#idk i can never decided ugh

[kamaluhkhan]

i should be working on my thesis. i should be grading midterms. but instead? instead im thinking about whether i should do a vi x reader hunger games au or buffy the vampire slayer au or spiderverse au.

[sheila--e]

it was a small passing comment in the story but when its mentioned Sheila saw her dog get beaten to death when she was a kid and it made her feel like humankind was just like that (+ her sister's murder afterwards cementing that worldview)... augh.

[the---warden]

dso stressed i feel like im going to die

[ame-to-ame]

Life is weird as arospec asexual bc there's no good way to use words to describe what I feel and my experience that properly conveys it to allosexual alloromantic people

Even if I use vocabulary meant for this there's no way to grasp what it truly feels like, what the lived experience is like for me, because the allosexual doesn't experience it doesn't understand it

And so it's like trying to convey colors to someone with a different perception of color. They experience a reality different to mine. And maybe perception and sensation is the wrong allegory to use, even. Maybe the stimuli we experience is different in the first place. Maybe the sensation is different. But perception is definitely different. And it's hard to tell at which point do things start to differ.

But either way it's hard and I find it increasingly hard to explain myself or want to explain myself. It's so much easier to adopt that language and that culture aside from the gaping feeling that it's not exactly what you're experiencing. I can co-opt the term crush but what I feel. I know. Is not romantic attraction. Maybe some elements are the same but it's definitely diverged somewhere. But is there really a point in explaining the differences or clarifying that it's different? As long as the final goal is achieved does it really matter? Why am I doing this again.

[lexalith]

FRIENDS || Choi Su-Bong (Thanos)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

subong. are you awake?

yes ma’am. why?

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

???

do you think i’m attractive?

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

it takes him a few minutes to reply.

what kind of question is that?

just answer

i’m too high for this shit, bro

you’re not high🙄 liar

i wish i were

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

yeah, i think u are

really?

sure thinggg, u’re hot mama

dude quit playing, i’m being serious over here

i’m not fucking playing

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

what are we even talking about

why can’t you just answer?😭

what is this for?

for my knowledge

tf is that supposed to mean?

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

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

some stuff? what stuff?

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

who tf is this dude?

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

it does?

are you gonna answer my question or no?

yeah. i think u r both kinds.

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

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

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

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

are u serious?

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

alr, imma be honest. yeah i would

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

subong’s typing…

would u? with me?

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

maybe

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

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

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

but have u?

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

can’t help it when u look that good💯

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

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

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

i knew itttt señorita 🙏🏼

shut up

how many times?

why do you wanna know?🤨

i answered ur stupid ass questions, now u answer mine

maybe like idk, two?

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

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

more than u wanna know

how bad are we talking?

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

maybe i do

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

you do realize i’m your bestfriend right?

yeah, so?

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

yeah but they don’t make me as hard

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

even saying this shit is getting me worked up

what???😭 you’re hard??

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

it was hypothetical

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

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

too much info, subong

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

okay… should i leave you to it?

fuck no

damn alr, suffer then🙄

could u help me out?

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

with a pic of u or smth

boy whatttttttttt

what?

i’m not sending you fucking nudes wtf 💀💀

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

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

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

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

hoooooooooly shitttttttttt

it’s just a pic

yeah, a pic of u looking like that

im just in my pajamas

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

subong you can’t just say stuff like that

why not? we always tell each other everything

i should’ve thrown on a hoodie

i’d still be thinking of what’s underneath

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

subong’s typing…

subong’s online

subong’s typing…

subong’s online

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

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

it's him. he sent a picture.

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

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

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

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

and what if i don’t?

then i'd make u

mhmmm, how?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

shit, subong… i’m close

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

u better be there señorita

i will🙃

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

this shit is so funny bro loooololol

i fear your humor is broken😐

naahhh u just don’t get ittt babyy

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

another day, he messages the group chat:

pentagon this weekend?🔥

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

wbu? still down to go?

