

This isn’t just anger.

This is something raw, something bitter, something that coils too tight in your chest.

Because what if this is the time he doesn’t make it back?

What if he never even planned to?

***

You move fast, weaving through the crumbling skeletons of abandoned buildings, the faint blue pulse of your Hunter’s bracelet flickering at your wrist.

The fluctuations come sharp and erratic.

A Wanderer is near.

And so is Xavier.

The realization barely has time to settle before a hand clamps over your mouth, an arm hooking around your waist, dragging you back into the shadows of a half-collapsed structure.

You react instantly, twisting in his grip, but his hold is unbreakable. His breath is warm against your ear. Too steady. Too controlled.

"Tell me—" His voice is low, measured, lethal in its restraint. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

You rip his hand away, shove him back, your pulse hammering against your ribs.

"Shouldn’t I be asking you the same damn thing?"

His expression flickers—something sharp, something dangerously close to breaking—before it smooths out again.

"You shouldn’t be here."

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. "And you should?"

His fingers twitch at his sides, but he doesn’t argue.

The air crackles.

A pulse of energy shudders through the ruined cityscape, sending vibrations through your bracelet.

You both freeze.

The Wanderer is close. Too close.

And you were too distracted to notice.

A deafening shriek splits the air.

You barely have time to react before something massive crashes into view, sending debris flying, the force of it shaking the ground beneath you.

It’s huge.

Bigger than any you’ve ever seen. Darker. Hungrier.

And something is wrong.

Your Evol pulses—but weakly, like something is suppressing it.

You glance at Xavier, see the same realization in his eyes.

The Wanderer lunges.

You move at the same time.

Dodge. Shoot. Pivot. Strike.

Your movements are precise. Automatic. Perfectly in sync.

But something is missing.

Resonance.

You grit your teeth, adjusting your aim, but the energy won’t connect.

Because you’re too angry. Too furious with him to let yourself fall into sync.

And so is he.

Your focus wavers—just for a second, just long enough to throw your balance.

You stumble.

A mistake. A fraction of hesitation.

The Wanderer seizes it.

It moves faster than you expect, faster than anything that massive should be able to.

A pulse of energy collides against your chest, sending you sprawling.

A second strike is coming—you see it, but you’re too slow, your body still recovering from the impact—

And then Xavier is there. Between you and death.

His sword clashes against the incoming blow, deflecting it just enough to send the Wanderer skidding back.

His breathing is uneven. Not from exertion, but from something else.

Something like rage.

"Are you hurt?" His voice is taut, dangerous.

You shake your head, pushing yourself back up.

"I’m fine."

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away from you. Like he doesn’t quite believe you. Like he’s assessing whether he just almost lost you.

You don’t have time for this.

"You really think you would’ve made it out of this alive?" You fire, voice shaking with frustration. "Look at it. Look at the size of that thing. And you came here alone."

Xavier exhales slowly through his nose. Controlled. Restrained.

"You came after me," he says, voice like a blade, slicing through the tension.

You shake your head, jaw tight.

"Of course I did. That’s what you do when you—"

The words catch.

His eyes are on you. Steady. Unwavering.

The air between you is thick, charged, buzzing with everything unspoken, everything you haven’t let yourself say.

Your fingers tremble around the grip of your gun.

"I—"

The Wanderer screeches.

The ground shudders.

You don’t think. You react.

Your hand snaps forward, closing over Xavier’s.

The second you touch him—

Resonance explodes.

A flash of light. A rush of energy so intense it steals the breath from your lungs.

The Wanderer staggers. Its movements falter.

You see the opening. So does he.

Two strikes. One shot. One kill.

The Wanderer dissolves. The air stills. The only thing left is a single Protocore, pulsing softly in the dust.

You’re both breathing hard, hands still locked together, neither of you moving.

And then—

His fingers tighten.

The world tilts, just slightly.

Xavier doesn’t look at the Protocore. He looks at you.

And when he steps forward, you step back, heat creeping up your neck.

But he doesn’t let you run. He cups your face, tilting it up until you have no choice but to meet his gaze.

"Say it."

Your pulse pounds.

"Xav—"

"Say it." His voice is low, demanding.

You swallow hard. You already said it once.

But now—he’s listening.

Now, there’s nothing between you but everything you’ve been holding back.

Your throat tightens. And then—you break.

"I love you," you whisper.

His breath stutters, caught between control and something raw. His hands slide lower, fingers gripping your waist, pulling you in.

And then—he’s kissing you.

Hard. Desperate. Unforgiving.

Your weapons hit the ground. His sword, your guns—forgotten.

The only thing left is this. The only thing left is him.

His breath is ragged against your lips, his hands urgent, searching.

"What good are my eyes if they can't see you?" he murmurs against your mouth.

"What use are my hands if they can't touch you?"

"Why do I need lips if not to kiss you?"

His forehead presses against yours. His voice is steady. Unshaking.

"And if you don’t let me love you the way I do—what’s the point of living at all?"

You exhale, shuddering. A quiet, breathless sound escapes you—half a sob, half a laugh, because of course he would say something like this, because of course it would be him. Your hands tighten against his shirt, gripping hard enough to ground yourself, to keep yourself from falling apart. 

And finally—you let yourself hold him back.

***

The Morning After – Promises in the Sunlight

The world is quiet.

Not the heavy, suffocating kind of silence that has weighed on you for days, but something else. Something warm.

Your body feels boneless, satiated, exhausted in the best possible way. The bruises on your skin tell a story—some earned in battle, others left by a different kind of war, one fought in the dark, in whispers, in hands that refused to let go.

And then—you feel it. Eyes on you.

You blink against the soft golden light spilling through the curtains, twisting slightly to find him.

Xavier is propped up on his elbow beside you, one arm tucked beneath his head. His gaze is unreadable, too intense in the quiet morning light.

But he isn’t watching you. Not exactly.

His fingers trail absently over your skin, following the paths where the sunlight dances along your shoulder, your collarbone, the curve of your wrist. Mapping you.

The way his fingers move—it’s almost reverent. Like he’s committing this moment to memory, like he’s terrified it might slip through his grasp if he blinks.

You reach for his hand. But he beats you to it.

His fingers curl around yours, guiding your hand to his lips, pressing the softest, most devastatingly tender kiss to your fingertips.

It nearly steals the breath from your lungs.

You swallow hard, your voice coming out quieter than intended.

"Xav…"

His grip tightens, just slightly.

"When we met," he murmurs, voice low, steady, unshaking, "you promised me something."

Your brow furrows. You don’t move.

"You said I would be your partner," he continues, thumb brushing absently over your knuckles. "In everything. In battle. In your reckless plans. In life."

His eyes lift to yours, and the weight of his words settles deep into your chest.

You can’t look away. Not now. Not from this.

Your throat tightens. "Xavier—"

"Don’t apologize," he says smoothly, shaking his head before you can even start.

But you need to. Because you hurt him. Because you left.

Because even though you both made mistakes, you forced his hand.

He sees it in your eyes before you can say anything, and his fingers tighten just slightly around yours.

"This isn’t about apologies," he murmurs.

His other hand comes up, brushing along the curve of your cheek, pushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

"This is about what happens next."

You blink.

"I won’t force you to promise me anything," he continues, watching your reaction closely. "Not unless you mean it."

The warmth of his touch lingers against your skin, steady, grounding, heartbreakingly gentle.

"But I need you to understand something."

You hold your breath.

"I won’t make you worry again." His voice is softer now, more certain. More dangerous in its quiet conviction. "I won’t make you question whether I’ll come back. Because now I know how it feels."

Your eyes sting.

"Does that mean…" You hesitate, voice barely above a whisper. "No more No-Hunt Zone?"

The corner of his mouth twitches.

"Not exactly."

You open your mouth to argue, but he stops you with a single look. Before you can push him away, before you can get worked up, he leans in—pressing his forehead to yours.

His breath is warm against your lips.

"If I go," he murmurs, slow, careful, a promise wrapped in steel, "I take my partner with me."

Your chest tightens.

He’s serious.

This is his way of saying it.

His way of meeting you halfway.

His way of telling you that he’s not going anywhere without you.

You exhale slowly, pressing your forehead harder against his, letting the moment settle between you.

"...Okay."

The word is soft. Tentative.

But you mean it.

His fingers thread through yours, squeezing gently. The smallest, barest hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Good."

He kisses you once, slow and deep, searing the moment into your skin.

And for the first time in six days—you let yourself believe it.

[mediumgayitalian]

“Hnnnngh.”

Will snorts, reaching around his book to pat his currently cooking boyfriend gently if teasingly in the face region.

“There, there.”

“Hnnnnngh,” says Nico, with more emphasis. He curls up a little closer to Will, tucking his burning forehead to the dip in his shoulder.

Which, like. Is obviously very bad for him and everything, Will would of course prefer him to be healthy, et cetera, et cetera, but also the woods are a little chilly and Austin said he was gonna regret not wearing a sweater, so obviously he couldn’t go back and get one, and while unfortunate for the boy in question Will is a teensy weensy bit grateful for Nico’s pyrogens. Sue him.

Will flips a page.

“You know, you would be in less pain and misery if you went unconscious. Hard to feel anything when you aren’t aware of anything, famously.”

“Shldn’t b sleepin’,” Nico mumbles. Will widens his stance ever so slightly. Nico curls further against him. Will grins. Score.

“You better sleep. I worked hard for those herbs, you know. Don’t waste all my hard work.”

Nico makes another noise of stubborn misery, freeing his hand for the sole purpose of flapping it dismissively.

“Nnngh.”

Will sighs. Nico’s eyes are squeezed shut, but there is a brazen, shameless pout to his lips, and he just looks so miserable, and it is entirely his fault for traipsing about in the dark and cold but he is so so pitiable and so so cute. Will is moved, a little. Not a lot, ‘cause his boyfriend’s a dumbass and Will does not indulge dumbasses, but.

Most dumbasses aren’t quite so adorable when they’re hacking up a lung and wishing for death.

“It’s a head cold, you fucking goober.”

“I’m fevered,” Nico retorts, popping one dark eye open to glare. “My brain is cooking, and this is how you treat me? Your beloved? This is how you treat me, the love of your life, when my brain is simmering at one hundred and ten degrees?”

“You are barely one hundred point four.”

“Cooking!”

“Oh my gods.”

Will cannot help himself. He ducks down and kisses Mr. Drama Queen Of Darkness on those ridiculous pouty lips, not bothering to hide his smirk. Nico whines again.

“Go to sleep, you dumbass.”

Nico puffs out a breath, sagging against Will’s side.

“I can’t.” His eyes flutter shut, limbs growing heavy. Will pushes his book to the side, settling against the tree they’re laying against and sliding his hands into Nico’s sweaty hair. With every knot he detangles, Nico shivers. “I can’t sleep, there’re — dng’rous things. Inthe forest.”

Will snorts. How chivalrous. “Don’t worry about it, Ghost King.” He slows his hand as Nico stills, breaths evening. He waits, motionless, counting Nico’s laboured breaths: in, two, three, four, out, two, three, four. In. Out. In. Out.

He picks up his book again when he’s sure Nico’s asleep, wrapping an arm around him. He looks out into the clearing, watching the shifting shadows, meeting the glare of glowing red eyes and flashing fangs. He grins, green circling his eyes, acrid, emerald smoke simmering in circles around them.

“I am the most dangerous thing in this forest.”

———

based on this comic

[godricgryffinsnore]

You, You, Always You ♡ : A James Potter Fan Fiction.

pairing : James Potter x female!reader

summary : James Potter is utterly and hopelessly in love with you. So much so that he can’t stop talking about you—to anyone who will listen. Whether it’s your eyes, your smile, or the way you simply exist, he worships every part of you with poetic devotion. His friends have long accepted that he’ll never shut up about you, and honestly? He doesn’t want to.

warnings : Extreme fluff, Ridiculously lovesick James, Marauders teasing James mercilessly, You being the light of James' entire existence. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3. This is a drabble, i.e., an extremely short fan fiction.

Word Count : 1k

main master list <3

answering this request <33333

della’s note : OH MY GOD SUNNY!!! I feel honored (really) to answer your request. I was slightly trembling while writing this, afraid if I could reach your expectations. I HOPE I DID!!! @sunflowersonatas

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

James Potter was in love. Hopelessly, boundlessly, unforgivably in love.

And everyone knew it.

He loved you the way the sun loved the horizon—desperate to cling to it, to spill its light over it and hope that it could somehow hold on just a little longer. He loved you with the ferocity of wild waves chasing the shore—never once doubting they belonged together.

And he told everyone.

The Marauders had long since given up on keeping him quiet.

“—and her eyes,” James was saying, his elbows propped on the table in the Gryffindor common room, eyes dreamy and faraway. His voice was soft with reverence, as if uttering the mere syllables of your name was a sacred prayer. "You should’ve seen her today. Sunlight caught in them, and—Merlin’s balls—I swear, I saw entire galaxies swirling in those irises. Just—just shimmering like liquid gold, I’m telling you.”

Sirius—who had already heard about your eyes approximately seventy-two times that week—groaned dramatically and flopped over onto Remus’ lap. “Prongs, mate, please. My ears are going to start bleeding.”

James ignored him. He always did. He turned to Remus instead, eyes wide with earnestness.

“Moony, you know how her lips go all pink when she bites them? Like when she’s nervous or thinking really hard?” he gushed, his hands gesturing wildly. "And there’s this tiny crease between her brows when she’s concentrating, and I just want to kiss it away, you know?"

Remus gave him a flat stare, slowly dragging a hand down his face. “James,” he said, voice as dry as parchment, "I know. You’ve told me. About... fifty times.”

James didn’t miss a beat. His eyes turned soft, lovestruck, and completely unrepentant. “Yeah, but have I mentioned the way she smiles at me like I’m her whole world? Because, Moony, I swear, I’d walk through hell barefoot if it meant I could see that smile for the rest of my life.”

Peter snorted into his pumpkin juice. "You’re beyond help, Prongs."

But James didn’t care. He was already looking at Sirius again, eyes glimmering with rapture. "And Pads," he pressed, "she wore that blue sweater yesterday—the one that makes her look like she spun the sky itself into wool and slipped into it. I mean, bloody hell, how is it even possible to look that good doing absolutely nothing?”

Sirius let out a long, suffering sigh, draping his arm dramatically over his face. "I’m going to start charging you for therapy at this point."

James merely beamed. Oblivious. Blissful. Hopelessly, pathetically smitten.

"She’s so amazing," he sighed wistfully, staring at some far-off point only he could see. "We have the best relationship, you know? Like—perfect. I’m going to marry her. I mean, I haven’t asked yet. But I will. Soon. Obviously."

“Obviously,” Sirius deadpanned.

James’ eyes softened even further, his voice nothing more than a reverent murmur, meant only for the gods and the stars and perhaps the wind itself. “I’m gonna spend my whole life with her,” he said quietly, his voice barely more than a breath. "She just... she makes everything brighter. Like I could be standing in the middle of a war, but if she was next to me, holding my hand, I’d swear I was walking through a field of wildflowers."

Remus groaned and let his head fall onto the table with a thud. "Oh, for Merlin’s sake—"

“Hi.”

The single, casual word cut through the air like lightning on a still night.

The entire table stiffened. James’ head snapped up so fast he nearly dislocated his neck.

And there you were, all casual and beautiful and oblivious. Your lips were pulled into a soft smile, eyes glimmering with mischief. You knew. You knew he’d been talking about you again.

“Hey, love," you greeted, voice soft and sweet. Casual. As if James Potter hadn’t just declared his undying devotion to you for the thousandth time.

For one glorious, fleeting moment, the Marauders savored the rare sight of James Potter completely and utterly speechless.

His jaw slackened slightly, and he blinked once. Twice.

Then he lit up.

"Hey, sweetheart," he practically breathed, leaning toward you with wide, adoring eyes. His hand immediately found yours, tangling your fingers together like they were meant to be that way. Because they were.

He beamed at you—boyish and breathtaking. His eyes glimmered with so much love that it could’ve split the heavens in two.

“You look—bloody hell, you look perfect.” His voice was so soft, like he was half-dreaming, afraid that if he spoke too loud, he might wake up.

Sirius smirked smugly, elbowing Remus. "Watch this," he muttered.

Without missing a beat, James turned to the Marauders, positively glowing, and gestured toward you like he’d just found the cure to every illness in existence.

"Isn’t she stunning?" he gushed, voice breathless, the words tumbling out in a frantic rush. "Merlin, she’s—she’s actually perfect, isn’t she? Like... look at her." He turned back to you, eyes wide with awe. "I was just telling them about you."

You bit your lip, trying to hold back your smile, but your eyes gave you away. “Oh?” you teased, tilting your head. "Good things, I hope?"

"Only the best things, love," he swore, bringing your hand to his lips and pressing a reverent kiss against your knuckles. His voice dropped lower, more tender, meant only for you. "I was just telling them how... how you’re the only thing I ever want to wake up next to for the rest of my life."

You flushed, eyes wide and disbelieving. James could be dramatic, yes, but the way he was looking at you now—like you hung the stars, the sun, and all the skies—stole the breath from your lungs.

He glanced back at the Marauders with a hopelessly besotted grin, voice breathless with awe. “I told you. She’s perfect.”

And the Marauders groaned in exasperation because, Merlin help them, James Potter was never going to shut up about you.

And you? You wouldn’t, ever, have it any other way.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

[blairenqs]

୨୧ LATE-NIGHT CRAVINGS ✧ SPENCER REID

───── IN WHICH 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗎𝗉 𝖼𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗌𝖾𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 !

𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝗂𝖽 𝓍 𝒻! 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝟣.𝟢𝖪 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿, 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗀𝗇𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 ♡ ⎯⎯ 𝖠𝖱𝖢𝖧𝒾𝖵𝖤

THE MOTEL ROOM is silent other than the annoying buzz of the air conditioner and the occasional loud creaks of the bedframe whenever you shift your body.

you’re really trying your best to not move too much, trying not to disturb the man lying next to you—spencer’s snores fill the room, his face relaxed in a way you don’t get to see often enough.

today had been a brutal one—a long day of sorting through evidence, and the stress of knowing someone’s life might depend on you solving this case quickly.

you watched spencer through the day, his mind overworking itself more than usual and connecting dots no one else could.

but now, with the relaxed face of finally getting sleep softening his features, he looks so peaceful. and you would give anything not to ruin that. but unfortunately you’re also pregnant—and the craving is unbearable. —READ MORE!

it started off as a mindless thought—how good a cheeseburger would taste at the moment, but that thought spiralled into imagining every detail—the cheese in between a warm toasted bun, a side of sweet potato fries on the side.

it’s quite literally ridiculous. it’s just food. yet, here you are—lying wide awake, biting your lip to keep yourself from crying because somehow it feels like the most urgent thing in the world.

a tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it, and you sniffle softly. you turn your face into the pillow, hoping spencer won’t hear. but, of course—he does.

he stirs beside you, groggy and confused, his voice is warm and still heavy with sleep, yet you could hear the undeniable concern. “hey… are you okay?”

you curse yourself for waking him up, wiping away your tears quickly. “i’m fine,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “i didn’t mean to wake you, spence. go back to sleep, okay?”

he doesn’t listen. he never does when it comes to you. he sits up urgently, rubbing at his eyes as he glances over at you. even in the dim light of the crappy motel room lamp, you can see the worry on his face.

“you’re crying love,” he says softly, scooting closer to you. his hand intertwine with yours underneath the thick blanket. “what’s wrong? did the baby kick too hard? are you in pain?”

“no,” you cry, shaking your head. you hate this. you hate the fact that he’s awake and worried because of something so insignificant and small. “talk to me,” he presses gently, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “please.”

you take a hesitant breath, feeling ridiculous but knowing that he won’t let it go. “i’m…i’m craving a cheeseburger,” you whisper, shaking your head in embarrassment.

his head tilts, his brows pulling together in that familiar way, like he’s working out a word puzzle. “a cheeseburger?”

you groan and hide your face in your hands. “i know it’s stupid, spence. i just couldn’t stop thinking about it, and then i felt bad for wanting it, and now i feel even worse for waking you up, and—”

“hey, stop,” he says, his voice cutting through your panicked rambling. he leans over, gently pulling your hands away from your face.

his fingers are warm against your skin, his touch comforting you. “you didn’t wake me up, okay? and even if you did, i don’t care. i want to be here for you, okay? whatever you need.”

your chest tightens again, but this time it’s not from frustration. “it’s just the fact that you were so exhausted. i didn’t want to bother you over something so dumb—”

his eyes softened at your confession , and he shifts closer, his arm sliding around your waist as he pulls your body into his. “it’s not dumb,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your hairline.

“you’re growing a human inside of you. if your body wants a cheeseburger, then it’s not dumb, love. it’s important.”

you laugh quietly, a sound that turns into a sniffle. “you’re making it sound a lot more dramatic than it is.”

“i don’t think it’s dramatic at all,” he replies, pressing another kiss to your temple, then your cheek, and finally to your lips.

it’s a soft, reassuring kiss, full of all the tenderness he’s never been great at putting into words. “you’re not a bother. you could never be a bother. i love you.”

it’s hard to believe anyone could mean those words as much as he does, but spencer has this way of saying things that makes you believe in them—believe in him.

“i love you too, spence,” you whisper.

he smiles, a smile so sweet that it makes your heart ache. “good,” he says, brushing his nose against yours playfully. “now, let’s go get you that cheeseburger.”

you blink at him, surprised. “spence, you don’t have to do that. it’s the middle of the night—”

“i know,” he interrupts, already reaching for his jacket draped over the chair. “but i want to—and while we’re at it, we can get those milkshakes from the diner down the road you like.”

you sit up, watching him put on his shoes, his bedhead sticking out in every direction. the sight is almost enough to make you cry all over again, but this time for an entirely different reason.

as he grabs the keys and turns to you with a soft, unguarded grin, you realize there’s no use in arguing. spencer reid would move heaven and earth for you without a second thought—and he would do it with that same sleepy, loving smile on his face.

he reaches out his hand to help you up, and you take it, your fingers locking in with his.

together, you step out into the cool night air, yet you feel warm—the warmth of his love wrapped tightly around you.

𝖱𝖤𝖡𝖫𝖮𝖦𝖲 𝖠𝖯𝖯𝖱𝖤𝖢𝖨𝖠𝖳𝖤𝖣 ૮₍ ˃ ⤙ ˂ ₎ა

© blairenqs 2025 do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

✧ 𝑓. hi guys..😓 it’s been a while… anyways let’s forget i disappeared for a month and talk about how everybody is meeting mgg in toronto while i’m stuck in ugly miserable vancouver !!!! i’m so so jealous i could cry. also this is based off my pregnant cousin waking up one day and crying bc we didn’t have any food at home LOL

𓂃ㅤ 𝓉𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 ୨୧ @ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat @lcvealwayss @viennasolace ♡ thank you so much for joining !

[scoupsakakitty]

heyy, can you do a Chan x 14thmember where she’s a 97’ liner and he’s always been in love with her but she didn’t want anything romantic with him cause she was afraid of the small age difference.

Idk, he’s kinda jealous that DK is her best friend and when they’re arguing he calls her by her name and she gets angry he’s not using honorifics.with a lot of angst but with a happy ending

♡

Say My Name | idol!Dino x 14thMember | angst, fluff

"Yah, you should've seen your face!" Seokmin wheezed, barely able to stand from laughing so hard.

Y/N groaned, pushing his shoulder. "It wasn't that funny."

"Oh, it was," he countered, wiping at his eyes. "Come on, Chan, back me up!"

Chan sat across the room, arms crossed, jaw tight. He was watching them—always watching them. Seokmin's arm slung around Y/N's shoulder like it belonged there, the way she laughed at everything he said, the way her eyes softened whenever he pulled one of his ridiculous antics.

He hated it.

"Dino?" Seokmin called out, his voice teasing. "Are you sulking again?"

"I'm not sulking," Chan muttered, standing up abruptly. "I just don't find it funny."

Y/N frowned. "Are you okay?"

"Why do you care, Y/N?" he snapped, shocking them both.

The room tensed. Seokmin blinked between them, before muttering, "Uh, I'm just gonna… go." He slipped out, leaving only silence behind.

Y/N sighed. "What’s wrong with you lately? You’re always so tense."

"I should be asking you that," he shot back. "Why do you act like I don’t exist unless Seokmin’s not around?"

She folded her arms. "Don’t be ridiculous."

"Ridiculous? Y/N, do you even realize how long I’ve—" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "Never mind."

She frowned. "Say it."

"I’ve been in love with you for years!" he finally burst out, his voice breaking with frustration. "And you—you act like it’s impossible! Like I’m a kid to you or something. But I’m not, Y/N."

Silence. Thick. Unmovable.

Her mouth opened, then closed again, hesitation flickering across her face. Chan scoffed, stepping back. "See? There it is. You won’t even acknowledge it."

"Chan, it’s not—"

"Oh, now I’m just Chan? Not 'Dino'? Not 'maknae'?" he interrupted bitterly. "You never say my name like that unless you’re mad."

Her breath hitched, eyes widening. "You didn’t use honorifics."

"So what?" he shot back. "You’re not just my sunbae. You’re Y/N. And I’m Chan. Why do we have to act like there’s some huge gap between us when there isn’t?"

She swallowed hard, looking away. "It’s not just that."

"Then tell me what it is! Because I’ve spent years trying to figure it out, and all you do is push me away!"

"Because I’m scared!" she snapped, her voice finally breaking. "Scared that if we cross this line, everything will change! That it’ll be different and—"

"And what?" he demanded. "You’ll actually have to admit you feel the same way?"

Silence again.

Chan stepped closer, his voice quieter now, but still firm. "I know you do. Maybe it scares you, but you don’t get to pretend like I’m imagining things."

Y/N swallowed hard, eyes darting to the floor.

"I just—" she exhaled shakily. "I didn’t want to lose you."

His shoulders relaxed slightly. "You won’t."

She finally met his gaze, and for the first time, she didn’t look away.

It was terrifying. And exhilarating.

Chan smiled—just a little, just enough. "Say my name, Y/N."

A pause.

Then, soft as a whisper: "Chan."

And just like that, the wall between them crumbled.

He smirked slightly, stepping even closer, his voice low. "You’re mine now."

Y/N felt her heart skip a beat, but for once, she didn’t run. She just smiled back. "Yeah… I guess I am."

[zeroseuniverse]

Wish You were Sober

Word count: 755 Summary:"But you don’t get it." He pouted, shaking his head dramatically. "I love you, like—like, love you. Like, if you were a pizza, you’d be my favorite topping. If you were a song, I’d put you on repeat forever." Pairing: Dino x reader

Taglist: @sh0dor1 @haaruki @tinyelfperson @ltfirecracker @zaycie @lezleeferguson-120

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"Listen to me." Chan wobbled, gripping your shoulders with surprising strength for someone who could barely stand straight. His eyes were unfocused, but his determination was unwavering. "I love you."

You sighed, adjusting your grip on his waist as you tried to keep him from toppling over. "I know, Chan. You’ve told me at least ten times in the last five minutes."

"But you don’t get it." He pouted, shaking his head dramatically. "I love you, like—like, love you. Like, if you were a pizza, you’d be my favorite topping. If you were a song, I’d put you on repeat forever." He blinked up at you, his expression a mix of sincerity and exaggerated drunken emotion.

You couldn't help but laugh. "That’s very poetic."

"It is!" He pointed a wobbly finger at you. "And you’re so pretty. Like, ridiculously pretty. Like—like, why aren’t we dating? That’s stupid. We should be dating."

"You’re drunk, Chan."

"I’m drunk in love!" He threw his arms around you, nearly sending you both to the floor. You struggled to steady him, but he only tightened his hold, resting his head against your shoulder. "You're so warm. Can we stay like this forever?"

"Chan—"

"No, no, no!" He pulled back, brows furrowing. "Say it back. Tell me you love me."

You bit back another laugh. "I'll tell you when you're sober."

He gasped. "That’s cheating!"

"That's common sense."

Chan groaned, dramatically burying his face in your neck. "Then I’m never sobering up. Ever. This is my life now."

You rolled your eyes, rubbing his back as he clung to you like a stubborn koala. At least he was a cute drunk.

You gently tried to maneuver him toward the couch, but Chan wasn’t having it. "No," he whined, wrapping his arms around you tighter, "I need to confess more. I have so much love to give." His voice was muffled against your neck, but the earnestness was clear.

“Chan, seriously—” You tried, but he cut you off, lifting his head to look at you with wide, pleading eyes.

“Don’t you see? I’m the one for you!” He paused dramatically, holding a finger up as if he was about to deliver the greatest revelation. “I’d take you to the moon, no questions asked. I’d build a spaceship with my bare hands—well, with help—but mostly my bare hands—just for you!” He was nodding to himself as though he’d just unlocked some new level of genius.

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his antics. “I think you need to sleep more than a spaceship, Chan.”

He shook his head fiercely, making a little too much of a commotion. “Nooo, I need you to understand. I’m serious. I love you that much. Like, I’d fight a dragon for you. Or at least, like, an angry cat.” He squinted as though he was considering the logistics of facing off against a furious feline. “A big cat.”

“Fighting dragons and cats sounds exhausting,” you teased, glancing down at him as he rested his head back on your shoulder, eyes closing for a brief second.

Chan blinked up at you again, his face so close to yours now that you could feel the heat of his breath. “I’m telling you this because I can’t stop thinking about you. Like, all the time. I think about how your hair looks when it’s messy and how cute you look when you laugh, and I just wanna kiss you so bad.” His words were slurred, but his lips were dangerously close to yours.

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sudden rush of butterflies in your stomach. “Dino…”

“Yes, yes,” he groaned, pressing his forehead against yours. “I’m Dino, and I’m in love with you. Can’t you see it?”

“Yeah, I can,” you said softly, running a hand through his hair. He leaned into your touch like a contented kitten, his arms loosening around your waist as he melted into the couch.

“Good,” he mumbled, eyes closing fully now as his breath slowed. “Because if you didn’t, I’d have to tell you a thousand more times until you got it. A thousand and one, if I have to.”

“Goodnight, Dino,” you whispered, leaning in to kiss his forehead gently, heart fluttering despite his drunken ramblings.

“Goodnight… I love you,” he sighed contentedly, already half asleep, a satisfied grin playing on his lips.

You smiled to yourself, knowing that despite his stubborn drunkenness, he had a way of making you feel like the most special person in the world.

[v-eee]

── morning after blanket war (jungkook x you)

Morning light filters through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. The peaceful ambiance should make for a soft, romantic morning—except it’s not.

Because you’re in a war.

With your husband.

Over a blanket.

"Jungkook, give it back!" You tug at the duvet, but Jungkook—your dear, newlywed husband—only tightens his grip, rolling onto his side and cocooning himself in the blanket like a human burrito.

"Nooo," he whines dramatically, burying half his face into the fabric. "It’s our blanket. Why do you need so much of it?"

"Because you’re hogging it!" You yank harder, but he lets out a satisfied sigh, pulling it tighter around his body.

"You married me," he reminds you smugly, peeking at you with one eye. "Which means you signed up for this."

Your jaw drops. "You mean freezing to death every night? Oh, no. I’m buying another blanket. Just for me."

That makes him freeze.

Jungkook slowly turns, his expression shifting from playful to horrified. "What?"

"I’m buying my own blanket," you repeat, crossing your arms. "If you’re going to keep stealing it, I’ll just have my own."

For a second, he just stares at you like you’ve personally betrayed him. Then, without hesitation, he immediately lets go of the blanket, shoving the entire thing towards you.

"Take it. Take it all," he says dramatically, rolling closer so he can cling onto you instead. "But don’t you dare get a separate blanket. That’s against the rules."

You raise an eyebrow. "What rules?"

"The marriage rules," he says, as if it’s obvious. "Husband and wife must share one blanket. That’s the law."

You laugh. "Pretty sure that’s not a real law."

"It is now."

Still pouting, he wraps his arms around your waist, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. "No separate blankets. That’s illegal. I’ll report you."

"You’ll report me?" You snort. "To who?"

"To myself," he says proudly. "Husband police. And you’ll get arrested for being mean and trying to separate us with a cruel, cold blanket wall."

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling. "You’re ridiculous."

"But you love me." He looks up at you, grinning, and tugs the blanket over both of you. "And now that you have the whole thing… you have to share with me."

You sigh, shaking your head, but pull the blanket up to cover him, too. "Fine."

Jungkook smirks victoriously, snuggling even closer. "Told you marriage rules exist."

And just like that, the blanket war ends in a win—for him.

[lexalith]

SOMETHING REAL || Choi Seunghyun (T.O.P)

summary: you never expected him to matter this much. at first, seunghyun is just the annoying guy from class—the one who gets under your skin without even trying. but somehow, he becomes your best friend, the one who listens when no one else does. you both have your own lives, your own relationships. it’s never supposed to be more than that. but then the way he looks at you lingers a little too long, his touch starts to feel like something you don’t want to live without. and when love starts to feel like loneliness, he’s there. what if he was the right one all along?

warnings/this story contains: (reader discretion is advised), seunghyun and the reader are both in their early twenties, slowburn, enemies to friends to enemies (?) to friends to lovers (lmao help), smut (oral sex (f receiving), p in v, dry humping, fingering, slight overstimulation, praising, lowkey rough sex), seunghyun and the reader struggle with insecurities, mentions of cheating, emotional cheating, mild angst (miscommunication, heartbreak, ghosting, lies, bickering), fluff (toward the end, seunghyun’s down BAD), a loooot of artsy talk and an insane amount of yearning.

a/n: this is an au! seunghyun’s not an idol and he was born in the early 2000’s. this is loosely based on real events (my life, lmao), some stuff has been altered for artistic reasons and to fit seunghyun’s persona. enjoy this fragment that i couldn’t resist sharing, because it’s the most bookish thing that’s ever happened to me—basically the closest i’ve ever been to feeling like the main character. help. anyway! english isn’t my first language so mistakes should be present!! lower case is intended. reader’s dialogue is in bold. mind you, like always, this is LOOONG (it’s a whole fic)

songs: i love my boyfriend — princess chelsea || delicate — taylor swift || sure thing — miguel

three minutes. that’s exactly the time you have left before your next class starts. you’re walking briskly across campus, your coffee in one hand, your backpack slung over one shoulder, trying to make sure you don’t arrive late (again…). but then, out of nowhere, someone bumps into you. it’s not even a light brush—it’s a full-on collision that sends the hot coffee sloshing out of your cup and spilling all over you. you gasp, looking down at your favorite blouse, now stained with dark coffee, and a surge of frustration rises in your chest. the guy who bumped into you stumbles back, clearly just as startled as you are, and for a moment, you just stand there, staring at him. he’s awkward, shifting on his feet, like he doesn’t know what to do. “uh… i didn’t see you,” he says, but his voice trails off. his eyes flicker down to the stain, then back to you, but he doesn’t move to offer help. “clearly,” you huff. he seems to be about to offer something—an apology, maybe—but the words never quite make it out. this is so ridiculous. it’s not like you expected him to drop to his knees asking for forgiveness, but at least do something. instead, he just looks at you, and says, “it’s just coffee.” it’s clear he didn’t mean to spill the drink, but the last thing you need right now is him trying to downplay it. you roll your eyes, your patience wearing thin. “yeah, and now it’s on me!” he raises his eyebrows, almost amused by your reaction. “it’ll probably come out in the wash.” “i can’t go to my next class like this!” you don’t have time for this. “yeah… i—i’m sorry,” he finally says.

you stare at him for a moment, and at first, you almost want to believe his apology, but then you see it. his lips twitch. it’s so subtle, like he’s trying to hold back a laugh, but it’s enough to set you off. your blood boils with frustration, and you glare at him, your patience completely gone. “great. just great,” you snap, your voice dripping with sarcasm. without waiting for him to respond, you turn on your heel and start walking away, the coffee still soaking through your blouse, irritation simmering beneath your skin. “sorry!” you hear him call after you, but it’s distant. and just before you disappear around the corner, you catch it—the soft sound of a laugh. he’s laughing at you! what a fucking douche! you want to spin around and yell, but you don’t. you’ve got bigger things to worry about. like, for instance, the argument with your boyfriend earlier. it started as something small—just a misunderstanding, a simple disagreement about plans for the weekend—but somehow, it escalated. words were exchanged, and now you’re both giving each other the silent treatment. it doesn’t help that you haven’t had the time or energy to smooth things over. so now, you’re walking around campus, wearing a coffee stain bigger than your damn head, replaying the argument in your mind over and over. it’s like everything is spiraling today.

you’ve officially become a hater of the coffee-spiller guy. it doesn’t take long for you to realize that fate has an awful sense of humor. a couple of days later, when you walk into your ‘history of art’ class, you spot him. there he is, sitting at the back of the lecture hall. you freeze for a moment and his eyes catch yours almost immediately. you can see it—the flicker of recognition, the split second where he remembers exactly who you are. but he looks away quickly. you roll your eyes and find a seat far away from him, making a mental note to never, ever, be near him in this class.

every little thing he does in class irritates you. the way he taps his pen against the desk, that awful, self-satisfied look he gets when he answers a question correctly. then there’s his laugh. it’s loud, obnoxious. you swear you can feel the vibration of it in your chest, like it’s shaking the whole room. and god, don’t even get started on the way he taps his foot incessantly, like he’s got some sort of rhythm problem, the way he flips through his notebook with unnecessary speed, flicking each page with an irritating snap. it drives you crazy. if you could, you’d throw your notebook at him just to get him to stop. but you don’t. because, well, you’re trying to act like an adult. by the end of each lecture, you’re fuming, but the worst part is—you’re starting to remember his name. choi seunghyun.

the next week, your friend doesn’t show up to class, and empty seat where they should be. and it’s a problem, because when the professor starts assigning partners for the semester project, you don’t have one. and of course, because the universe fucking hates you, guess who also doesn’t have a partner? “choi seunghyun, you’ll be with…” the professor scans the room, and your stomach drops before she even says it. your name. you blink. “what?” “you two will be working together on the project.” “can i do it alone? i don’t need a partner,” you say, shaking your head. the professor doesn’t even look up from her notes. “it’s a paired assignment.” “okay, but my partner’s just absent today. they’re still in the class, they’ll be back.” “you’re with seunghyun,” the professor says, finally looking at you, exasperated. you turn in your seat to glare at him, and of course, the asshole looks completely unbothered. you take a deep breath, grip your notebook a little tighter, and push yourself up from your seat. if there’s one thing you know for sure, it’s that seunghyun isn’t about to haul his ass over to you. which means, unfortunately, you have to go to him. it shouldn’t annoy you as much as it does, but everything about this situation is already pissing you off, so what’s one more thing?

you drop your stuff on his desk and pull out a chair, not waiting for an invitation. “let’s just get this over with.” seunghyun barely glances up. “eager, aren’t you?” “i actually want to pass this class,” you snap, unfolding the project sheet. and then, as your eyes land on the topic, your irritation dims—just a little. “ancient greek sculpture,” you mutter, reading over the details. seunghyun leans back, stretching his arms over the back of his chair. “not bad, huh?” “could’ve been worse,” you admit, tapping your pen against the desk. “greek sculpture is foundational. proportions, movement, realism—this stuff shaped everything that came after it.” he smirks. “glad you won’t be completely miserable, then.” you huff, crossing your arms. “trust me, if i had a different partner, i’d actually be excited about this.” his grin widens. “so i’m the problem?” “seunghyun,” you deadpan, “that was never in question.”

seunghyun doesn’t know why it feels so strange, hearing his name come from you. but it sticks in his head. he keeps his eyes on the project sheet, pretending to read while his mind is somewhere else entirely. you sit across from him, your fingers lingering on the corners of each page before turning them, and every so often, you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re thinking. he shouldn’t be noticing these things. but he does. you’re pretty. no, beautiful. sitting this close, it’s impossible to ignore. the way the light catches your eyes, the faintest crease in your brow when you’re thinking, the soft curve of your cheeks when you huff in frustration. there’s something about it—something that makes him glance away too quickly when you look up. but when you start talking, it’s even worse. your voice changes when you talk about art. there’s a spark in it, something alive, something that makes him sit up just a little straighter. you don’t just like this stuff—you care about it. and he gets that. because he cares too. he watches the way your hands move, the way you gesture like your words aren’t enough on their own. the way your eyes light up when you explain something, like you’re seeing it in your head as you say it. and it’s… nice.

as the conversation drags on, you feel the irritation you’ve been holding onto slowly start to slip away. at first, you thought seunghyun’d be the type of guy who leaves you to do all the work. but as he starts talking, you realize something you hadn’t anticipated. there’s this calm reason to his words, like he’s thought about what he’s saying before he says it—a kind of maturity in the way he talks. it’s not just facts he’s spitting out, it’s a genuine understanding. he’s making connections between things you hadn’t considered, filling in gaps you didn’t even know were there. and damn it, it makes you think twice. it messes with your entire perception of him.