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

yeah, sureee

bet. see u saturday, señorita

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

outside

outsideeee

outsideeeeeeeee

hellooooooooooooooooooo

one minute, let me grab my jacket

i’m freezing man

one minute my ass

patience is a virtue ❤️

cmooooooooon

u knitting the jacket or what

girl i just hit retirement age waiting for u

you’re so dramatic

and u r so slow, balance baby

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it happens everywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and you did. every single time.

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

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

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

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

are u busy?

no, why?

good, i’ll be there in 10

i’m on my period

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

subong.

yeah?🙏🏼

not in the mood❤️

oh

alr cool👍🏼💯

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

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

i’m the only snack u need, girl

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

pick up the fucking phone

cmon baby please

i fucking miss u

don’t do this shit to me

u make me so fucking angry

bro istfg

please

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

i know u r reading these

don’t fucking ignore me bro

at least tell me u r okay

minsu asked why u didn’t come with us today

just fucking answer

is it that hard?

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

u r fucking selfish

i hope u know that

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

im highhg as fuvckk bro

look whatu vdone to me

fukcing bittvhhh

its urA fault

i mis uu

u r myybhaby❤️❤️❤️❤️

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

can i cone over? plewaasse

answer bitchj

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

come bsck

i loveyouy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[somanyideassolittletime]

To be loved is to be changed.

Pairings: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader

Summary : 3 ways you changed Jack, and one time Jack changed you.

Warnings: fluff, Jack is in love with his wife, language, grammar inaccuracies (maybe? idk), so much fluff I felt giddy writing this.

Author's note: I love Jack so much, enjoy!

| one

Jack, albeit all of his typical stereotypes people use to box him into, is secretly tech-savvy. It comes with the job, he supposed. Working in a field where technology is always evolving, he learnt to adapt, and he learnt to love it. It started with geeking out when the newest, most updated machine was delivered to the hospital, up to buying himself handheld medical pieces of equipment delivered to your door – he would wait for you at home before unboxing the most recent ‘toys’ he ordered, and he would talk your ears off about how cool and innovative it is. 

You loved it, you loved hearing him talk passionately, you love that even after all this time working in his job, he still finds wonders in it (it doesn’t help that he looked so hot with his forearms flexed, knife in hand, while opening the package).

He understands technology, he does. But he doesn’t get the idea of FaceTime. He wasn’t a big texter himself; nothing beats the good old phone calls, where you can get your point across without fear of miscommunication on both sides. Even when you dated, you never went as far as FaceTime; it was always a phone call with a promise of meeting each other, and now that you are married, sharing his home, he still doesn’t get it.

“Why do you even need to look at their faces when you call? What matters is what you say, y’know, besides, it’s awkward to call someone with your phone far away from your ears,” He once said while holding you tightly in his side, cuddling in his far too comfy leather couch. Both of you watching a movie, where the scene of people facetiming each other just finished. You laughed at him back then, nudging his sides, “Eh, don’t knock it till you try it, hon.” 

What a turn of events now for him, as you were called away across the country for a few guest lectures and seminars for two weeks. Away from Pittsburgh, away from him – that he finds himself thankful for whoever invented the damned thing. He’s sitting on his bed, currently deprived of your presence beside him, when he decides to try out FaceTime. 

 “Hi, handsome,” you pick up on the first ring, he’s greeted with the face he’s been missing for the past few days, smiling at him. He sighs in contentment, he finally gets to see your face. “Hi, sweetheart.” 

He can hear you rustling around, looking for something to prop up your phone before you settle on your water bottle. Your screen is now steady. You grin at him, “Finally getting the whole FaceTime thing now, huh?” 

He huffs, “Don’t wanna get used to it, i’d rather have you here.” he starts, “But yeah, thank god shit’s exist. Been so long since I've seen that face.” 

“I’ve been here four days and you turned grumpy, huh?” You tell him, referring to the text Dana sent you earlier, “Your husband is Mr. Grumpy. Med students scared to approach him all day” 

“What do you mean?” You’re still grinning at him, you’re afraid your cheeks might be too sore to talk to the faculty tomorrow. “Dana texted me, said you were being bad teacher.” 

He groaned, “I’m annoyed at everything, it seems.” he mumbles just loud enough for you to hear him on the other end. He’s holding the phone a little too close to his eyes, he squints to look at you. You noticed it, “Wear your glasses, hon.” He hates wearing his glasses, which you know, but he’s squinting so hard you’re afraid he’s gonna get a headache later on. He’s contemplating debating you, but he knows that you’re right; he’s getting too old to see something so close to his eyes now. 

“Ugh, fine. Wait,” he puts his phone in the bed, now his screen is showing the ceiling of the bedroom you share back home. A few rustling and groans later, you find yourself looking at Jack wearing his glasses. Your breath hitched. The sight of him in his glasses always gets to you, even after all this time. “Looking good, Dr. Abbot,” you joke. He smiles, “You’re Dr. Abbot yourself.” You frowned mockingly. “I was looking at my reflection, y’know.” 

He laughs, and your heart aches to be with him. You missed him as bad as he missed you, it seems. You lift your phone, standing up now, he’s curious, “What are you doing?” You reverse the camera now, showing your room. “I’m doing a room tour. Now shut up and listen to me yap.” 

He gladly obeys, he loves listening to your voice, he watches as you explain everything in your room, from the bathroom, the wardrobe, the bed, all the way to the balcony. His eyes caught something when your camera points at your desk, a familiar bottle of cologne – one he’s been wearing for ten years – so he decides to jab at you. “Is that why I can’t find my cologne in my bag?” You turn the camera facing you, and he’s glad now that he can see your face again. “I miss you. Sue me.” You stick your tongue out at him. How he wishes to wipe that shit eating grin from your face. 

“I’m suing you for that with a lifetime with me,” he says earnestly. You look at him fondly, “Jack Abbot, I didn’t know you get sappier the further we departed.” He puts his phone on the nightstand, angled so that you can still see his face, pulling the comforter up to his chin. 

“I miss you so much, baby,” you blegh at the nickname, phone now back at your desk, “You sounded like a teenager,” he chuckles, he looks at you putting on your glasses, the light from the laptop reflecting in your eyes. “Talk to me,” you say.

So he did, he tells you about the shift he’s had today while you’re typing away at your laptop, looking at him every once in a while. He tells you about the boy who went berserk, hands flailing around, making Langdon drop the scalpel in his hand, dropping it to his prosthetic feet, panicking the entire trauma room, only for him to be unfazed. You laugh fondly at him, eyes twinkling with the same mesmerization you only hold for him (and for a crazy innovation that you find interesting). 

He’s holding his yawn, but you know better. His eyes are glassy now. “Go to sleep. It’s late,” you say, he obeys you, taking off his glasses, relaxing into his pillow. “Don’t turn it off,” he says softly, eyes fluttering. You shake your head, “I’ll turn it off when you snore,” he huffs, “what? You snore.” you start, “But I need to hear you snore to sleep nowadays.” you explain. 

His eyes are half-closed now, and he finds himself relaxed, hearing your breaths on the other side, keys clacking softly. “I love you,” he whispers to you. You stopped your typing, now looking at his eyes fully closed, “I love you too, goodnight, hon.” 

For the next 7 days, he finds himself loving FaceTime, finds himself looking forward to FaceTime with you every night before he sleeps, and like other technology he once frowned at, he finally gets it. 

| two

Jack is not a man of pop culture, he never understands the appeal of it. He rarely watches movies by himself, let alone pop culture movies or series. But you loved it to no end, you often ask him to watch those movies with you, ranging from sci-fi, fantasy, to superhero movies, whatever you want to watch, he’ll gladly oblige. He’ll pretend to be uninterested in your series whenever you watch it alone with him moving around the house. But you always find him standing behind the couch, watching the show intently, before finding him beside you, starting to give commentary on what's happening on the screen. And slowly, he finds himself enjoying watching those movies and series with you. 