“so, who’s your favorite greek sculptor?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost like he genuinely wants to know. you pause, considering. “it’s hard to pick,” you say, tapping your pen against the desk. “but if i had to choose, i’d go with praxiteles. he was one of the first to really capture natural human beauty. his sculptures, like the ‘hermes and the infant dionysus’, they’re just… they look like they could breathe, you know? like they’re alive.” you glance up to see him nodding. “yeah,” he murmurs. he falls silent for a moment, his eyes drifting down to his notebook. “for me, it’d probably be phidias,” he says. “the one who worked on the parthenon. his sculptures, especially the statue of athena… it’s just incredible.” he looks up at you then, a small, almost hesitant smile on his face. “there’s something about the way he made the gods feel so… human. like they were both divine and reachable at the same time.” “mhm.” you nod slowly. it’s strange—how much you find yourself agreeing with him.

he shifts in his seat, looking at the paper between you two but not really focusing on it anymore. “so, uh…” he starts, trailing off for a second like he’s trying to find the right words. “what do you usually do outside of class?” you glance at him, a little surprised by the sudden change in topic. “outside of class?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. “yeah,” he says, shrugging slightly. “just curious. got any weird hobbies?” you chuckle at the thought, leaning back in your chair. “weird hobbies? i don’t know about weird, but i like to read. i write a lot, too. and i sing, sometimes.” his eyes widen, and he looks at you with a kind of surprised excitement. “wait, you sing?” you nod, a little unsure of his reaction. “yeah, just for fun, though.” he’s practically leaning forward now, his voice more animated. “seriously? i like to sing too! but not like—i don’t perform or anything, but i mess around with writing songs sometimes.” you blink at him, surprised. “you write songs?” “yeah!” he says, his eyes lighting up as he talks. “mostly rap songs! just stuff i keep to myself. i don’t know, it helps me get my thoughts out.” you’re taken aback, not expecting that from him at all. “that’s… actually pretty cool! i didn’t think you’d be the type.” he chuckles a little, almost shy now, rubbing the back of his neck. “yeah. i don’t know, music’s kind of a big deal for me.” “i get that. i mean, i feel the same way about writing. it’s like… the only way to really get everything out.” his smile softens, and he nods, almost like he’s relieved that you get it. “exactly. it’s the only way i know how to say what i’m feeling.” he pauses, then adds, “i guess we’re not that different, huh?” you grin, a little more comfortable with him now. “guess not.”

weeks go by, and somehow, without you really noticing when it happened, you stop dreading working with seunghyun. at first, it was just about getting the project done—tolerating his presence, keeping things academically professional. but somewhere along the way, that changes. you start meeting up outside of class—not just in the library, but in the university cafeteria, sometimes even grabbing a table outside when the weather’s nice. at first, it’s always under the excuse of we need to finish this, but little by little, the project stops being the main focus of your meetings. it starts with small things. “you drink your coffee black?” you ask one afternoon, watching as he stirs his drink. he glances up at you, raising an eyebrow. “sometimes. why?” you wrinkle your nose, shaking your head. “no sugar, no milk… nothing?” “nope. not today,” he says, taking a sip like it’s no big deal. “you think that’s weird?” “oh, definitely.” he chuckles, shaking his head. “coming from someone who drowns theirs in sugar? right.” you scoff, feigning offense. “excuse me for liking some flavor in my life.” he only smirks, taking another sip of his coffee. and you don’t know why, but you find yourself watching the way his fingers wrap around the cup, the way he always waits a second before actually drinking. “talking about coffee,” seunghyun clears his throat. “i—i’m sorry for bumping into you that day. and for your blouse.” you blink, a little thrown by the sudden apology. you hadn’t expected him to bring it up. for a second, you almost forgot about that. but the memory comes back in full color—the embarrassment, the heat of the coffee soaking into fabric, and, worst of all, the way you heard him laugh right after. you shrug, forcing a small smile. “it’s fine! stuff happens.” but it doesn’t come out as smooth as you want it to. he notices. “look, i—i wasn’t laughing at you.” you don’t say anything, just arch a brow. “i mean, yeah, i laughed. but it wasn’t, like—fuck, i just do that when i’m nervous.” he lets out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “it’s a stupid reflex. i wasn’t trying to be an asshole.” “nervous?” you echo, curiosity edging into your voice. he hesitates for a second. “i don’t know. you caught me off guard.” “it’s okay! really.” “it won’t happen again, i promise.” “what, spilling my coffee? or the nervous laughing?” you grin. “both. if i can help it.” he smiles back.

one afternoon, you’re both hunched over your notebooks at your usual table in the cafeteria, trying to put together a proper analysis for the project, when he suddenly groans, running a hand through his hair. “okay, i need a break.” “agreed,” you sigh, stretching your arms over your head. “i think my brain is melting.” he leans back in his chair, exhaling. “we should just drop out. open a karaoke bar instead.” you hum, pretending to consider it. “tempting. but i think we’d go bankrupt in a week.” “probably,” he admits, smirking slightly. then, a sudden gust of wind blows through the open door. a few loose sheets of paper fly off the table, and you both reach for them at the same time. your hands brush, just for a second. you freeze. he does too. but instead of pulling away immediately, he hesitates. it’s barely noticeable, but you feel it—his fingers just lingering before he finally lets go. you don’t look at him, just focus on gathering the papers, but your heart beats a little faster anyway. he clears his throat, sitting back. “we should probably staple these,” he says, voice a little quieter than before. “yeah,” you mutter, shuffling the pages together.

another day, you find yourselves in the campus library, tucked away in a quiet corner where barely anyone goes. at first, it’s about the project—like it always is—but before long, you’re talking about anything but that. “okay, real question,” you say, tapping your pen against your notebook. “if you could live in any painting, which one would it be?” seunghyun leans back, arms crossed. he barely takes a second to think. “anything by kandinsky.” “oohh! good choice!” “right? it’d be like living inside music.” you nod, smiling. “i guess that suits you.” “what about you?” he asks, gaze flicking to you. you think for a moment before saying, “‘the garden of earthly delights.’” he lets out a low laugh. “crazy choice.” “shut up.” you laugh too. “i mean, it’s chaotic, sure, but it’d never be boring. plus, i’d be surrounded by nature—which i love—and i’d also get to hang out with weird little creatures all day.” seunghyun has to stifle the loud laugh scratching his throat. “it’s an orgy,” he says. you blink. “what?” “‘the garden of earthly delights.’ you picked a medieval sex party. should i be concerned?” you burst out laughing and a student a few tables away shoots you a look over their glasses, pressing a finger to their lips. “okay, first of all, that is not the reason i picked it.” you whisper, biting back another laugh. “but it’s there,” he insists, raising a brow. “like, everyone in that painting is naked.” “but they’re just eating fruit,” you retort. “yeah, and fruit is like… the biggest metaphor for sex ever. come on now.” you shake your head, still laughing softly, trying to contain yourself. “i just like that it’s weird, okay? it looks like something out of a fever dream. plus, i feel like bosch was on something when he painted it, and honestly? i respect that.” “so what you’re saying is, you wanna live in chaos.” “no, i wanna live somewhere that would never be boring. kinda like you picking kandinsky. kandinsky is chaos too, just in a different font,” you tease, arms crossing over your chest. “dude’s entire thing is just shapes and color explosions. what does that say about you?” he grins. “it says i’m fun.” “it says you have the attention span of a goldfish.” his mouth falls open in exaggerated offense. “okay, rude.” your laughter spills out again, earning you another round of disapproving stares from a group of students at a nearby table. one of them—not even looking up from their notes—goes, “shhh!”

seunghyun leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the table. his eyes flicker over your face, thoughtful. “what?” you ask, raising a brow. he shrugs. “nothing. just… you’re different from what i expected.” “that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?” his lips twitch. “take it as a compliment.” he grins, but there’s something in his expression—something a little too observant, like he’s picking apart a puzzle piece by piece. “so? what did you expect?” he hesitates for just a second before saying, “i don’t know.” he does know, or at least, he has some idea. he expected someone easier to read. but you’re not easy to read, and now he’s realizing that the more he pays attention, the more there is to figure out. he just doesn’t know how to say it. but he’s also noticed the cracks, the way some days you seem a little quieter, like you’re carrying something heavier than you let on. he wonders if you even realize it, how your guard slips in the smallest ways. maybe he shouldn’t say anything. maybe it’s not his place. but the words slip before he can stop himself. “i’ve noticed some days you’re different. like… sad.” it catches you so off guard that you don’t even know what to say for a moment. you force a small scoff. “everyone has off days.” he doesn’t buy it. “yeah, but not everyone acts like they don’t.” his voice is softer now, more careful. “i just—i think you’re good at keeping people out.” “most people aren’t worth letting in,” you reply. “i get that. sorry, i’m—i mean, i notice because i do the same thing,” he admits. the way he says it, like he actually sees you, makes your chest feel tight. you press your tongue against the inside of your cheek, trying to ignore the way your pulse has picked up. “i think you like analyzing people too much.” seunghyun snorts. “only when they’re interesting.” you open your mouth to respond, but you hesitate, suddenly hyperaware of how close he is. when did he lean in like that? or were you the one who moved? “right, okay,” you clear your throat, shifting in your seat and looking down at the books in front of you. “so, back to the hellenistic period. sculptures are less perfect compared to the classical period, more real. i’ll do the analysis of venus de milo, you can work on laocoön and his sons, if that’s okay with you.” he chuckles softly. “sure. sounds good to me.”

and when you’re walking together out of campus after—the sun already starting to set outside—he asks, “wait, have you ever been to the art gallery downtown?” you blink at him. “which one?” “the modern art gallery,” he says, hands tucked into his pockets, hoodie pulled up over his head. “they’ve got an exhibit on abstract and expressionist paintings right now. thought you might be interested.” you hesitate for a second, caught off guard. “you’ve been?” he nods. “yeah. went last week.” “alone?” “yeah.” he shrugs like it’s nothing. “sometimes it’s nice to go without distractions.” “weirdo,” you joke, and he chuckles. then you hum, considering it. “maybe i’ll check it out.” “you should,” he says, then—after a pause—“i could go again. if you wanted.” you glance at him, but he’s looking straight ahead, like he didn’t just say something that makes your stomach feel weird. you don’t answer right away. but you don’t say no, either.

a few days later, you end up at a park near campus, sitting on a bench. “okay,” you say, exhaling, “this is officially the furthest we’ve strayed from our project.” he smirks. “we could talk about it now, if you want.” you groan dramatically, leaning your head back. “ugh. please, no. let me live.” he chuckles, shaking his head. then, he tugs his hoodie over his head, the fabric bunching up around his face when he pulls its strings slightly. you watch him for a second before the thought slips out. “why do you do that?” his gaze flicks to you. “do what?” “pull your hoodie up like that. you do it all the time.” he exhales a quiet laugh, looking away. “i just… i don’t know. makes me feel more… covered?” he hesitates, then adds, almost like it’s an afterthought, “and i don’t like my ears getting cold.” “your ears?” “yeah.” but you know that look on his face. and you know the feeling, too. the urge to shrink youself, to avoid giving people something to make fun of. “i like your ears.” his head lifts slightly, eyes meeting yours in surprise. “what?” you shrug. “they’re nice.” for the first time, he actually looks caught off guard. “that’s… weirdly specific,” he laughs softly. “just take the compliment, hyun,” you say, rolling your eyes with a smile. he freezes for half a second. hyun? since when do you call him that? do you even realize you said it? he clears his throat, shifting like he suddenly doesn’t know what to do with himself. it’s just a nickname. it’s not a big deal. people shorten names all the time. but there’s this weird warmth settling in his chest, and he hates how much he notices it. “it was… it was genuine,” you add. “i used to be really insecure about them. my ears, i mean. well, actually… i used to be really insecure about a lot of things when i was younger.” “really?” “yeah. and people can be brutal. i got called all kinds of things. made me not want to talk much, not want to draw attention to myself.” your brows pull together as you listen. he’s opening up, letting you see a part of him that he probably doesn’t show most people. and you don’t take that lightly. “i’m talking too much again, aren’t i? i’m sorry—“ “you can talk about it,” you reassure him. “i’m listening.” you care? he wasn’t expecting that at all. “i just… never really felt comfortable in my own skin.” “i get that. i… i feel the same way.” “seriously?” “yeah. when i was younger most people thought i was weird. and i’ve never been the prettiest either. no one really looked at me.” “that’s crazy to me.” “why?” you ask, frowning. “why? are you kidding me? look at you!” his eyes flick away, like he just realized what he said. “i mean—” he clears his throat. “i don’t think you’re weird at all. you’re—you’re kind, and sweet, and funny, and smart as hell, and understanding…” he pauses. “and i think you’re very pretty, too.” you feel heat rise to your cheeks. “thanks, seunghyun,” you smile at him. “but—“ “ah, ah.” he shakes his head, pointing at you with his index finger. and in the same tone you used earlier, he says, “just take the compliment.” and you both laugh. the conversation drifts after that. you talk about books, music, childhood stories. and at some point, you glance at him and realize—he’s not as bad as you once thought. you could even consider him your friend at this point. and before you know it, you’re kind of looking forward to these moments.

saturday morning. it’s supposed to be a normal day. just you and your boyfriend, going from store to store, him carrying the bags while you browse through clothes, debating whether you really need another sweater. you don’t expect to see him. but then, as you’re exiting a store, laughing at something your boyfriend says, you hear a familiar voice. “oh. hey.” you stop mid-step, looking up. seunghyun is standing a few feet away, eyebrows raised. and he’s not alone. next to him, holding onto his arm, is a girl. she’s pretty. really pretty. she has that effortless kind of elegance, the type of girl you’d expect to see in an old film, with delicate jewelry and a perfect smile. you weren’t expecting this. you weren’t expecting him at all, let alone with someone. for a second, no one speaks. then, because you have to, you clear your throat. “uh—hey.” he nods, glancing at your boyfriend, then back at you. oh. right. introductions. that’s what people do, right? introduce their significant others? “so uhm… this is my boyfriend,” you say, nudging him slightly. your boyfriend extends a hand. “nice to meet you, man.” seunghyun hesitates—just for a fraction of a second—before shaking it. “yeah. you too.” then, as if remembering his own situation, he shifts slightly. “and… this is my girlfriend.” girlfriend…? she smiles, polite. “hi.” you don’t know why it feels weird. you force a small smile back. “nice to meet you.”

there’s a beat of silence, awkward and heavy, before your boyfriend gestures to the shopping bags in his hand. “someone got a little carried away,” he chuckles. “hey!” you nudge him, feigning offense. “i needed all of this.” seunghyun huffs a quiet laugh, barely noticeable, but you catch it. “are you guys shopping too?” you ask, because the silence is unbearable. “not really,” his girlfriend answers before he can. “just walking around, grabbing coffee.” “oh, nice,” you say, nodding, even though that doesn’t really keep the conversation going. you glance at him, searching for something else to say. “so no shopping spree for you?” he shakes his head. “no, not today. i don’t shop that much.” “right. you’re more of a ‘spend hours in an art gallery alone’ kind of guy.” you were trying to bring some humor into the conversation but oh my god. why did you say that? was that even a joke? (literally no one laughed…) his lips twitch slightly, like he wants to smile but doesn’t. “yeah.” another silence. his girlfriend tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking between the two of you. “so… how do you guys know each other?” “we’re working on a project together,” you say quickly. “for our ‘history of art’ class,” seunghyun adds, voice quieter than yours. she hums, nodding. “that’s nice.” you don’t miss the way she squeezes his arm slightly, like a subconscious claim.

your boyfriend, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice the awkward tension, but you do. seunghyun does. maybe it’s because, for weeks now, it’s just been you and him, meeting up, talking, working together. and somehow, in all that time, neither of you ever mentioned the people waiting for you outside of those moments. “we should—” you start, at the same time he says, “well, we—” you both stop. you let out a small, breathy laugh, and he exhales, shaking his head. “see you in class,” he says eventually. “yeah,” you nod. “see you.” and then you’re both walking in opposite directions, like that wasn’t weird at all.

it shouldn’t feel weird. it shouldn’t feel like anything. but your mind keeps circling back to it a day after. to him. to her. you don’t know why it caught you so off guard. or why it lingers now. maybe it’s the fact that you spent all these weeks talking to seunghyun, learning little pieces of him in a way that felt… too personal. and neither of you ever mentioned having a significant other. why? because he never asked? because you never did? because it never felt necessary? or because, deep down, some part of you didn’t want to say it? you swallow, shaking off the thought, forcing yourself to focus on something else. you’re just overthinking the situation. you have a boyfriend and seunghyun and you are just… classmates? friends? whatever.