He loves watching you explain to him about the complexity of a character you like, loves hearing you badmouth a character you hate, and when you both find yourself watching sci-fi movies with futuristic technologies, he finds himself falling a little harder, hearing you explain to him the concept of the technology in said movies. “I don’t understand a single word you just said. Is this what you feel when I explain procedures to you?” he once asked you. You nodded, “Yeah, pretty much, but you’re hot when you’re explaining it. So I love it,” you said to him. And he agreed with you on that one. 

Jack was covering the night shift tonight, it’s Halloween night, so he’ll find himself drowning in patients in costumes, no doubt. You had dropped him off earlier with a kiss on his cheek and a promise to pick him up later in the morning.  

He’s talking to a ten-year-old kid in a yellow uniform, one he recognized as a Star Trek uniform when Ellis enters the room, “I got this, Abbot. You go ahead,” she says to Jack. Jack nods at her before saying, “You’re in good hands, kiddo.” Ellis looks at the boy in the bed, saying, “Well, what do we got here, Mr.Spock?” The kid was about to protest when Jack reactively says, “He’s Captain Kirk,” Earning a look from Ellis. He fistbumps the kid and leaves the room, fully trusting Ellis. 

The rest of the shift is pretty slow, filled with kids getting food poisoning from the candy being given away, typical drunks, and some OD patients from parties. It was now one hour left in the shift, everyone was either hanging by the hub or just doing a frequent check for their patients. He was charting when Shen and Ellis approached him.

“Hey, Abbot. How’s the stormtrooper guy?” Shen asks him. He’s currently scanning through his memory, not finding a single stormtrooper costume in his recollection of the night. “We haven’t got a stormtrooper,” He frowns at Shen. Shen points his fingers over Jack’s shoulder, he turns his head – now looking at a man in a Mandalorian get-up, his helmet on the chair beside the bed – he turns back to Shen, “That’s a fucking Mandalorian, good to go in a few hour, ” Shen doesn’t say anything, opting to look at Ellis beside him. Who, for the second time that night, gave him a weird look. He’s been doing medical procedures that might be crazy ballsy for some, but never once he received that look from either Ellis or Shen until tonight. 

“Okay, you know what, what the hell?” Ellis starts, “You corrected me earlier cause of a fuckin costume, and now, what the hell, man?” Jack shrugs, “What?” Shen points his finger at Jack, his voice accusatory, “Dude, you only ever turn your TV on for penguins games, now you tellin me you know fuckin sci-fi shit, now.?” Jack looks at him, “Wrong, I turn on my TV for the Steelers and Pirates too,” he says casually. 

“Ugh, you know what we meant. Since when do you even watch that stuff?” Ellis says exasperatedly. Jack crossed his arms, shrugging, “My wife likes that stuff.” He says that so casually that Shen and Ellis might combust at his tone. 

Shen laughs at him, “Holy shit, you’re whipped.” Jack smirks, “Yeah, I wouldn’t get married if I weren’t.” his hands find the ring in his necklace now. Fully smiling at Shen and Ellis, both of whom groan at him. “Ughhh, please be a simp somewhere else, not here.” Shen rolls his eyes. 

Shen and Ellis walked away from him before he muttered, “God forbid a man is in love,” smiling to himself with the thought of you in his mind. 

So slowly but surely, he understands the appeal now that he can see how your eyes lit up every time he referenced something. And like any other form of entertainment, he once cringed at, he finds himself enjoying and looking forward to the next time he has you curled up beside him, whispering theories he doesn’t get. Anything that makes you happy, it seems, makes him happy. 

| three

Jack is a man of many talents, but not of many coffee orders. He takes his coffee as plain as possible. Black, no sugar. He never ordered his coffee sweet, not before he met you at least. For him, coffee should be something simple, he doesn’t need extra flavor in his coffee, he just needs it to fuel him through the day. 

But you? You take your coffee as abstractly as possible. Though you do enjoy a plain black coffee once in a while, once the occasion calls for it, you actually prefer some flavor and sweetness in your coffee. 

“black , no sugar, please. What about you hon,” he asked you, ordering for himself to barista; he never ordered for you since he knew he would botch the task. “Uh, let me think. I ordered the almond latte yesterday. I think I’ll go with hazelnut today, please. Thank you,” you answered to the barista, who punched in some buttons. Jack tapped his card to pay before moving over to wait for your order. 

“Here, try this. You’ll like it.” you said to him. He shakes his head, refusing to take a sip. “Just try it, I swear” he takes the coffee in his hand, sipping on it. Fuck. that’s good. He thought. He bites the inside of his cheek to hold back a smile, not wanting to give you the victory. You pointed at him victoriously, “aha! You like it don’t you.” he shrugged, giving you back your coffee. “Eh, black’s still better.” though you know that he actually enjoys it. 

But now that it’s been a while since the two of you went on cafe dates, he finds himself missing your random coffee order. So when the opportunity comes for him to drink your coffee order, he’ll take it. 

“Hey, I’m ordering coffee, your usual?” Robby asks him, typing in his notes app to list everyone’s coffee order. Jack thinks for a second before answering him, “I’ll have a vanilla latte,” earning a raised eyebrow from Robby, who types it down without question before moving over to the others. Making a mental note to ask him later on. 

It was a while later when the order came in, and everyone stopped by the break room to take their coffee. Jack is greeted by Langdon and Robby inside, both holding their coffee. Langdon doesn’t even think before handing him a black coffee, one that Jack doesn’t take. “It’s not mine,” he says, walking over to the table, reading the labels in each cup before settling on his order. 

He holds it in a way that the label is visible to Langdon, who looks at him weirdly, “a Latte? Really? Vanilla latte?” Langdon asks him. Jack sips on his coffee before entertaining Langdon, “What? It’s good,” he answers. Langdon, who looks at Robby as if saying, dude, you seeing what I’m seeing???. Robby teases him, “Yeah, I don’t think that cuts it, brother.” 

Jack huffs, sipping some more, “Fine. My wife takes her coffee like this.” he wants to look annoyed, but he can’t bear himself to do it; not when he just drank your coffee order, being reminded of you seems to have that effect on him. 

“I’m a married man myself, but I never even order my coffee her way, man.” Langdon laughs at him. Robby smiles at him, putting his hand on Langdon’s shoulder, slightly leaning toward him. “I believe we are seeing Jack in love. What is it? To be loved is to be changed?” says Robby to Langdon’s who laughed at Jack. 

Jack wants to retort something smart as usual, but somehow, he doesn’t want to. So he opted to just smile at both of them before taking his coffee outside the break room. 

Because yeah, he might realize himself that his preference is changing, but what Robby said earlier was right, that he’s in love and that he’s loved – and he wouldn’t change that for the world. 

But the next time the two of you went on your cafe dates, he would still order his usual, not because he wanted it, he ordered it because for him, nothing beats the mischievous smile you gave him after asking him to try your coffee. (and it doesn’t help that he liked seeing your lip product mark on his cup after you drink his coffee, and that both of you just did an indirect kiss) Though that was a thought he’ll keep to himself forever. 

+1

“How do I look?” you walk into the living room, twirling your body to Jack, who is sitting on the leather couch, now looking at you. You were sporting a Penguins jersey with a big 87 on the back, CROSBY above it. You were offered a sideline ticket to the Penguins game by your friend, which you excitedly accepted. So here you are, getting ready for the game with the Penguins heartbreaker’s Jersey on you. 