class feels different on monday. not in a way anyone else would notice, but you feel it. in the way you and seunghyun settle into your usual seats, in the way neither of you says anything at first. usually, by now, one of you would’ve made some kind of comment, but today, there’s just silence. you busy yourself by flipping through your notes, pretending to be more focused than you actually are. he clears his throat. “did you finish the research on the kouros statues?” you nod. “yeah. i wrote some notes about the stylistic differences over time.” “good,” he says. “we can work on the structure later.” and that’s it. just straight to business. what a great way to start the day…! it annoys you. so, before you can stop yourself, you blurt it out. “you never told me you had a girlfriend.” you try to say it in a playful tone but you fail terribly at it. he looks at you. “you never told me you had a boyfriend,” he replies in the same awkward way. there’s a beat of silence after that, just enough for the words to hang between you two. then, unexpectedly, he chuckles—soft, like he’s trying to shake off the awkwardness. “guess we’re both bad at this,” he says, half-smiling. you snort, rolling your eyes. “yeah, apparently.” he leans back in his seat a little, fingers tapping lightly on his notebook. “so, how long?” you raise an eyebrow. “how long what?” “how long have you been with him? if you don’t mind me asking.” you bite your lip for a second, debating how much to share. “like… a little under two years,” you say finally. “we met online.” seunghyun raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “online?” “yeah, on instagram. i posted a picture, and he texted me after that. i know, it sounds kinda pathetic, but that’s how it happened.” you can’t help but feel a little embarrassed admitting it, but you shrug it off. “we’ve been together ever since… he’s my first love.” “not judging,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips. you’re grateful he doesn’t make you feel weird about it. “what about you two?” “we’ve been together for a while too. a year and a few months. she’s also my first love. i met her through a mutual friend,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “we were hanging out at one of his parties, we started talking, and… here we are.” “that sounds more normal than my story.” he shrugs, a small grin tugging at his lips. “hey, it worked out, right?” “yeah, it did,” you agree, smiling slightly.

but oh, if only he knew. the last couple of months have been… hard. a constant string of arguments, over the smallest things. it’s like every time you talk, it turns into a fight. you thought it was just a rough patch, but it doesn’t feel like a patch anymore. it started small at first—just him being a little distant. but it kept growing. he used to say “i love you” all the time, like it was the easiest thing in the world. but now? it’s like those words are stuck in his throat, like he’s forgotten how to say them, or worse—like he doesn’t want to say them anymore. you’ve noticed how he’s been putting others before you too, choosing to hang out with his friends or canceling plans with you last minute without a real reason. it hurts, and you don’t know how to fix it. but you can’t tell seunghyun that.

but to your surprise, after a beat of silence, seunghyun says, “it’s funny.” voice quieter than usual, almost like he’s not sure whether he should admit this. “things have been a little… rough with my girlfriend lately.” you blink. there’s something about hearing him say that, something about knowing you’re not the only one struggling, that makes you feel a little lighter. not because you want him to be going through something hard too, but because it makes you feel like it’s normal. like maybe every relationship has its bumps.“what do you mean?” you ask, leaning forward slightly. “i don’t know. we’re just… not clicking like we used to. it feels like we can’t talk without it turning into an argument, and i hate it.” he pauses. “like—when you made that joke the other day, about me going to art galleries alone, she got mad at me for even telling you about it. she said it ‘put her in a bad light’ because she doesn’t do those things with me… but she’s the one who doesn’t want to come, even when i ask.” you feel a pang of guilt, like your joke somehow made things worse. "sorry," you say, glancing at him. "i didn't mean to stir anything up." seunghyun shakes his head, like it's not a big deal at all. "oh, no. it was just an example. it's not your fault," he says. then, he shifts in his seat, suddenly looking more uncomfortable than before, like he’s regretting saying anything at all. “look, i didn’t mean to dump that on you,” he says quickly, his voice awkward now. “i… i love my girlfriend, you know? i’m just frustrated. it’s not… it’s not that bad or anything.” you can see the nervousness in his eyes, the way he avoids your gaze, trying to brush off what he said. it’s clear he wasn’t expecting to let that out. but you can also see how much he’s trying to act like everything is fine, even though it’s obvious he’s not. just like you. “hey,” you say softly, reaching across the table just a little, enough for him to hear the sincerity in your voice. “it’s okay. i get it. relationships aren’t always easy.” you take a breath, then decide to be honest. “i’ve been feeling the same way with my boyfriend. we’ve been fighting a lot lately, and it’s… tough. we’re just… constantly butting heads.”

he goes quiet after that. like, really quiet. there’s something in his dark eyes—hesitation, maybe. or relief. like he needed to hear that he wasn’t alone in this, that someone else out there was struggling with the same messy, frustrating parts of love. and then, almost abruptly, he suggests it. skipping the rest of the day. just ditching everything and going to that same art gallery. it catches you off guard, but you don’t even hesitate before nodding.

the gallery is damn near empty at that hour, just the two of you wandering through halls lined with color and shadow, bathed in soft overhead lights that make everything feel a little more intimate. there’s something about being here, surrounded by all this art, that makes it easier to breathe. you both stop at the first painting that catches your eye—a massive canvas of deep blues, layered thick like it’s been slathered on with a palette knife, with jagged streaks of gold cutting through the darkness like lightning. you let out a quiet ‘fuck’, barely above a whisper. seunghyun huffs a small laugh. “looks like someone was trying to do rothko but got pissed off halfway through.” you smirk, tilting your head. “nah, this is too aggressive for rothko. feels more like franz kline, but with, like… a caravaggio-level obsession with drama.” his lips twitch. “yeah, i see that. but notice how the gold isn’t just random—it’s balanced. it pulls your eye across the whole thing, cutting through the shades of blue.” you’re quiet for a moment, taking it in. “dependency,” you say. “the gold wouldn’t mean anything without the darkness of the blue.” he looks at you, eyes glinting under the gallery lights. “exactly.” and that’s how it goes. you move through the gallery slowly, stopping at every piece, actually talking about the art, finding beauty in all of it. even the weird, messy, seemingly meaningless ones. it’s easy, because you both get it. you see the details, the choices, the way every piece has something to say. you pause in front of a sculpture—a chaotic mess of rusted metal, welded together at impossible angles. “brutalist, but trying to be constructivist,” you murmur, circling it. “like… it wants to have structure, but it’s resisting.” seunghyun chuckles. “or maybe it’s collapsing. like tatlin’s tower, if they’d actually built it and just let it rot.” “okay, points for that reference.” he grins. “i know my stuff.”

somewhere along the way, the conversation shifts. you start talking about relationships, about the ways they fall apart. but it doesn’t feel heavy. because you’re realizing how fucking similar your relationships are, and in a way, how similar you and seunghyun are too. it makes you feel less lonely. “it’s always the same thing,” you say, shaking your head. “getting angry when i ask what’s wrong, giving me the silent treatment, then blaming me about every bad-fucking-thing that’s ever happened to him—calling me a crazy bitch just to come back a day after, acting like everything’s fine.” “yeah, fucks with your head, makes you question if you’re actually the problem when really, he’s just deflecting.” he shifts his weight, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “guys like that, they don’t know how to handle their own shit, so they make it yours.” he glances at you, voice softer now. “but you know that, right? that it’s not you?” you let out a bitter laugh, rubbing a hand over your face. “i mean, i tell myself that. but after a while, it’s like… how many times can someone treat you like shit before you start wondering if maybe you deserve it?” “you don’t,” he reassures. seunghyun’s jaw tightens, his gaze flicking away for a second. “i know that feeling too.” he hesitates, like he’s debating whether to say it. “with my girlfriend, it’s different, but also not. it’s like—she just won’t fucking talk to me. she gets mad at me for not knowing what’s wrong, but then when i ask, she shuts down. and she treats me like shit when that happens too. she yells at me, calls me names, ignores my texts… makes me feel like an idiot for even trying.” “like she expects you to read her mind.” he nods, huffing a short laugh. “exactly. and then when i give her space, it’s ‘you don’t care.’ when i push to talk, it’s ‘you don’t respect boundaries.’ i can’t—i don’t know, everything i do is fucking wrong in her eyes.” you scoff. “god, it’s the same thing. like, just say what you want! say what you mean! don’t make me guess.” seunghyun lets out a sharp exhale, like he’s been holding that in for too long. “right?! i hate that shit. like, i’m here. i want to fix it. but how the fuck am i supposed to do that if she won’t even let me in?” there’s a pause, the weight of both your words settling in the quiet gallery. “makes you wonder if it’s even worth it,” you murmur. seunghyun’s lips press into a thin line, his fingers tightening in his pockets. “yeah.” he exhales, looking up at the ceiling like it might have the answer. “but then they apologize, and suddenly it’s like none of it ever happened. and you want to believe it, because for those few hours or days, it feels good again.” you nod, because you know exactly what he means. “and then it starts all over.” he looks at you then, eyes meeting yours like he’s searching for something. “yeah.”

silence settles between you and your gaze drifts to the painting in front of you. but your eyes don’t stay on it for long. without really meaning to, you glance at seunghyun. he’s standing there, just a little in front of you, his gaze fixed on the painting, like he’s seeing something no one else can. the soft lighting catches the sharp angles of his jaw, the high planes of his cheekbones, the slope of his nose, his dark hair falling just a little out of place—it’s almost unfair how effortlessly attractive he is. you should look away. but you don’t. and then, like he can feel your gaze, he shifts. his eyes flicker toward you, catching you in the act. your breath stumbles. but he doesn’t say anything—just holds your gaze for a second too long, a knowing smile tugging at his lips before he looks back at the painting. and you swear the air feels warmer after that. what the hell is happening to you?

months pass, and you’re closer than ever. one day, he’s just some guy you had a class with, and then, somehow, he’s your best friend. the project you worked on together? you absolutely crushed it—high marks, glowing feedback from your professor, the kind of result that makes all the half-serious arguments about formatting feel worth it. now you hang out all the time. and not just around campus—you start meeting up outside, too. going to the cinema together, picking dumb movies just to make fun of them. letting him come over to your place, where he inevitably kicks your ass at whatever game you decide to play—but then grumbles when you start getting better and actually put up a fight. some days, you just drive around aimlessly, talking about everything and nothing, stopping for food at sketchy places that somehow have the best food you’ve ever tried. you also help him with his relationship problems, and he helps with yours. well, help is a strong word—mostly, you just sit around, venting, analyzing every little thing your significant others do, trying to make sense of it all. sometimes, you’ll lie on his couch, scrolling through texts, trying to decode what a delayed response or a vague message really means. other times, he’s the one ranting, pacing the room, running a frustrated hand through his hair. neither of you have any real answers, but somehow, just saying it out loud makes it easier to carry.

the texting never stops either. even after spending the whole day together, even when you know you’ll see each other tomorrow. memes, whatever pops into your head at midnight, reminders about class or inside jokes from earlier in the day, thoughts about love and life. messages that start lighthearted but end up lingering in your mind long after the conversation ends. he’s the person you call when something good happens. he’s also the person you call when everything sucks. he becomes part of your life in a way that feels permanent. like even if everything else changes, he’ll still be there.

well, surprise! you are very wrong! it happens slowly at first, so slowly that you almost don’t notice it. a missed call here, a delayed text there. seunghyun stops responding as quickly, but you tell yourself it’s nothing—maybe he’s just busy. but then, suddenly, there’s no texting at all. he stops reaching out, and when you text first, the replies are short, distant, like he’s talking to a stranger instead of you. at first, you brush it off. maybe he’s just going through something. you give him space, waiting for him to come back on his own. but then he starts avoiding you in person, too. in class, he stops sitting next to you. when you try to talk to him, he keeps it brief, like the past few months never even happened. so you try. you crack jokes, hoping to lighten the mood. he barely reacts. you ask if he wants to grab coffee after class, and there’s always an excuse. but you’re stubborn. you keep trying, keep telling yourself that maybe he just needs time. maybe if you push a little harder, he’ll tell you what’s wrong. maybe he’ll go back to being the seunghyun you know. but he doesn’t. so eventually, you stop. because there’s only so many times you can knock on a closed door before you realize no one’s going to open it.

but fuck, you miss him. you miss seunghyun so much… in all the small, stupid ways that sneak up on you. you miss the way he used to walk you home after class, even when it was completely out of his way. how he’d always offer you his jacket without making a big deal out of it, just drape it over your shoulders. you miss how he’d send you voice notes instead of texts when he was tired, his voice soft and half-laughing as he complained about his day. like how he accidentally bought decaf coffee and didn’t realize until he’d already had two cups. or when he got locked out and had to convince the neighbor to let him climb across their balcony to reach his window—commentary and all, like he was narrating his own survival special. you miss sitting next to him during boring lectures, passing notes like you were in high school again—little doodles, sarcastic comments, the occasional ‘want to skip and get tteokbokki?’ scrawled in messy handwriting. how he’d always save you a seat beside him, even when he didn’t need to. you miss sharing your music with him, like that rainy afternoon you spent at the bus stop together, both of you soaked and laughing, sharing one headphone while waiting for a bus that never came. you miss how he’d always remember the little things—your favorite candy, the name of that song you liked for two weeks straight, the way you hated talking on the phone but would answer when it was him.

you love your boyfriend. you do. you’ve fought for this relationship, worked through the rough patches, stayed when it would’ve been easier to walk away. so why does your heart feel so heavy when you think about seunghyun? why do these stupid little memories of him make your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with losing a friend? and then it hits you. you were starting to fall for seunghyun. the realization slams into you like a truck, knocking the air right out of your lungs. your stomach twists, guilt rising up so fast it makes you dizzy. you squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head as if that’ll get rid of the thoughts. it’s nothing. just stupid feelings messing with you because you miss seunghyun as a friend. that’s all. it has to be. but deep down, you know. you don’t want to deal with this. any of it. it makes you sick. you try to shove it down, bury it deep where it can’t touch you. but the more you try to push it away, the worse it gets. anger starts to creep in, and you start resenting seunghyun. resentment is easier. that’s what you tell yourself. it’s easier than facing the awful, sinking truth—that you like him. that, somewhere along the way, he started meaning too much. so you turn that feeling into something bitter. it’s easier to hate him for pushing you away without an explanation.

you don’t say hi when you pass each other on campus. he doesn’t either. you just walk by like two people who never meant a damn thing to each other. in class, is where it’s the worst. you’re stuck two rows apart, forced to exist in the same space, forced to hear his voice, and it pisses you off. everything about him pisses you off again now. so when the discussion turns to a painting you know he’s wrong about, you jump at the chance. “that’s not what it means,” you say. seunghyun pauses mid-sentence. his jaw tightens slightly. “i wasn’t talking to you.” “yeah, well, you’re still wrong.” you lean back in your seat, arms crossed, glare locked onto him. “the artist literally said in an interview that the painting was about grief, not isolation.” “and what, you suddenly know more than everyone now?” “i know how to read.” he exhales through his nose. “interpretation exists for a reason. it doesn’t have to mean just one thing.” “so your interpretation is just better than the artist’s own words? that makes total sense.” someone snickers a few seats over. the professor looks unimpressed but doesn’t step in. “are you done?” he asks. “no, i’m not,” you reply before stating your opinion and interpretation of the painting. seunghyun shakes his head, muttering something under his breath.

the bickering continues for months. that class turns into a battlefield, every discussion an excuse to dig into each other. it doesn���t even matter what the topic is anymore—if seunghyun says one thing, you find a way to contradict it. if you make a point, he challenges it. he acts like he doesn’t care, but he does. you see it in the way his jaw tightens when you cut him off. in the way his fingers drum against the desk when your words hit a little too hard. in the way his voice gets sharper, more clipped, when he finally bites back. good! you want him to feel as frustrated as you do, as angry as you do. but one day, when the class ends and you’re gathering your things ready to leave, you feel fingers wrap around your wrist. firm, but not rough. seunghyun. your breath catches. he’s barely touched you before, but now, he’s pulling you aside, out of the classroom, into the quieter hallway. “why are you doing this?” he asks, frustrated. you snatch your wrist out of his grasp. “doing what?” he lets out a slow breath. “you know what.” you do. of course you do. “you should know.” his eyes search yours before his shoulders drop slightly, and he steps back. “okay.” you scoff. “okay? that’s all you have to say?” “what else do you want me to say?” “i want an explanation.” the words snap out before you can stop them. “you just—you just left, seunghyun.” his jaw clenches. “that’s not—” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “nothing happened.” “what?” “nothing happened.” he repeats, like that somehow makes it better. “there’s no explanation. i just—” he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “it’s nothing.” “don’t lie.” “i’m not lying.” “yes, you are!” you snap. “you don’t just wake up one day and decide to cut someone out of your life for nothing.” he doesn’t say anything. you narrow your eyes. “was it because of her?” his brows furrow slightly. “what?” “your girlfriend.” you say, sharper this time. “is that why? she didn’t like me or something?” his whole posture stiffens. “no. that’s not—” he shakes his head. “this has nothing to do with her.” “then why?” “i don’t know what you want me to say.” “i want the truth.” “there’s no—” “you always complained about her not telling you what was wrong, even when you asked. now i’m asking you, hyun,” your voice sounds almost pleading. “i’m asking you to be fucking honest with me. did i do something wrong? i just—please. please, tell me.” for a split second, something flickers across his face. something real. but then it’s gone, buried under that frustrating, detached calm of his. seunghyun swallows, his gaze dropping to the floor. “i already told you. there’s nothing to explain.” and that’s when it really sinks in. he’s not going to tell you. he’s not going to give you answers. you bite the inside of your cheek, trying to ignore the way your throat tightens. “okay,” you say quietly, almost in a whisper. “have a good day, seunghyun.”

when the academic year ends, you feel like you can finally breathe. the weight of seeing seunghyun every day finally lifts, and you don’t realize how much it was draining you until it’s gone. summer feels like a breath of fresh air. no classes to deal with, no more running into him on campus. you actually start to feel better. the long days blend into each other, and the heat is almost a relief, as if the sun can melt away the last remnants of all the mess that’s been building up inside you. you spend time with friends, with your boyfriend, with family, dive into your hobbies—things that make you feel again, instead of being stuck in that heavy, frustrating place you were in just a few months ago.

the day feels like any other. it’s one of those lazy summer days, the kind that stretches on, with no obligations in sight. you’re in the kitchen, a soft hum of music filling the space as you chop vegetables for your lunch. it’s a soothing task, one that lets you lose yourself in the rhythm while the world spins on without much thought. then, your phone rings. the sound slices through the calm, pulling your attention to the screen. the moment you see the name, your heart skips a beat. seunghyun. you freeze, knife halfway through slicing a carrot. the world feels like it slows down for a moment. it’s been months since you last heard from him, since that final conversation you thought would be the last. you can feel your breath catch in your chest as your mind races. why is he calling now? what could he possibly want? you stare at his name, watching the screen flash. your fingers hover over the phone, torn. there’s a part of you that wants to ignore it, to send him straight to voicemail. it would be easier, right? just let him stay in the past where he belongs. but another part of you wants to know why he’s calling. you’ll regret it if you don’t pick up.