Jack smiles at you. “Well, you look like you’re drowning in it, Mrs. Crosby,” he says coyly. You frown at him, walking over to him, “Jack, as much as I love Sid, I actually prefer being Mrs. Abbot,” you say to him, leaning down to give his lips a peck.

Jack puts his hand on your waist, capturing your lips on his. Pulling back, Jack let out a breathy chuckle, “Yeah? Say that after you see him, hon. You know I’m straight, but he’s hot as hell,” he jested. You laugh at his confession, about to say something when you hear a honk in the driveway. Jack walks you over to the door, opening it for you.

Jack pecks your lips once again before saying, “Stay safe, okay? I love you.” You smile, kissing his cheek, “I will. Love you too.”

It’s almost midnight when you come home, and the Penguins won, so it was a victorious night out in your books. You open the door slowly, not wanting to disturb Jack, who should be sleeping by now. You can hear the TV still turned on in the living room, so you decide to check it out.  

Jack was sprawled over the couch, the light from the TV illuminating his figure, his prosthetic placed by the table, as much as you want to move him to the bed because you know that his back would scream at him tomorrow if he spends as much as an extra hour on the couch, he looked so cozy you can’t help yourself, so you lay down on the couch, joining him. 

Your movement startles him at first, but upon seeing that it’s you, he relaxes, “Hey,” he whispers into your ear. “It was fun, wished it was with you though,” you confess to him. His arms now caging you, drawing soft circles on your back. It was quiet before you started.

“Jack,” you whisper softly, he hums, acknowledging you. You continue, “I think you broke me.” Jack stops his hand, pulling his head just enough to look you in the eyes. “What do you mean?” you snuggle further into his chest before saying, “I don’t find Sid attractive anymore.” 

“Huh?” Jack asks, You sit up, placing your hand on his stomach. “Imagine, I was that close with him, I could practically see his pores, Jack.-” You put your hand in front of you, in an attempt to emphasize just how close you are to The Sidney Crosby earlier. “But all I can think about is eh, he’s okay. Jack’s way more attractive.” Jack’s entire body warms at hearing your confession. 

He’s about to comment before you put your hand that was previously on his stomach to his mouth, not allowing him to speak, “No, you don’t get it. It's THE SIDNEY CROSBY, Jack. You know how much I love him, right?” he nods against your hand, now smiling as wide as ever. You lift your hand from his mouth, continuing your explanation. “I was supposed to be entranced by him, Jack. But I kept on thinking that he had nothing against you.” 

“You’re putting me on a damn high pedestal now, hon,” he says jokingly, though his eyes shows nothing but adoration looking at you. 

You lie back on the couch again, cuddling him. “Nah. I think I just love you too much that I find any other guy to just be….mid.” 

He chuckles, resuming his hand motion on your back. “I love you too, so much.” You don’t say anything after that, you're both snuggling, the TV playing softly as background noise – the intimacy of this moment has nothing against anything else. 

You both stayed that way for a while until you mentioned to him that you needed to move before you both fell asleep on the couch, so you walked over to the bedroom, Jack behind you, searching for the remote to turn it off, seeing the highlight of the day on the screen, with crosby’s goal earlier. He smirks proudly at the TV, remembering your earlier admission. 

Sid 0 - 1 Jack. 

[milksnake-tea]

❀ ˎˊ- prompt: wise likes you, and just about everyone on sixth street knows. ❀ ˎˊ- wise x gn!reader ❀ ˎˊ- wc: 1.3k ❀ ˎˊ- warnings: slightly ooc wise idk im still lvl 26 okay ❀ ˎˊ- a/n: thanks you stellaronhvnters for plaguing my mind w wise. anywho this my mini break from the series LMAO wise. i love you king.

Wise can hardly focus, and for once, it isn’t because of you.