with a sharp exhale, you swipe your finger across the screen. “hello?” your voice sounds smaller than you expected. there’s a long silence on the other end. you can hear faint sounds—shuffling, soft breaths, maybe a sniffle—and then, his voice cracks through, shaky and broken. “hey…” your stomach drops. there’s something wrong. something off in his tone. “seunghyun?” you whisper, suddenly feeling the weight of his name. he doesn’t respond right away, and you can hear him sniffle again. “i—” his voice cracks. “are you okay?” you blurt out before you can stop yourself, panic creeping up your spine. there’s a long pause. you wait, heart pounding in your ears. and then, his voice comes, quieter this time. “no. i’m not okay.” you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, the tension in his voice seeping into your bones. “what’s going on?” you ask, your words coming out urgent, concerned. “hyun, talk to me.” there’s a shaky breath on the other end before he finally speaks. “she cheated on me.” it’s the last thing you expected to hear. you swallow. “what? your girlfriend?” “i found out a couple days ago,” he continues, his words slow, like he’s choosing each one carefully. “she… she left her phone unlocked. and i didn’t mean to snoop i swear, but i saw messages—pictures, stuff i shouldn’t have seen. i knew something was off before, but seeing it…” you wince, not sure what to say. you can’t imagine what he must’ve been going through. “i’m sorry,” you say quietly, the words feeling too small. he lets out a shaky sigh, and you hear him breathe in like he’s trying to pull himself together. “yeah, well… it’s done now. we argued for days, but today, i… i ended it. it’s over.” “oh. i’m sorry, hyun, i… i don’t know what to say.” there’s a long pause, and when he speaks again, it’s with an almost defeated tone. “i… i didn’t mean to call you. i just—i don’t know,” he says, his words stumbling over each other. “i didn’t want to bother you. i-i shouldn’t have called. i don’t know why i did.” he’s almost apologizing, and the guilt in his voice makes you frown. “don’t hang up,” you say quickly, before you even think about it. “please don’t hang up.” “i’m sorry for calling you out of nowhere.” you feel a pang of sadness at his words. “it’s okay,” you reply. “you don’t have to apologize for calling. i’m here, okay? you can talk to me.”

seunghyun sits there, phone pressed to his ear, wondering how you can still be here for him after everything, after he pushed you away. the guilt eats at him, every part of him screaming that he doesn’t deserve to have someone like you by his side. “i thought you’d be done with me by now,” he says, almost in a whisper. you shake your head even though he can’t see you, your hand gripping the phone a little tighter. “we were friends, seunghyun,” you remind him, your voice gentle. “i know things got messed up, but… we were friends. best friends. and i told you i’d always be there for you.” you pause, chewing on your lower lip for a moment, before you finally say what you’ve been thinking. “if you want, i can come over. we can talk… or not talk. whatever you need.” you hold your breath, waiting for his response. there’s a long, stunned silence on the other end. “you want to see me?” he asks, like he can’t believe it. “yeah, of course.” “i don’t deserve your help.” “you do. please, let me.” there’s a slight hesitation before he speaks again. “okay. i won’t keep you long. i don’t want to be a burden.” “you’re not,” you assure him. “give me an hour and i’ll be there.”

as soon as you reach his place, you knock lightly, your heart hammering in your chest. the door creaks open a few seconds later. he looks awful. his eyes are red and swollen, his hair messy. he’s in a hoodie that hangs loosely on his frame, and the exhaustion in his face makes him look smaller. for a moment, neither of you move. no words are exchanged. then, without overanalyzing, you step forward and wrap your arms around him. he tenses at first, like he wasn’t expecting it, but then he just… melts. his arms tighten around you, his face burying into your shoulder as his body shakes. and then, quietly, he starts crying. you feel his tears soak into your shirt but you don’t pull away. you just hold him, one hand running soothingly over his back.

you spend the entire summer trying to pull seunghyun out of the darkness he’s buried himself in. he barely leaves his house, barely eats unless you remind him, barely sleeps. and you can’t stand it. you can’t stand seeing him like this—so broken. so you do what you can. you show up. every single day. some days, it’s just sitting with him in comfortable silence, letting him exist without forcing him to talk. other days, you try to drag him outside, finding little excuses to get him moving. “come on,” you tell him one afternoon, standing in his living room with your hands on your hips. “let’s go get ice cream.” he’s curled up on the couch, hood pulled over his head, despite the unbearable heat outside. you’re not surprised—he once told you he likes to be covered up. “i’m good,” he mumbles, not even looking at you. you roll your eyes and walk over, grabbing the hood and yanking it off. “no, you’re not, liar. you haven’t left this room in days. come on, seunghyun. you love ice cream.” he sighs, rubbing his face. “i’m not in the mood.” “that’s exactly why we’re going.” you grab his arm, pulling until he finally gets up.

one day you even made him dance with you. it was late, music playing softly from your speakers. you were already swaying to the beat, grinning at him from across the room. “come on, dance with me.” he scoffed, arms crossed. “yeah, no.” “why not?” “because i don’t dance.” you rolled your eyes. “don’t lie. you literally have like five videos on instagram of you dancing in front of your mirror.” “that’s different,” he muttered, avoiding your gaze. “is it?” you raised an eyebrow. “what about that time you started dancing in the middle of the crosswalk because that one guy’s car stereo was blasting usher?” he tried to suppress a smile, but failed. “okay, that doesn’t count either. i was just being silly.” “be silly with me now, then. everyone dances, hyun.” you stepped closer and grabbed his wrists, trying to tug him away from the wall. he resisted at first, feet planted like a grumpy little kid, but you didn’t let up. until finally, with a dramatic sigh, he let you pull him toward the center of the room. “this is dumb,” he grumbled. “you’re dumb,” you shot back. “just move.” at first he was stiff, awkward, his shoulders tense and eyes focused anywhere but on you. but you didn’t care. you kept swaying, guiding him with a light grip and a grin, your voice humming along with the music. and slowly he loosened up. just a little. “see? not so bad.” he let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, his eyes flicking down to you, soft around the edges. like he wanted to argue, but didn’t have it in him. not when it was you.

eventually, he started coming back to himself. making jokes like he used to. but the first time you heard his real laugh again, after months, it nearly made you jump out of your seat. it happened at his house. you were sprawled out on his couch, flipping through a magazine, when you made an offhand comment about his wardrobe. “you literally have like three hoodies. and you wear them every day.” “rude,” he said flatly. “i have five.” you snorted. “right. and they all look exactly the same.” “it’s called having a brand.” “your brand is sad boy chic.” he tried to hold it in, pressing his lips together like that would stop it—but the laugh still slipped out. your eyes widened. “oh my god.” you sat up, staring at him. “are you laughing?” he shook his head, even as his mouth twitched up. “i’m not.” and then another chuckle escaped. your grin stretched wide. “you are!” he groaned, running a hand down his face. “shut up.”

one evening, you’re both out on his balcony, the sun just having dipped below the horizon, leaving streaks of deep orange and purple in the sky. the air is warm but cooling down, the distant hum of the city below mixing with the occasional rustling of leaves. seunghyun leans against the railing, cigarette between his fingers, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light. he takes a slow drag, exhaling the smoke into the evening air before wordlessly handing it to you. you hesitate for half a second before taking it, bringing it to your lips and inhaling just enough for the burn to settle in your lungs. you pass it back, watching as he taps the ash over the edge of the railing, gaze distant. he hasn’t said much in the past few minutes, which isn’t unusual, but there’s something about his silence that feels different. after a while, he sighs. “i need to tell you something.” you straighten a little, looking at him. “what is it?” “i think… i think i owe you an explanation,” he says. your stomach tightens. you know exactly what he means. “you don’t have to,” you reply, even though you’ve spent months dying to know. “i wasn’t honest with you back then. and… i want to be.” he pauses, rolling the cigarette between his fingers, gaze fixed on the darkened skyline. “the reason i… the reason i stopped talking to you is because—” he hesitates, jaw clenching. “because i liked you,” he finally says. your breath catches. “what?” he turns his head slightly, just enough to glance at you. “i liked you. as more than a friend.” but even now, standing here with the truth hanging between you, he knows he’s still holding back. liked—he said it like it was past tense, like it was something he’d moved on from. but that’s a lie. he still does. you don’t know what to say. don’t even know what to feel. “seunghyun…” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “i had a girlfriend. you had a boyfriend… well, you still do.” his voice drops at that last part. he clears his throat, looking away again. “i loved her. and it was wrong. so i told myself that those feelings for you would go away if i put enough space between us.” your fingers tighten around the railing. your voice is barely above a whisper when you ask, “did it work?” “no.”

silence settles between you. you want to admit it, too. that you felt the same thing. but where would that even get you? you’re still in a relationship. and you love your boyfriend (at least that’s what you tell yourself…) you know better. you can’t complicate things again now. so instead, you force yourself to ask, “why are you telling me this, hyun?” he frowns. “i don’t know, i just—i thought you should know.” he pauses. “i’m sorry for disappearing like that.” “it’s okay—” “no, it’s not.” he sighs. “i shouldn’t have… i shouldn’t have cut you off. i hurt you and you didn’t deserve that.” the guilt has been sitting in his chest for so long, pressing down on him every time he thought about you—which was always. you know you should be angrier, that you should make him sit with the weight of what he did a little longer. but the truth is, you missed him. you missed him so much it ached. “yeah,” you say quietly, “you did hurt me. but i get it, hyun.” he frowns slightly. “you were confused. and scared.” and you know that, because that’s exactly how you felt too. “but that doesn’t justify—” “seunghyun.” you cut off, shaking your head. “no it doesn’t justify it, but you apologized. i forgive you. it’s okay. don’t be—don’t be hard on yourself.” oh man. he wonders what he did in another life to deserve you being so good to him in this one. “i’m sorry too,” you continue with a smile tugging at your lips. “for snapping at you all the time in class.” he lets out a small laugh. “it’s okay,” he replies, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. “i thought it was kinda cute.” “cute?” you snort. “yeah. but don’t worry,” he says, forcing a smirk, like he’s trying to play it off. “it’s in the past. we’re good friends.” and for some reason, that stings.

summer ends before you even realize it. the warmth starts to fade, the days growing shorter, the air losing its heaviness. you’re back on campus, slipping into the routine of lectures and assignments. but everything shifts—just a few days into the new academic year, it all comes crashing down. the fight with your boyfriend starts like any other argument. but then, somewhere in the middle of it, he snaps. says something he can’t take back. something that makes your stomach drop. he’s slept with multiple girls behind your back. you don’t remember what you said after that. don’t remember how the argument ended. all you know is that it’s over. and now, somehow, the tables have turned. it’s seunghyun showing up at your door this time, no hesitation in his eyes when he pulls you into a hug the second he sees your face. it’s him dragging you out of your house when you don’t want to move, sitting with you in coffee shops and parks and anywhere that isn’t your room, distracting you with dumb jokes and conversations about nothing. it’s him texting you at random hours, u good? or let’s go get food or just a simple i’m outside when you need it the most. he doesn’t push you to talk. doesn’t force you to open up. he just stays—sits beside you when you don’t feel like speaking, lets you cry when you need to. and slowly, piece by piece, he starts pulling you back together.

by the time october rolls around, you’re a new person. the heartbreak doesn’t sting anymore, the anger has dulled, and you’re genuinely happy after what feels like a lifetime. seunghyun has a lot to do with that. and maybe that’s why, when the invitation for a halloween party from some classmates rolls in, it doesn’t feel so strange that you and seunghyun are each other’s default plus-one. the house is packed, every room overflowing with people. music booms from the speakers, the bass so heavy it vibrates through the floor, making the half-empty bottles on the kitchen counter tremble. laughter and shouting fill the space, blending with the music, with the sound of ice clinking in cups, with the occasional crash of something breaking followed by a drunken chorus of “ooohhh!” you and seunghyun arrive together, dressed in matching costumes—him as an astronaut, you as the moon. your dress is a soft, silvery white, made of a flowing fabric that shimmers with every step, catching the dim party lights. the bodice is scattered with tiny embroidered stars, and the skirt has a subtle iridescence, shifting between silver and pale blue as you move. your jewelry is just as delicate—dangling earrings shaped like crescent moons. atop your hair sits a headband, adorned with silver moons and twinkling stars. seunghyun had grinned when he saw you, adjusting the nasa patch on his astronaut suit before reaching out to spin you in place.

you don’t separate when you step inside. instead, his hand stays on the small of your back. someone shoves drinks into your hands the second you reach the kitchen—something bright and sugary, probably way too strong—but neither of you mind. a group is playing beer pong in the living room, another is huddled around a tiny table, laughing over some drinking game with cards. in the corner, someone’s passed out in a vampire cape, an empty bowl of candy resting on their lap. the night moves in a blur. you and seunghyun barely leave each other’s side, moving together through the party, dancing till his hair starts sticking to his forehead from sweat. between songs, you weave through the party together, stopping to talk to friends, laughing at half-drunken conversations, clinking cups and playing games. someone compliments your matching costumes, and seunghyun just grins, tugging playfully at the fabric of your dress. “told you we’d have the best costumes. i mean, what’s an astronaut without his moon?”

eventually, the heat and the crowd become too much, and seunghyun leans in close, voice just loud enough over the music. “let’s go outside for a bit.” you follow him through the packed room and out the back door, the chilly night air biting at your skin. the backyard is quiet compared to the chaos inside, just the faint murmur of distant conversations and the occasional burst of laughter. seunghyun pulls a cigarette from his pocket, then offers you one without a word. you take it, watching as he lights his first, the glow flickering against his face before he leans in to light yours. you take a slow drag before exhaling. “having fun?” he asks. you smirk. “define fun.” he chuckles, shaking his head. “you took more shots than me earlier. you’re definitely drunk.” “tipsy,” you correct, nudging him with your elbow. “big difference.” he hums in response, taking a drag of his own. for a moment, there’s only silence, the two of you standing side by side, watching the way the smoke curls into the cold air. “the party is actually good,” he says. “way better than i expected. i was killing it at beer pong.” “you lost.” “okay, but it was a close game.” you shake your head, laughing. “so this is a ten out of ten night for you?” “pretty much,” he grins. “good music, free booze, and…” he hesitates for a second before saying, “you. what more could i want?” you feel warmth creep up your neck, but you keep your expression neutral, taking a slow drag of your cigarette. “drunk flirty hyun… that’s new.” he scoffs, shaking his head. “that wasn’t—” he starts, but then he stops, like he realizes mid-sentence that there’s no point in denying it. instead, he exhales, flicking ash off his cigarette. “i was just being honest.” he takes another drag, exhaling slowly after, watching the way the smoke drifts into the cold air before his gaze drifts back to you. he’s so screwed. because you’re smiling, the glow of the party lights casting this ridiculous golden halo around you. your lips are glossy, your smile lifting your cheeks, making you look even cuter, and your hair—god, your hair—looks so soft he has to physically stop himself from reaching out and running his fingers through it. you’re beautiful. and he’s so stupidly in love. you turn to look at him, brows raising slightly. ��what?” you ask, amusement flickering in your eyes. seunghyun blinks, realizing too late that he’s been staring. “nothing,” he says, a little too quickly, taking another drag of his cigarette like that’ll somehow make him look less obvious. you tilt your head, the corner of your lips quirking up. “you sure?” you press, watching him. seunghyun hesitates for half a second, then just smiles, soft and a little shy. “yeah. just… spaced out for a second.” “mhmm,” you hum, clearly unconvinced, but you don’t push. instead, you take another slow drag of your cigarette. after a moment, you flick the end of it away, stretching slightly. “wanna go back in?” he nods. “yeah.” “only if you take another shot with me.” seunghyun huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “figured there was a catch.” “come on, hyun,” you grin, tugging at his sleeve. “just one more.” and he’s already moving, already following you back inside, because he’s so far gone for you it’s pathetic.

after a couple of hours, when the party starts to lose its spark and exhaustion settles in, he leans in, voice low near your ear. “you wanna head out?” you nod, stretching your arms with a yawn. “yeah, just need to grab my coat. left it in one of the rooms.” he doesn’t say anything, just follows when you turn to go. the house is still loud, music pulsing from the main room, but out here in the hallway, it’s quieter, the chatter more distant. you push open the door to a small room, stepping inside. your coat is draped over the back of a chair, right where you left it. seunghyun’s inside too, standing just a few steps away. you shake out your coat, ready to slip it on, but before you can, he steps closer. “here,” he offers, voice quieter now, more careful. “let me.”

you hesitate for half a second before nodding, handing it over. he takes it gently, holding it open as you slide your arms through the sleeves. his hands brush against your shoulders as he settles it into place, a touch so light it barely lingers, but it’s enough to send a shiver down your spine. neither of you move right away. you can feel him behind you, his warmth, the way he still hasn’t stepped back. slowly, you turn to face him. his gaze flickers over you, taking you in like he’s memorizing every detail. then, so quietly it almost disappears into the space between you, he says, “do you wanna know what i was thinking before? when we were outside?” you hum in response, nodding slightly. “i was thinking… you’re beautiful. you’re so, so beautiful.” “you’re drunk,” you say, but it comes out quieter than you intended. he exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. “i know what i’m saying.” you hold his gaze, fingers curling inside your sleeves. “you sure?” you laugh softly. his voice is quieter when he speaks again. “yeah. it’s not a bad thing. thinking you’re beautiful… calling you beautiful.” his gaze flickers, dropping briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes. “you shouldn’t look at me like that,” you say. he steps just the slightest bit closer, gaze never leaving yours. “like what?” “like that,” you mutter, looking away. he’s quiet for a moment, then—“maybe you should stop looking at me like that, too.” your eyes snap back to his, heart pounding in your chest. “i’m not,” you argue, but it’s unconvincing. he smiles. “yes, you are.” you blink, heat spreading through your cheeks. “hyun…” you start, but the words catch in your throat. his smile lingers. “what?” “don’t do that.” “do what?” “act like you know what’s going on in my head.” his expression softens just slightly, but there’s something careful in the way he tilts his head, watching you. “don’t i?” of course he does. it’s infuriating, really, the way he can pick apart your thoughts without you saying a word. his eyes search yours, and then, he studies you for a long moment, like he’s trying to decide if he should even say what he’s about to say at all. but the words escape his lips before he can stop them. “i still have feelings for you.” “hyun—” “they never went away,” he cuts in. “you never noticed?” “i don’t—i don’t know.” “i thought you did,” he murmurs. “sometimes, it felt like you did. but maybe i was just seeing what i wanted to see.” he pauses. “sorry, i don’t want to make things weird, i know the breakup is recent for you, i just—i needed to say it,” his voice is quieter now, like he’s already made peace with whatever answer he thinks is coming. you glance up at him and he looks like he’s already preparing himself for the worst. and that’s what does it. that’s what makes the words slip past your lips before you can overthink them. “i… i do too.” “what?” “i have feelings for you too,” you say. “for a while now.” his expression softens, something flickering in his gaze—relief. “really?” “mhm.” you nod with a shy smile.

he exhales, like he’s been holding in the breath this whole time. and then, before you can process it, he takes a step closer, hand reaching up to brush against your cheek, gentle. your breath stutters as his face inches closer, his eyes flickering to your lips, giving you time to pull away if you want to. but you don’t. except, just as his lips nearly graze yours, panic flares in your chest, and you instinctively turn your head. “wait—” he freezes immediately, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “oh. sorry. too fast?” “no, no.” “what’s wrong?” you press your lips together. “i just… i haven’t kissed anyone other than my ex before.” your voice is small, embarrassed. “i don’t know—i don’t know how to do this. i’m nervous.” his brows lift slightly before a small smile tugs at his lips, understanding. “you think i have?” “what?” “you’re the only person i’ve liked other than my ex. i haven’t kissed anyone either.” the confession eases some of the nerves coiled in your stomach. “it’s okay to be nervous,” he says softly. “we don’t have to rush anything.”

you chew on your bottom lip. the way he’s looking at you makes you feel a little braver. seunghyun hesitates, then asks, “do you want to try?” he’s waiting—patient, not pushing, just letting you decide. and that just makes you want it more. “yes.” your voice is quiet. “i want to try.” his lips twitch up in a small smile, and he nods once. his gaze dips to your lips for just a second before meeting your eyes again, waiting for you to make the first move. you take a shaky breath before you lean in. it’s barely a kiss, just the softest press of your lips against his. you pull back almost immediately, nerves sparking in your chest. he stays close, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at each other. “you okay?” he murmurs. you nod quickly, cheeks burning. “yeah.” a small, shy smile on your lips. his own smile widens just a little. “can we—can we try again?” you whisper. this time, when you lean in, he meets you halfway. the second kiss is different. his lips fit against yours like they were always meant to. you feel his hand slide to the curve of your jaw, his thumb brushing your skin so delicately that it makes your stomach flip. your fingers find the fabric of his costume, curling slightly as you let yourself lean into him, let yourself fall into the moment. the kiss deepens naturally, neither of you rushing, just learning each other in quiet, stolen seconds. he tilts his head slightly, and the shift makes it even better—your lips molding together, the warmth of him surrounding you. his nose brushes against yours as you part. your lashes flutter open, meeting his gaze. “was that okay?” he murmurs. you let out a breathless laugh, nodding. “more than okay.” “good.” he laughs too.

you spend more time with each other after that night, if that’s even possible. it becomes routine. you wake up expecting to see him at some point in the day. if you don’t, it feels off, like something’s missing. sometimes, you’ll spend hours together without saying much, just existing in the same space. other times you’ll talk for hours, trading secrets you’ve never told anyone, laughing until your stomachs hurt. seunghyun is so in love. oh, so in love… sometimes, when he’s lying awake at night, staring at his ceiling, he feels almost angry at himself—for waiting so long, for not realizing sooner. he thinks about the time he wasted, stuck in something that was never meant to last, convincing himself that love was supposed to be hard, that it was supposed to be painful and exhausting. but with you, it’s so fucking easy. he’s starting to believe what people say. first love is beautiful, sure. but second love? second love is real. second love is unforgettable. seunghyun is down bad. your presence alone is enough to set every nerve in his body on fire. and when you laugh—god, when you laugh—he thinks he could live off that sound alone. and maybe it’s crazy, but sometimes, he finds himself thinking—this is it, isn’t it? this is the kind of love people write about. he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that no one—not his first love, not anyone—has ever made him feel like this. he’s never felt love like this before. but he never wants to go another day without it. without you.

the way you kiss him it’s intoxicating. seunghyun has kissed before, obviously. with you, it’s different. because when you do, slow, like you’re savoring every second, it makes his head spin more than anything else ever has. because the way you pull back just to look at him, eyes flickering between his—your hands on him, like you need to be touching him—makes his chest ache in the best way. makes him feel like the most important person in the world. sometimes, it starts soft, just a lingering press of lips. other times, it’s urgent. but you don’t push for more, and neither does he. not because you don’t want to, but because that’s already enough.

that’s why he doesn’t expect that, one day, while you’re making out on his couch, you straddle him—your knees pressing into the couch on either side of him, your hands settling on his shoulders. and seunghyun? he forgets how to breathe. his brain short-circuits. like, completely shuts down. his hands hover awkwardly at your waist, fingers twitching, unsure if he should actually touch you or just die right then and there. because holy shit. you don’t seem to notice his internal crisis, too caught up in the moment, too focused on the way his lips and tongue move against yours. but he notices—notices the way your body presses flush against his, the way your weight settles onto his lap, the way your fingers thread into his hair, tugging slightly. his self-control? hanging by a thread. your breath is uneven when you pull back to meet his gaze, your lips a little swollen. “is this okay?” you ask, voice soft. he exhales, hands smoothing over your waist. “yeah,” he breathes. “is it okay for you?” “mhm,” you nod.

you kiss him again, and this time, it’s different. it’s charged. seunghyun feels it in the way your hands slide from his shoulders to the nape of his neck. he feels it in the way your lips move against his. but most of all, he feels it when you shift in his lap, pressing down. just the slightest movement. he inhales sharply, his grip on your waist tightening as his body tenses beneath you. it’s not even really a movement, more of a hesitant roll of your hips against his, but fuck, it sends heat straight to the bulge in his pants. his brain barely has time to process what’s happening before you do it again. this time, he can’t stop the quiet groan that slips past his lips, low and almost pained, his hands digging into your hips on instinct.

he lets you. lets you move against him however you want, lets himself feel you. your movements start slow, almost experimental, like you’re figuring this out as you go, like you’re getting used to the feel of him beneath you. but when you find a rhythm—when you finally press against him fully, rolling your hips down just right—oh boy. his head tips back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut, a shaky breath slipping past his lips. he’s done for. you lean in, pressing a kiss just under his jaw, and he groans, low in his throat, his hands sliding down to squeeze your ass like he’s trying to keep himself together. “fuck,” he mutters, half to himself, half to you. “you’re gonna kill me.” you smile against his skin, and it’s unfair, so unfair, because you know what you’re doing to him. you know, and you keep going. the friction is perfect—every movement sending a pulse of heat through his body, enough to drive him crazy, enough to have his dick twitching in his pants.

his breathing comes out in short, uneven gasps as he grits his teeth, trying to hold on, trying to stay in control. but he can’t. because the way you sound—soft, breathy little moans escaping your lips—paired with the friction of you against him? it’s too fucking much. he’s already so close, already on the edge before he even realizes it. and when you press down just right, his stomach tightens. “shit—!” his whole body tenses as the pleasure hits him, crashing over him before he can stop it. his breath catches in his throat, a choked moan slipping past his lips, his fingers gripping your ass hard. he stills completely, chest rising and falling against yours, and it takes a second before he realizes what just happened. he ruined his pants. fuck. his face burns as the reality sets in. you blink at him, confused at first, before realization dawns in your expression. “oh.” seunghyun groans, tilting his head back, dragging his hands down his face, mortified. “don’t.” his voice is muffled against his palms. “don’t say anything.” but it’s too late. you giggle, and that just makes his ears go even redder. you lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and whisper, “cute.” “i’m sorry,” he says, embarrassed. “it’s okay, baby,” you giggle again. after a moment, he laughs too.

the physical side of your relationship isn’t something either of you are shying away from anymore. the kisses get longer. deeper. and there’s more touching now. it starts happening more often, too. you’re figuring each other out, taking your time. memorizing the way each other moves, the way each other reacts. you’re learning him, and he’s learning you.

it’s natural that you start wanting more. that’s why, one night, late in his room, you find yourself lying beneath him, bodies tangled in his sheets. hands are everywhere. his lips leave yours only to trail down your jaw, down your neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. he loves this—loves the way you shiver, loves the way your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging slightly when he nips at the sensitive spot just below your ear. “seunghyun,” you breathe, and he swears he could die happy right now. his hands slide lower, fingers on your right thigh. you shift beneath him, pressing closer, sighing when his hand finally trails higher. his fingers move along the fabric between your legs. his touch featherlight, barely-there, but still enough to make you squirm. oh lord jesus, he nearly loses it right there. “you’re so fucking pretty,” he mutters against your skin. “my pretty, pretty girl.” you’re warm and soft, reacting to every little touch, every slow drag of his fingers. he can feel your heartbeat beneath his mouth as he kisses along your throat, your chest rising and falling a little too fast. his own breathing is just as uneven as yours now. he’s so hard it’s almost embarrassing. “tell me what you want, baby,” he murmurs. “i’ll give you anything, just—” “touch me, seunghyun,” you say softly. oh, you don’t need to tell him twice! he unbuttons your pants, sliding them down slowly. his fingers hook into the waistband, knuckles brushing against your hips as he tugs the fabric down, past your thighs, past your knees, until they’re bunched at your ankles. he takes his time pulling them off completely. his fingers slip beneath the thin fabric of your underwear next, dragging them down until they’re gone.

his hand goes right back where you want it. two of his fingers slide against you, teasing. feeling exactly how wet you are for him. the way your juices coat his fingertips, makes him groan, the sound vibrating low in his throat. his thumb drags over your clit, rubbing slow circles, and the reaction is immediate—your breath catches, your thighs twitch and your hips jerk slightly, a soft moan escaping your lips. oh that sound… his cock throbs in his jeans. “tell me if it’s too much. or if you want more.” your response comes fast—a shaky, desperate whisper. “more.” you beg, voice trembling. “more, seunghyun.” “more what, baby?” he teases, his thumb still working your clit. you whimper. “y-your fingers.” he chuckles softly, one of his fingers gently parting your folds before he pushes it in, sinking into your pussy with no resistance. “like this?” you nod, biting your lip. he begins pumping his finger slowly in and out and your breath comes faster, mingling with the wet sounds of his finger fucking you. when he adds another finger, your hands grip his arms, trying to hold onto something. he watches you, completely transfixed by how beautiful you look right now—lips parted, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. “that feel good, hm?” he asks as he curls his fingers inside you, pressing against that one spot “y-yes! o-oh my—!” so he gives you more. his fingers thrust deeper and faster, curling just right, and your moans turn into whimpers. your thighs tremble and seunghyun can feel how close you are, how your body is tensing, your gummy walls squeezing his fingers. “hyun, i-i’m—i’m gonna—!” “i know, baby… give it to me.” one more thrust of his fingers, one more firm stroke of his thumb against your clit and your back arches—a sharp, desperate moan spilling from your lips—your body shuddering, clenching down around his fingers. he gives you a moment to catch your breath before he leans in. he presses a kiss to your forehead. “next time,” he murmurs against your skin, pressing another kiss, “i’m using my mouth.”

and he keeps his promise! it happens on a lazy sunday morning, right before your scheduled museum date. he shows up at your place a few minutes early, too excited to see you, too impatient to wait. maybe he had good intentions, but the second he sees you in that dress… he almost wishes to be a father. because what the fuck—you just look so good. soft and pretty, hair still slightly messy from getting ready in a rush, your perfume fresh in the air… his hands are on you before he even realizes it, pulling you in by the waist. you blink up at him, confused at first, lips parted, breath hitching slightly at the way he’s looking at you. that man is hungry. and he shows it with his kisses. “we—” you try to speak in between them. “we’re gonna be late—” “don’t care, i wanna taste you,” he mutters against your lips, hands sliding beneath the hem of your dress. “can i?”

and not even three minutes later, his head is buried between your thighs, his grip firm as he holds you in place. the first taste of you nearly ruins him—his low groan vibrating against your skin as his tongue works with a hunger that borders on desperate. your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging when he flattens his tongue against you. “s-seunghyun!” you moan loudly. music to his ears. he loves the way you whimper, the way your body shudders when he flicks your clit with his tongue, then sucking it just enough to make your thighs tremble. his grip on them is borderline bruising, but you don’t care—not when he’s got his mouth on you like this. “fuck, you taste so good,” he mutters against you, breath hot, voice thick with need. “so fuckin’ sweet.” “y-you always this needy?” you manage to tease, but your voice is shaky. he chuckles. “says the one trying to suffocate me with her thighs.” you open your mouth to fire back, but he circles your clit with his tongue, and whatever you were about to say turns into a sharp gasp. he grins against you, pleased with himself. and god, you’re already so close. he can feel it in the way your body tenses, the way your legs try to close around his head, the way your breath stutters into these soft, broken little moans. but he’s not done. he slides one hand up, fingers teasing at your entrance before slowly sliding inside. “fuck! f-fuck, hyun!” you cry from pleasure. “yes—ngh!—y-yes, baby, just like that! just like that!” your whole body jerks as his fingers move in perfect rhythm, tongue working you over even faster. “c’mon, baby,” he coaxes, pulling away just for a moment. “be good for me.” and that’s it. you choke on a moan, back arching as pleasure crashes through you. you cum on his tongue and he works you through it. licking and sucking even when your thighs shake. and when you try to pull away from the overstimulation, he doesn’t let up—not until he’s sure he’s gotten every last drop of it. finally, he pulls back, lips slick, eyes dark as he looks up at you, taking in the mess he’s made of you. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking before crawling up to press soft kisses to your jaw, your cheeks, the corner of your lips—gentle, like he’s trying to bring you back down. “you okay?” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “mhm,” you nod, still breathless. “yeah… just feel like jello.” he chuckles. “you’re so cute.” there’s something soft in the way he’s looking at you. your heart stutters, warmth blooming in your chest. “you’re such a sap,” you tease. he just grins, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips. “only for you.”

when valentine’s day rolls around, seunghyun makes sure you have the best one yet. he remembers—of course, he does—how you once mentioned that your ex never really cared about it, brushing off the day like it meant nothing. seunghyun, though, he isn’t like that. so when you walk through the door after a long day at university, you almost miss it at first. your brain is too tired to register the burst of color sitting on the living room table. but then, your eyes land on it, and for a second, you think you’ve walked into the wrong place. a massive bouquet of flowers sits right in the center, petals soft and vibrant like they belong in a fairytale. two—no, three—boxes of chocolate are stacked neatly beside it, ribbons tied in perfect bows. you blink, then blink again. “what the…” you murmur, stepping closer, fingertips grazing the velvety petals. there’s a small note tucked between the stems, and when you pull it out, your lips part into a slow, disbelieving smile. ‘because you deserve to be spoiled. i’ll pick you up for dinner (make sure to wear that beautiful smile of yours). happy valentine’s day, baby. — your hyun.’ you don’t even realize you’re smiling so hard until your cheeks start to hurt. warmth spreads through your chest, making you feel a little ridiculous, a little too giddy, but you don’t care. grabbing your phone, you call him immediately. “hi, baby—” “you’re insane,” you cut in, still staring at the bouquet. “this is—seunghyun, what the fuck?” his soft chuckle comes through the speaker, warm and just a little shy. “so, you liked it?” “liked it?” you echo, shaking your head. “i love it. i—how did you even—when did you—ugh. you didn’t have to, baby.” “i wanted to. your parents helped me set it up.” his voice is so sure, so simple, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. and maybe it is—to him, at least. “thank you.” your fingers play with the edge of the little note, eyes flicking over the words again. “did you read the note?” he asks. “yeah,” you nod, even though he can’t see you. “i read it. where are you taking me?” “surprise.” “hyun—” “you’ll see later.” “i need to know so that i can—” “huh? wait—hold on, i think you’re cutting out.” his voice suddenly sounds distant, like he’s holding the phone away from his mouth. “hello? can you hear me?” you narrow your eyes. “don’t even start.” “ah, damn. i think my signal’s bad.” he makes a few static noises with his mouth, so ridiculously fake you almost drop your phone from laughing. “you’re a dork, you know that?” more static—or at least his sad attempt at it. “what? i—i can’t—losing connection—” “seunghyun, you’re literally at home.” he clears his throat. “gotta go, baby, see you at seven!” the call ends before you can say another word. you stare at your screen, completely unimpressed, but also grinning like an idiot. he’s gonna be the end of you.

he takes you to one of the fanciest restaurants you’ve ever been in, which makes you wonder how the hell he managed to afford all this. but knowing him, he’s probably been saving up for weeks, quietly planning everything down to the last detail. dinner feels like time slowing down in the best way. seunghyun watches you more than he eats, eyes crinkling whenever you ramble about something or get too caught up in telling a story. and when the check comes, you barely get the chance to reach for your purse before seunghyun is already handing over his card, like every time you go out. stepping outside, the cool air wraps around you, crisp and refreshing after the warmth of the restaurant. seunghyun is close beside you, his hand brushing against yours before he finally just takes it, fingers slotting together. you squeeze his hand lightly, glancing up at him, but he’s already looking at you, eyes soft under the glow of the city lights.

as you settle into the car, seunghyun doesn’t start the engine right away. instead, he reaches into the pocket of his coat. you stare at him, curious, but before you can ask, he pulls out a small, velvet box and holds it out to you. “i got you something,” he smiles, voice a little quieter than usual. “what—? hyun—” “shh, let me spoil you,” he chuckles. your fingers hesitate for a second before you take it, the soft material cool against your palm. your chest tightens slightly as you flip it open, revealing a delicate necklace inside. the pendant is small, understated, but beautiful—exactly the kind of thing you’d pick for yourself. you exhale, running your thumb over the tiny charm. “oh my—i love it!” “i saw it and thought of you.” “it’s perfect, baby. thank you.” his lips twitch into a small smile. “let me put it on you.” you turn slightly, gathering your hair to one side as he takes the necklace from the box. he fastens it behind your neck, his fingers brushing lightly along the back of your shoulder. he lingers, adjusting the clasp, making sure it sits just right before letting his hands drop. you glance down, fingertips brushing over the pendant as a soft smile tugs at your lips. seunghyun leans back slightly, eyes flickering over you before settling on your face. “my pretty, pretty, pretty girl.” you shake your head with a small laugh, warmth blooming in your chest. “okay, your turn.” his brows furrow slightly. “my turn?” you reach into your bag, pulling out a small, neatly wrapped package before placing it in his hands. “yeah. you didn’t think you were the only one with surprises tonight, did you?” “you got me something?” he’s not used to being on the receiving end of surprises. “of course, i did,” you say, handing it to him. “now, open it.”

as soon as the paper wrapper falls away, his expression shifts. a hardcover book with a deep, star-speckled cover. his fingers graze over the title—the art of the cosmos—a collection of celestial-inspired artwork, paintings, sculptures, and photography, all centered around space. he flips through the pages slowly, carefully, eyes taking in the images of galaxies captured in oil paint, nebulas carved into stone, planets sculpted from glass. “i know how much you love space,” you say, watching his reaction closely. “and art, of course. so… i wanted you to have something that combined the two things you love the most, something that feels like you. it’s not—it’s not as fancy as… everything that you’ve prepared but—” before you can finish, seunghyun leans in, pressing his lips to yours. when he finally pulls away, he stays close, forehead barely an inch from yours. “don’t ever say that again.” “say what?” “that it’s not—” he exhales, shaking his head. “you could’ve given me a damn rock, and i’d still love it because it’s from you.” your heart stumbles a little, and you let out a soft laugh. “this is perfect, baby,” he says, flipping through the pages again. “you’re really the best.” you smile, watching the way his eyes soften as he takes in every detail. “i’m just glad you like it.” he sets the book down carefully on the dashboard before turning fully toward you.

he smiles, but there’s something behind it—something hesitant, like he’s trying to work up the courage to say something else. his knee bounces slightly, and his fingers tap against his thigh, a sign that there’s more on his mind. you tilt your head. “what?” he exhales sharply, shaking his head before letting out a soft laugh. “nothing, just…” he looks down at your hand resting between you, then, as if on instinct, reaches for it. he rubs his thumb over your knuckles, staring at your joined hands for a second before finally speaking. “let me be your boyfriend,” he says. “i know we haven’t really put a name on what this is, but i want to. i want you. i don’t want there to be any doubt about where we stand.” you must’ve started smiling like an absolute idiot because the second he sees it, he starts smiling too. “seunghyun, you’ve been my boyfriend in my head for months now,” you laugh, shaking you head. “so… that’s a yes?” “of course it’s a yes!” without giving him time to react, you press a quick, fleeting kiss to his lips. but before you can even pull away, seunghyun tugs you back in, kissing you with a much deeper intensity. your lips part instinctively, letting him in, his tongue gliding against yours. your fingers find his face, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, thumb brushing gently over his cheek as you do everything in your power to keep from moaning into his mouth. he’s such a good kisser… his lips hot and soft against yours, tilting his head so that you fit just right… his lips leave yours only to trail along the corner of your mouth, before sliding down to your jaw. he takes his time, lingering there, and then he makes his way down. his face buries into the crook of your neck for a moment, and you can feel his smile against your skin. you run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck before pulling back just enough to look at him. “i love you,” he says. your lips part slightly, something swelling in your chest so big it almost hurts, and then you’re smiling. “i love you too, hyun.”

you can’t lie—loving seunghyun is kind of terrifying. not in a bad way, not in the he’s going to hurt me kind of way, but in the this is real and i don’t want to mess it up way. you’ve both been through it. cheated on, strung along, left to piece together whatever crumbs of affection your exes were willing to throw your way. it’s hard to unlearn that, hard to trust that someone wants you without expecting you to beg for it. and even though this is different—he’s different—it’s hard to shake the nerves, the fear that if you let yourself have this, really have it, something will go wrong. maybe that’s why, even now, after a long, perfect night, when you’re curled up with him on the couch, a movie playing but barely holding your attention, you still feel jittery. and when things start heating up (like they usually do) you feel embarrassingly new to it all. like you’re back at square one. like you’re a virgin all over again. “you’re shaking,” says seunghyun quietly, breath shuddering when his condom-wrapped tip presses slightly against your entrance. “we don’t have to do this—“ “i want to,” you reassure him. “i really do. i’m just… nervous.” intimacy can be scary, especially when it’s with someone new. “i know, baby. me too,” he admits. “i’ll go slow. just hold onto me.” so you do. your hands find his arms, gripping them lightly as he hovers over you, his eyes locked onto yours. “kiss me,” you whisper. he smiles before he leans in, pressing his lips to yours. then, as he moves, as he pushes into you, a sharp gasp escapes your lips, breaking the kiss. your fingers tighten around his arms, nails pressing lightly into his skin as you adjust to the stretch, the way he fills you so completely. he’s holding himself back, he’s trying to let you set the pace. his lips brush against your jaw pressing soft kisses on your skin before he kisses the side of your neck. “hyun… you—” your words falter as he presses in deeper, your back arching instinctively. “shit! you feel so good.” “tell me what you need, baby,” he says. your body already knows the answer before your lips do. you move your hips slightly, urging him deeper, making him exhale. “deeper,” you reply. “and faster. please.”

the room turns into a mess—moans, heavy breathing, the sharp slap of skin against skin. seunghyun’s fucking into you like he’ll never get another chance, and all you can do is take it, legs wrapped tight around his waist, nails dragging down his back as he fills you over and over again. he leans in, mouth hot against your neck. “you like that, baby?” his teeth graze your skin before he presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss just beneath your jaw. “y-yes!” he’s deep, so deep, hitting that perfect spot that makes your eyes roll back, your mouth falling open, too lost in the way he’s ruining you to say anything coherent. “can f-feel you squeezing me—a-ah! fuck, baby!” he moans. and the desperate sound you make back only seem to push him further, make him rougher. your body responds instinctively, meeting his thrusts, rolling your hips slightly against him. oh, fuck. oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. he’s barely holding it together as it is hearing you moan under him like that, but that thing you just did? it almost sends seunghyun to an early grave. his hips snap into you harder, completely abandoning whatever self-control he thought he had, grip tightening on your hips so hard he’s pretty sure he’s leaving marks. “shit!—h-hyun! ah, fuck! f-fuck, y-yeah! baby, mmph!” you sound so fucking good, all needy and breathless, and he wants to loop it in his brain forever, build a shrine to the way you just moaned his name like that. he knew sex with you would be good, but this? this is some life-altering, religious experience type shit.

the pleasure is intense, rolling through you in waves so strong it’s almost embarrassing how quickly you start feeling your orgasm build up in your lower stomach. seunghyun’s entire body is tight. muscles straining, his thrusts turning more desperate, more frantic, because he can feel how close you are, the way your thighs are shaking, the way your moans are turning higher, almost pleading. and fuck, he’s so close… but he needs to take you with him. his grip shifts, one hand sliding between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. the second he rubs tight, messy circles over it, your whole body jerks beneath him, a gasp breaking from your lips. “that’s it, baby,” he breathes, “cum… cum with me.” your walls flutter around him, clenching so tight it nearly sends him into another dimension. and when you finally snap, it hits hard—your back arches, your thighs shake, and your moans are loud enough to make your neighbors hate you. thank god your parents aren’t home. seunghyun groans, slamming into you a few more times before he loses it, burying himself deep as he follows right after, cursing under his breath. for a second, all you can hear is the sound of your ragged breathing and the rapid thud of your heartbeat. his forehead drops against your shoulder, both of you still panting, his hands lazily running over your skin. his body feels wrecked in the best way, his mind still floating somewhere between reality and the aftershocks of the best orgasm he’s ever had. his lips press against your temple as your breathing slows. “come on, baby,” he murmurs. “let’s shower.” you groan in protest, making him chuckle. so fucking cute. he kisses your lips. “you wanna sleep like this?” he teases. you sigh dramatically, blinking up at him with that hazy, fucked-out look that makes his stomach clench. “fine, let’s go shower,” you laugh softly.

the bed is soft, the sheets cool against your skin as you sink into them, your body still warm from the shower. you barely have time to settle before seunghyun climbs in beside you, immediately pulling you against him. his arms wrap around your waist, tugging you close until your back is flush against his chest. his body is warm, solid, and when he exhales, you feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing against your spine. one of his hands slips beneath the hem of your shirt—his shirt, really—his fingertips tracing patterns along your stomach. his lips press against the back of your neck, soft, before he nuzzles into you, his nose brushing against your hair. you smile, closing your eyes. nothing else has ever felt this right. your fingers move against his hand, barely tracing over his skin, and he hums in response, shifting slightly to bury his face further into your hair. “comfy?” he murmurs, voice lower now, sleepier. “mmhm.” you squeeze his hand, barely awake. “you?” he presses another kiss to the back of your neck. “always. i love you.” “i love you too,” you whisper. “sleep, baby.” and right before you drift off, you feel it—his lips pressing one last kiss to the back of your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin.

two years have passed. but it doesn’t feel like two years. it feels like forever. like there was never a version of your life before him, only with him. when you sleep together, mornings always start the same: seunghyun wakes up first, but he never gets out of bed before you. instead, he buries his face into your neck, pressing lazy kisses against your skin until you finally stir. you’ve built a life together in these little rituals—the way he always holds your hand when you walk anywhere, the way you sit between his legs on the couch when you watch movies, your back pressed against his chest, his arms locked around your waist. the way he’ll randomly pull you onto his lap while he’s studying at his desk, murmuring “i concentrate better like this.” knowing damn well he doesn’t. and talking about studies… you two can barely focus, study sessions always turn into giggling messes where he pretends to be paying attention to his notes but spends half the time sneaking glances at you instead. cramming for exams together is another challenge, he makes flashcards and tries to quiz you, only for you to distract him by climbing onto his lap, trailing kisses down his neck until he groans and tosses the cards aside. you’re both exhausted half the time, pulling all-nighters with caffeine and takeout, but he’s there, and that makes it bearable.

you travel together, not often but enough—weekend getaways, road trips that always start with him in control of the music and end with you fighting over who gets to dj. there was the time you went to a cabin in the mountains, curled up by the fireplace with wine, the two of you getting way too competitive over board games. or that one chaotic trip where you completely missed your bus, got lost trying to find your hotel, and ended up walking for miles in the rain. you were so close to breaking down, but seunghyun just pulled you into a convenience store, bought you a hot drink, and said, “we’ll figure it out, baby. we’re together, that’s what matters.” and somehow, it turned into one of your favorite memories.

his mom adores you. always sends you food, always texts you on random days asking how you’re doing. one time, she pulled out his baby pictures, and now you will never let him live them down. his dad always cracks jokes about how he’s never seen seunghyun this soft before. your family adores him too, inevitably hyping him up for any polite gesture, since they’re not used to you having someone so nice by your side (your last boyfriend was a questionable human being…) they always gush about how sweet seunghyun is, how he takes such good care of you.

two years of love slipping into every part of your life—small, everyday things turning into your things. you have a shared playlist called ‘let me spill your coffee’. it’s a mix of songs you love, songs that remind him of you, and stupid meme songs he adds just to annoy you. the bookshelf in the corner of your room is overflowing, pictures of the two of you and a few stuffed animals he’s gifted you shoved in between. a small framed picture sits on the very top shelf, one from a winter night when the world outside was covered in snow. you’re bundled up in his scarf while he stands behind you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. there are tiny snowflakes caught in his hair, and even through the blur of the picture, you can tell he’s smiling. there’s a strip of photo booth pictures tucked behind a stuffed bear he won for you at a carnival. in the first frame, you’re both grinning wide; in the second, he’s caught off guard as you surprise him with a kiss on the cheek. by the third, he’s laughing, and in the last one, he’s holding your face between his hands, pressing his forehead to yours. another picture taken on your second new year’s eve together. you’re curled up next to him on the couch, confetti still in your hair. he’s looking at you instead of the camera, a small, stupidly in-love smile on his face. you hadn’t noticed it at first, but when you did, it made your chest ache in the best way. and then, tucked behind a row of books, there’s the oldest one of all. the very first picture you ever took together, when you were only friends. it’s a little blurry, the lighting terrible, but you remember everything about that day. how he made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt. how you didn’t know then what you know now—that this would be the first of many.

above your bed, there’s a painting. one he made for you on your first anniversary. deep blues and purples, swirling together like a galaxy, with tiny flecks of gold scattered like stars. in the bottom corner, barely noticeable unless you look closely, he wrote ‘us’. you didn’t see it at first, but when you did, you nearly cried. the record player he bought you for your birthday sits by the window, a vinyl still on it from the last time he was over. and your toothbrush sits next to his in the cup by the sink. there’s also an extra charger on your nightstand—his, since he spends so much time at your house. there’s a worn-out polaroid tucked into the frame of your mirror, slightly bent at the edges from how many times you’ve taken it out to look at it. it’s your favorite picture of the two of you—summer night at the beach, your hair messy from the wind, his arm slung over your shoulders, both of you grinning like you have the entire world in your hands. because it felt like you did. and it still feels like you do. because somehow, even after all this time, nothing has faded. two years of love wrapped around your life, yet every touch, every glance, still feels like the first. and every single day, in a million different ways, you keep choosing each other.

i hope you enjoyed! thank you for reading <3

tag list: @kaerasti49

[mocchiixxx]

Twice the Trouble, Twice the Love

(Vernon X Reader)

Genre: Fluff, Crack, Established Relationship

Summary: Dating you is like having a second Sungkwan in his life—loud, dramatic, and endlessly entertaining. Vernon wouldn’t have it any other way.

Vernon always knew dating you would be an experience.

But he didn’t realize he had basically signed up for double the Sungkwan energy until he caught you both arguing over which shade of pink is the superior pink.

"You cannot tell me that pastel pink isn’t elite!" you exclaim, hands dramatically thrown in the air.

Sungkwan scoffs, crossing his arms. (Cue the bombastic sassy side eye of him) "Bold of you to assume hot pink doesn’t carry the entire fashion industry on its back!"

Vernon, sitting between you two, sighs. "Again with the pink debate?"

You and Sungkwan both turn to him with the same exact look of betrayal.

“Hansolie, this is important,” you say seriously.

“Yeah, Vernon,” Sungkwan adds, nodding. “Pick a side.”

Vernon blinks. “...I refuse.”

"TRAITOR!" you both yell at the same time.

Vernon groans, rubbing his temples. He should’ve seen this coming. The two of you are basically one chaotic brain cell split into two people.

It was already bad enough when just Sungkwan would drag him into random debates about things like which bread brand is superior (spoiler: he does not care). But ever since you came into the picture?

His life has become twice the dramatic sighs, twice the debates, and twice the exaggerated reactions to literally everything.

And yet, Vernon finds himself grinning at the chaos.

Because despite all of it, he wouldn’t change a single thing.

—

Later that night, after Sungkwan leaves muttering about how 'Vernon's loyalty is questionable', you flop onto Vernon’s lap, stretching like a cat.

He quirks a brow. “Comfortable?”

“Very,” you hum, resting your head against his shoulder. “Your lap privileges have been granted.”

“Oh wow. I’m honored,” he deadpans, making you giggle.

Vernon wraps an arm around your waist, resting his chin on top of your head. You’re warm against him, the scent of your shampoo filling his senses, and for a moment, he just lets himself be.

It’s funny. Your personality is the complete opposite of his—you’re loud, dramatic, and never afraid to speak your mind. But somehow, it fits.

Because while you’re busy bringing the chaos, Vernon is there to ground it.

“You love me, right?” you murmur, tracing patterns on his sweater.

Vernon chuckles, tilting your chin up so you meet his gaze. “Obviously.”

“Like, a lot?”

“A ridiculous amount,” he confirms.

You grin, leaning closer. “Damn. You’re down bad for me.”

Vernon groans, flopping back against the couch. “Unfortunately.”

You burst out laughing, and the sound is his favorite thing in the world.

And as he pulls you in closer, Vernon realizes—no matter how chaotic you are, he’s hopelessly, completely, and unapologetically in love with you.

Even if it means dealing with double the Sungkwan energy for the rest of his life.

And honestly?

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

[oaksgrove]

Say a Little Prayer

Pairing: John Price x Jazz Singer!Reader

Synopsis: The 141’s usual pub was closed, leading them to a dimly lit jazz bar where the air smelled of whiskey and old memories. Price hadn’t expected much—until he saw you step onto the stage. Until he heard you sing. And from the first note, he knew he was in trouble.

Warnings: Fluff, tension, Price being utterly captivated, the squad teasing him, roach being a smirky little shit, and a whole lot of jazz club ambiance.

The pub they usually went to was closed. Some maintenance issue, a handwritten sign tacked onto the door with little explanation.

Soap had groaned in frustration. Gaz had suggested they just find another place nearby. And Ghost, ever the silent observer, had only adjusted his gloves before turning toward the next street.

That’s how they found themselves here.

The place was different from their usual haunt. Dim lighting, the flicker of candlelight at each table. The walls, lined with dark wood, held framed records, worn with time. Smoke curled in the air, the scent of whiskey, perfume, and something sweet.

Price liked it immediately.

There was a small stage near the back, bathed in warm, golden light. A band was setting up—a double bass, a piano, a muted trumpet. It wasn’t rowdy, no blaring jukebox or the crash of beer mugs. Just quiet conversation, the clink of glasses, and the low hum of the bass being tuned.

It felt… cozy. Intimate.

Then, you stepped onto the stage.

And everything else disappeared.

Price had been mid-sip, the rim of his glass just brushing his lips when you took the microphone. A vision in satin, the deep color of wine, hugging your form in all the right places. The light caught the delicate shimmer of your earrings, the gloss of your lips.

And then, you sang.

A slow, sultry melody. Your voice, warm and smooth as honey, curled around the words, lingering over the notes with an effortless grace.

Price didn’t realize he had stopped breathing.

“Bloody hell,” Soap muttered, leaning back in his chair. “Now that’s a voice.”

Gaz let out a low whistle, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Think I’m in love.”

Roach, quiet but ever observant, only smirked over the rim of his drink. His eyes flicked to Price, watching the way the older man’s gaze never left you.

Ghost? He just chuckled under his breath. “You’re fucked, mate.”

Price barely heard them.

He was watching the way your fingers curled around the mic stand, the way your lashes fluttered as you closed your eyes, lost in the song. The way your lips formed each note so perfectly, effortlessly. It wasn’t just singing—it was something else entirely. A spell, a seduction.

And Price? He was utterly captivated.

You caught his gaze once. Just a fleeting glance, nothing more. But it was enough.

Enough to make his pulse tick faster.

Enough to make him shift in his seat, exhaling slowly, as if that could settle the heat curling in his chest.

He’d been to countless pubs, seen countless singers, but none like you. None that made him forget his drink, his surroundings, even the men at his table.

The song ended, the last note lingering in the smoky air.

Scattered applause followed, murmured appreciation from the patrons. You smiled, dipped your head in thanks, and turned to speak with the pianist.

“Price.” Soap nudged his arm.

He barely blinked. “Hm?”

Soap grinned. “Go talk to her.”

Price scoffed, finally breaking his gaze away, reaching for his glass to mask the way his fingers felt restless. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Gaz smirked. “Come on. You’ve been making eyes at her all night.”

“She looked at him once,” Roach pointed out, amused.

Ghost leaned back, eyes glinting. “Which is more attention than Price usually gets.”

The table chuckled, but Price ignored them. He took another sip of his whiskey, letting the warmth settle in his chest.

Maybe he should talk to you.

Maybe he shouldn’t.

But when he glanced back at the stage, and found you looking at him again—this time with a hint of curiosity in your eyes—he knew one thing for certain.

He’d be coming back to this pub.

And next time, he wouldn’t just be watching from afar.

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth

[junedenim]

the shutterbugs

because it lasts forever

part 1

warnings: very smutty, very fluffy, slight slapping, chow town, blowie vill, piv palace, flash warning, recording warning

word count: 4k

You're standing in front of the produce, strawberries to be specific. One hand on the small shopping cart, the other on your chin. You're contemplating the strawberries. They aren't in season but they look perfectly sculpted, painted in a daunting red, designed to grab your eyes.

Then you hear the click. There he is. Alex. His tiny camera sitting in his hand. His brown leather jacket crinkles as he drops the camera down from his eyes, revealing his face. He plays the shy innocent card—bashful smile with those enamored brown eyes staring straight at you.

You giggle at the familiar sight. "God, you're like glorified paparazzi. You never leave me alone with that thing." You swat your hand at him and gaze back upon the strawberries.

He comes closer to you, one of his hands landing on your shoulder. "How could I?" He lands a kiss upon your cheek, gentle and soft.

You lift a carton, examining it. "Should I get strawberries?"

He pulls back, landing a hand on the small of your back. "Get whatever you want, love."

"I don't know if it'll be a waste of money." You tilt them in your hand trying to decide. It's easy for him to get lost in you in moments like this. That's why he takes pictures of all these little things. You make everything seem fun. The idea of the grocery store is a joy to you and something that was such a pain in his day, you make an adventure out of it, not only with his photography but with your behavior. 

"All eat 'em if you don't like 'em, so get 'em," Alex insists.

You hum, tapping your chin before exclaiming your decision, "Okay!"  You place them in the cart and start your stroll again. He lags behind to capture a picture. "Alex," you whine, "don't make me do all the work."

He snaps a shot of your frustrated face—nose wrinkled up, hand on your hip—before putting the camera away and taking over for you by pushing the cart. 

Things came easily in your relationship. He felt it was something you both just relaxed into the inevitability. In other relationships, this would have caused him trouble. He’s been called uncommunicative and taciturn for a time or twenty—something inherited from being a natural perceiver hidden behind the camera.

But this time was different. It was like a puzzle piece had fallen into place. Part of him slotted into part of you and that missing gap was no more. Maybe he’s becoming soppy, he’s been accused of that by some, including you—though that is more a teasing flirt than ridicule. 

He doesn’t mind. He takes it all with a shrug of his shoulders like yeah, no shit, how can you not be in love with her? 

*

Alex finds it weird that you, as a model, think having pictures of yourself is egotistical. He won’t pride himself and say he’s the greatest photographer of all time and he doesn’t have an altar dedicated to his work but he thinks homes are supposed to have pictures of loved ones. He reasons you’re a loved one so he should have pictures of you. He tries to convince you of this when you’re moving in.

You refuse every picture. He scrolls through each one trying to get you on his side. You shake your head at each one. There are the grocery shopping photos. There are the photos of you by the ocean wearing only bottoms (fair enough, if your parents ever visit). There’s one of you doing laundry, pissed off he was getting in your way. There’s the one when you painted his bedroom walls. 

You told him no person should have stark white walls. It makes you insane and the walls get super dirty. So, you painted them yellow with a bandana tying your hair back and a sunshine smile on your face. He asked you to move in that day.

“I’d like to have you around more often,” he said, standing on the ladder, perfecting the lines between the wall and the ceiling.

You giggled. “But I’m here all the time already.”

“Maybe you could live here all the time,” he offered plainly.

So, now there’s your clothes next to his clothes and way too many shoes on the rack and you have this weird powder you put in all your drinks that makes the water green. He had a taste of it once and almost vomited. But he sees that shade of green everywhere now because he thinks of you everywhere now. He likes the sight of your body next to his body.

The bed is warmer now and his house is starting to gain personality now, covered in colour and books and artwork, no longer looking like an asylum’s padded room. The world just seems to brighten up. He always found that to be cheesy, the way those people who aren’t in love roll their eyes when someone gushes, but he gets it now. As if the world was blurry and you’ve shifted it into focus.

Sometimes he feels crazy. He desires you violently. It’s kind of his every waking thought and he knows that’s crazy because it makes his heart beat really quickly and he’s aroused by just the thought of you. That’s certifiable. 

But then one time you straddled him in the morning. He had just woken up, barely had enough time to open his eyes before you were all over him. He never considered that he may want him this intensely too. Enough to crawl all over him during your first wink of the day. You’re uncontrollable. You’re licking up his body and you’re making him feel like he’s dead and you are the gates of heaven, slowly opening to him.

He reaches down in between the two front gates, runs his fingers through you. He brings it back up to his mouth just to taste it because he’s never tasted something quite so sweet. “They should make that into a lollipop,” he says.

“Shut up.” You hit his chest and he can tell you’re hungry for it. You would usually laugh at something like that but you’re horny, rubbing your cunt along his thigh, soaking your wetness on him. 

He puts his hands on your hips and stops your movement. He has you groaning and writhing against his hold. He’s hungry too but it’s nice to see you starve. “I was gonna give you a blowjob,” you say, “now I’m not so sure.”

Alex pouts. “You don’t behave well enough to give me a blowjob.”

You lean over him, your hair making a curtain around the two of you. “What do I behave well enough for?” Fuck. You’re whispering seductively, your breathing making love to his breathing, and it’s unfair when you have a voice like that. “What? Are you going to spank me?”

No, he doesn’t have the nerve for that. He doesn’t ever want you to hurt, even if you ask for it. Also, he thinks he’d be bad at it. Like it would be too soft or too half-hearted or he would rather fuck you within an inch of your life than smack you around. Fucking you sounds really fucking nice.

“Do you want to spank me?” He counters.

You straighten and laugh at him. It’s ruthless but he likes the feeling. You sober when you see his face. “Wait. Are you serious?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Hit me.”

You giggle nervously. “Like on the ass?”

“Wherever you want.” He does mind pain if it gives you pleasure.

You scoot down so you’re sitting on his thighs. “What if I kick you in the balls?”

He blushes and chuckles. “If you want, I would like to still have working function of my dick and I think you would too.”

You put your hand on his cock over his boxers. You press down on it placing pressure but not hurting him. “I wouldn’t kick you that hard.”

“I’ve seen you work out. I think I’d have to get a new set.”

You tilt your head back in laughter. Then, you pounce, laying your mouth on him, covering yourself over him. You kiss his bare chest, a straight line down from his Adam’s apple to his pubic mound. You bite into the waistband of his boxers, teething on them. Then, you drag until he pops out. 

You sit up again. “Should you roll over now so I can smack you?” You’re touching your lips together to reduce giggles.

“Don’t make fun of me. It’s natural sexual desire.”

“I’m not making fun of you.” Despite the insistence, your laughter bubbles up. “Swear.”

“Uh-huh,” he sounds. He can barely be heard over you losing it.

To hell with this, he thinks. He lifts his hips and rolls until you’re on your back and unable to breathe because of the shock. “I could blow air on you and you’d fall over,” he says.

You smirk. “I’m already laying down.”

He groans and ground his head into your stomach. It would be annoying if you weren’t so cute. 

His mouth is right there, kissing just above your clit. He would tease you if he wasn’t voracious. He sticks his tongue in and you crack almost instantly. Hands to the roots of his hair, yanking as if to scalp him. It hurts and he loves it because it’s a sign of your uncontrollable gratification.

“Higher,” you command, so he goes higher. He sucks right on the clit, pucker his lips out to tweak it, to put his tongue on it, to turn it in his mouth. He goes harder with each of your moans.

Alex traces his fingers up your leg until he reaches the middle of you. He runs his fingers through and then pushes in, fucks you with his fingers because he wants to be soaked by you. He wants his fingers to prune with the taste of you. 

You wanted more and now you think you asked for too much. It’s overwhelming and you’re beat red and you just woke up but you’ve never felt more exhausted in your life. But you don’t want him to stop. You want to dissolve into his hands.

You weren’t inexperienced when you met him but you were young and you had never felt lovemaking like this before. Sex was something to make guys like you. Sex was to make babies. Sex was something to fake your way through in the hopes of maybe, one day, that boyfriend will figure out how to make a girl cum.

Men are more appealing when Alex is included with them. Before men were gross, stuffy, stuck-up beings with only a handful of good ones that were either taken or related. You wake up smiling every day because you realize you’re one of the people you used to be jealous of. You’re consumed by the idea people look at you guys together and are green with envy. He’s one of the taken ones now and he’s taken by you.

And then you cum and it all goes white, those thoughts in your head. It’s the only time in your life when you don’t think it all. And then you spend the rest of your day replaying it in your head. You knew orgasms were good but you understand now why all guys think about is sex because it feels like that’s all you think about now too.

When you can see again, he’s lying on top of you, brushing your hair off of your face. He’s smiling and not in the pride way, but in the plain old happy way. Because making a woman cum isn’t an achievement for him. He’s never struggled with you and you doubt he’s ever struggled much since he figured out where a woman’s clitoris is. 

The urge suddenly possesses you because the thought has been ticking in your head since he mentioned it. You slap him. Clearly across the face. It barely makes a noise but it puts a red mark on his face. He squints his eyes and shakes his head before he’s able to process everything.

You’re laughing below him, clearly sheepish by the action and waiting for his response. He can’t think of anything to say. He didn’t think you’d actually do it and he’s kind of stunned, but, you know, incredibly turned on.

“Do you still want that blowjob?” You ask, a slight blush on your cheeks like you’re a schoolgirl with a crush. He lets out a breathy laugh. You feel the way his stomach rubbles, tickling up against your skin. Sometimes you’d like to rip him limb from limb, other times, you’d like to just stare at his softness.

He rubs his nose against yours, his mouth hovering over yours. “You can if you like. I won’t object.” He’s kissing you gently like a cushion for your soul to rest on.

You nudge him to signal him to roll off of you. When he’s on his back, you assume your previous position straddling his legs. You take him in your hand, squeezing him slightly before putting him in your mouth. He’s half-hard. You like the way he feels when he’s soft like you have to work for it. Sometimes you like to feel him when his dick is in its resting position. The slight window into his natural body.

For better or worse, he arouses quickly. You take the compliment and suck him off. You lick his shaft because it always gets him kicking his legs and he’s fighting against your body resting on top of his legs, unintentionally brushing against your pussy. 

You kiss his tip, treating him delicately after the harshness inflicted on his face. You want to treat him right and make him squirm from the lightest touch. You mouth your way down his cock and begin to stroke him with one of your hands.

He curls his toes and squeezes his eyes shut, despite how much he wants to look at this. He wants to capture every moment of this. He wants someone to transmit the whole scene into his brain to replay over and over again. He sees why people become sex addicts and he might even be one because he wants to stay buried in this. He pets your hair back before fisting it, cumming, jerking up, and shaking his legs. He can’t help but mutter, “Fuck.”

He opens his eyes and sees you wipe your mouth after taking every drop of him. He tosses his head back. “Fuck.”

*

You like watching him take pictures. You don’t often get to center in on him because you’re usually the one he’s taking photos of, but every once in a while he’s able to take you with him. You fake being an assistant and sit in his chair and watch him work. You’ll get him a bottle of water to play into the act but other than that you simply watch him.

He leans a certain way depending on how good of a photo he thinks it’ll be. If he’s standing straight up, he hates it. If he’s all the way forward, willing to get on the ground for the photo, he’s completely in love, swooning for the photo (you know from experience that he likes getting on his knees, at least for you).

It’s probably not the smartest thing for you to be on set with him because he’s easily distracted. It’s hard to pull his attention away from the camera but he’s beginning to understand the beauty of his own eyes. It’s much sweeter to look at you than whatever person is before him.

People used to ask him how he didn't fall in love with all these beautiful models. Before you, he had always viewed this as work. He keeps work and pleasure separate. What a fool he was because mixing pleasure with work was the best decision of his life. But nobody else has had that ability. You drive your personality into the photo. Your gaze only turns any picture into art. He thinks whoever said eyes are the windows to the soul was only referring to you. Everyone else is just a model, nothing else.

This doesn’t do well when he’s on a professional photoshoot and he’s distracted every two seconds by you—your laugh, your eyes, your smile, the way you leave to talk to Jerry (because nobody else ever wants to talk to Jerry).

He has two models yell at him for getting distracted but he doesn’t understand how they can blame him. How are they not staring at you? 

He’s a fool who should never bring you to work again but can’t bear to leave your side. He has an attachment issue.

*

Alex gets an idea. This can either be the smartest idea ever or the dumbest one. This one might be the first to lie somewhere in the middle.

“You want to make a sex tape?”

“An artistic film,” he says because he’s a pretentious prick who claims everything you do is art. It’s flattering but sometimes you want to brush your teeth in peace.

“A porno.”

He purses his lips. “An erotic film.”

You furrow your brows. “Do you jerk off to photos of me?”

He stands up and collects your plates from dinner, silently.

You gasp. “You totally do. You perv. I never gave you permission to do that!”

Alex chuckles. “What did you think I was doing with nude photos of you?”

You follow him to the kitchen sink. “Admiring their aesthetic quality.”

“Believe me, your tits are very aesthetically pleasing.”

You smack his arm and walk down the hall.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

You don’t bother to turn back and walk straight to the bedroom. “To prepare for my porno debut.”

*

The sex tape, or whatever you want to call it, doesn’t happen until the weekend. Alex wants to shoot it on film because he’s a weirdo (he admits it) and you want to get cute lingerie because you're self-absorbed (you admit it). You’re two peas in a pod.

“Are you rolling?” You ask him as he sets up. “Oh, god, that was the most pornographic thing I could have said.”

“Relax,” he commands. You’re on edge, he can tell. 

In an effort to put you at ease, he walks over and lies on top of you. He wraps his arms around you and holds you to him. He digs his nose into your neck and breathes you in. He told you once that you smelled like what he imagines clouds smell like and cherries. It puts him at ease and his body in this position calms you. It’s familiar and there’s no reason to be performative.

“Do you ever wish that film could capture smell?” He asks into your skin.

“When there’s cookies on screen, yeah, but what if someone farts or just smells bad?”

He chuckles and looks up at you. His smile is joyous and there’s something about this being for only you—the smile and this film. It makes this idea of his even more interesting because it’s not about sex, it’s about these little in-between moments.

Each move is delicate. He’s always been a smooth lover, even when he’s harsh and raw, his touch is always soft. He parts your legs and drags your underwear down. He takes his shirt off and you unclip your bra. He stands off the bed to take his pants off. 

“Film is expensive so we’re gonna have to go quick,” he says. It leaves you cackling and already out of breath.

“That’s up to you. You’re the one who drags things out for so long.”

Alex joins you back in bed. “I can’t help it if I last long.”

You squint. “I didn’t say that. It takes you a long time to make me cum.”

He leans over you, pushing you down against the mattress. “I know that isn’t true.” He moves closer and closer. It would be threatening if his eyes weren’t so swoon-worthy. You want to kiss every inch of his face. You’d give butterfly kisses to his eyelashes. You’d make love to every last inch of him.

He’s fast, but in a controlled manner. His hips meet yours and he lines himself up with your core. He eases in slowly as you engulf his cock. He hums at the wetness and you moan at being open. Sometimes it feels like the first time all over again. Sometimes it feels like you’ve been doing this all your life and you’ll do it for another hundred years. Either way, you don’t mind, both feel this good.

“Should we be loud?” You ask.

Alex smirks. “You’re already loud.”

You roll your eyes. “I mean so the camera can hear us.”

He’s moving in and out of you now. “I don’t think it’ll have a problem hearing us.” He thrusts straight into, knocking your head against the wooden headboard, eliciting a moan from you. He knows every move in the book. He could write a manual on you to fuck you.

You push against his shoulders. “Should we do a sexier position?”

His grin is shit-eating. “Like what?” You’d slap him again if you didn’t think he’d enjoy it so much.

“I don’t know. Should I ride you? Or doggy? What way do you want it?”

“Whatever way you want it.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows. He’s still moving, albeit slowly, but still pleasantly. “I don’t know that’s why I asked you.”

“Alright.” He pulls out of you and it aches. It isn’t right, he should always be there. It feels like a part of you slipped out. He flops onto his back beside you. “Go to work.”

“Facing you or the camera?”

“Me.”

“But the camera won’t be able to see my boobs.”

“But I’ll be able to see your boobs.”

“But does future you want to see my boobs?”

“Every me wants to see your boobs.”

“So, I should face the camera.”

“No, I still want to have sex with you, not the camera.”

You giggle and don’t say anything else. You want to give yourself over to him. The whole point of this was to commit your sex to film not have sex for the film. You sink down onto him and rock against him. It’s quick because you want it to be, not because the amount of film calls for it.

It’s the perfect sight for him. Some people like sunsets or the ocean, he likes your body. He doesn’t care if it’s naked, clothed, or covered by bubbles in the bath, every part of it is poetic. He’s a bit self-conscious about him being on film. He isn’t used to being in front of the camera. But he so desperately wants you committed to filmic memory. He’s terrified one day you’ll leave or he’ll get dementia or amnesia. He wants to remember every second of this. 

You arch your back and throw your head back. You’re shaking. His hips buck up, slamming into you, finishing you both off. You land on top of him and this is his favourite part, other than the incomparable act of coming for a man, this is his second favourite. He wraps his arms around you, still inside you, and holds this moment in his arms. 

The physical thing will always be better than any photography or piece of film. Only here can he feel your laughter and see your smile and smell that cloudy scent and feel the touch of your delicate, little hands. Only here can he kiss every bit of you while resting inside you. He feels you as you slowly fall asleep. He whispers, “I love you,” only for himself to hear, but you know it just as well as he does.

*

The film cuts off right around when you straddle him. Something is better than nothing. You can always do it again. Neither of you mind.

*

a/n: sigh, the long-awaited part 2. is it as good? probably not. but it's the most smut i've written in a while i feel like (two scenes in a fic, very impressive for me as of late, i am no longer a prude). i wrote the first part of this fic back in september and now here we are in march with 3.3k words more. anyway, take a picture, it'll last longer. and someone please take more pictures of alex. please & thank you!

[ofeliaxoxo]

A prompt for you: Charlos, jealousy

Yesss jealousy trope of all TIME unironically my favourite scenario

Hope you enjoy this! Wrote it a bit on the fly because I’m sick in bed ignoring responsibilities

He’s not even gracious in victory. The usual post-win glow is absent, no movie star smile pulled back to reveal his perfect teeth. The nice way his eyes crinkle up, so you can believe in it, the whole idea, how lovely he is.

Charles, Carlos could say, give me a smile. You’re so beautiful, you’re so talented. You beat us all today. Why do you look so angry?

“Congratulations,” he actually says, keeps the jealousy out of his voice although only the stupidest idiot could imagine it not to exist. “That was a great drive, mate.”

“Thank you. You too, you have done well.”

Oh?

“You were very happy, no? I saw you celebrate it with Alex.”

God. Like being told, no come on, you did a good job too, upset with himself as a child about second place. And he was, no, he is happy. They managed P4 and P5, a ridiculous result, practically a win, leagues ahead of where he thought he’d be this year. James nearly cried, hugged Carlos close and said I can’t believe it and then shook his head, taking it back, insisting that he knew they would succeed.

So he is happy, even though here Charles is, sodden with champagne, the actual winner of everything.

Maybe he’d seen when they’d gotten out of their cars and Carlos, without thinking about it, had pulled Alex in, squeezed him, thumping him on the back, trying to impart some of what he was feeling into his teammate. Alex swayed pleasingly when Carlos thwacked him, giggling, whole face scrunched up in delighted amusement the way it does.

Carlos likes him, the way he laughs so easily, gets stuck on his words and then enjoys it when Carlos leads them back into the path charted out for them by the cue cards.

And then a photo with the team, their names in big letters, Carlos and Alex, P4 and P5, all the mechanics with their fists raised in the air, cheering in victory although really there was no victory. But Carlos is happy, isn’t going to lose the feeling.

And now Charles, red and obvious against all the Williams blue.

Alex hasn’t left, has just stepped into his own garage instead of outside where everyone is milling around, where Carlos had been gathering himself.

“Yes, a good result for me and Alex, for the team. We are happy.”

Interview mode. Charles won’t notice, anyway.

“You and Alex work together well.”

“Do you want me to go and get him? I think he is not busy.”

Charles has got his podium cap in his hand. He always makes these things into a huge show, much bigger than anyone else, every time, curtsying and waving and simpering at the crowd like an actress being given a present.

“No, I - no. I am going. I wanted to invite you, to come tonight.”

Sitting at Charles’s table, partying for Charles’s win. He doesn’t have to, anymore, no one could ever expect him to. The galling thing, the disgusting little twist, is that he wants to. Would be happy there, in the circle. Carlos can see himself, sitting next to him, close close close, the nearness of Charles’s face, the thickness of his eyelashes, the smell of his cologne, how fun he is when he’s in a good mood. How Carlos could drape an arm across his shoulders, let it fall heavy on the hard muscle there.

“Sorry, we are flying this evening. And I think there will be dinner with the team, first.”

James’s obvious delight to look forward to. Carlos and Alex are turning the team around.

“You are flying together?”

He must’ve had too much champagne on the podium. Or the rocky battle with Max in lap fifty has scrambled his brain. He’s seriously not acting right for someone who should be floating, shouldn’t even be listening to what Carlos is saying.

“Yes. Are you ok, Charles?”

“Charlie! Come to show us what a real winner looks like, I assume,” Alex is here again, with a reassuringly cheerful grin. He comes up to stand by Carlos, unworrying in his personal space.

Finally, the pretty laugh, for Alex, the glance down and then back up. Does he know he does it?

“I will see you later, mate,” he announces, claps hands with Alex, turns to leave, makes sure to remind Charles he is the best, to see if that will lift his inexplicable mood, “enjoy your party, eh, Charles, don’t go too crazy!”