Not that he minds being distracted by you - quite the opposite. He could spend hours just watching you talk and getting lost in your eyes, occasionally nodding or agreeing with whatever you were talking about the day. He liked hearing your voice; it was soothing like a cool river, especially after a grueling day.

But this time, it’s him who’s being stared at, and to his disappointment, the one burning holes into him isn’t you (although he severely doubts he could handle it if it were to be you).

No, instead, General Chop stares at him from the corner of his eye as he prepares other customers’ orders, a hint of knowing in his usual smile. Wise can see the excitement in the chef’s eyes, and it doesn’t take a genius to know why.

“Wise?”

He seizes up, bumping his chopsticks. He’s quick to fix himself as you shoot him a nervous, but questioning smile.

“Sorry, you were saying?” he says smoothly (at least he hopes it’s smooth, he still doesn’t know how to talk to pretty people), eager to move past his minor mishap.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” you laugh. “I was just saying that you have a little something on your face.”

Wise feels his cheeks warm. “Oh, really? Thanks for telling me.”

He moves to grab some napkins, but you beat him to it. Wise swears something in him malfunctions when he turns and suddenly you’re all too close to him, your hand reached out to clean up his face.

“Wha- Wait, what’re you-” he sputters, nearly falling off his stool as he lurches back.

“Hey, stand still,” you scold, your slight annoyance only serving to speed up his heart rate because who in the world said it was okay for you to be this cute.

At this point, he wouldn’t be surprised if steam was coming from his head, with how fuzzy his mind feels. He can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but just sit there, dazed as you dab obliviously at the corner of his lip.

As you pull away, he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, mentally thanking whatever deities reigned above that he hadn’t fainted on the spot. That would’ve been embarrassing; Belle would never let him live it down.

His face feels cooler - hopefully it isn’t so red anymore. By the time he’s able to think coherently again, you’ve started chatting again. Wise nods along (he has no idea what you’re talking about), and goes to slurp up some of his noodles when he sees General Chop again.

The chef, obviously holding back a cackle, grins encouragingly at him and flashes him a thumbs up in support. Wise internally groans. Would it be a bad idea if he drowned himself in his noodles right now?

And this isn’t the first time either - Wise is pretty sure the entirety of Sixth Street is aware of his… ugh, crush on you (saying it out loud both hurts him and makes him feel warm inside. Which is a terrible feeling. He wants to throw up).

Just last week, he’d seen you at the Coff Café, and Tin Man, being both a gracious cafe owner and a huge romantic, had decided that that day was a good day to have a 50% off deal specifically for pairs if they bought two or more items.

Wise hadn’t questioned it at first, since it was normal for shops to occasionally hold discounts like these to attract more customers. Even he was guilty of it, being a business co-owner himself.

But then you had to call him out in the line, excitedly waving him over as you were at the cashier ordering. Tin Man was behind you, a smile in his eyes that Wise wasn’t sure he liked, but he begrudgingly made his way over.

He still remembers the way your eyes sparkled as you explained the discount to him. They reminded him of the stars he’d see at twilight, when he couldn’t sleep and would climb to the roof just to watch New Eridu’s nightlife.

Naturally, he had accepted your offer of buying him a free drink (no one refuses free food), but he quickly learned to regret it when he saw the mischievous gleam in Tin Man’s artificial eyes.

He still gets flustered thinking of it now - the heart-shaped whipped cream and the whisper of “good luck” haunts him, especially when he thinks about how confused you were at the impromptu decoration.

The amount of times he’s caught his neighbors playing matchmaker, he can’t count on both hands - and that’s not including what Belle has tried. It’d be funny if it wasn’t also incredibly humiliating.

“Master, if you were planning on drifting off, perhaps you should’ve stayed home to take a nap.”

Wise sighs. “Be quiet, Fairy. I’m in public.”

“What?” you blink. Wise blinks back before realizing he’d been a little too loud.

“Sorry, I was talking to myself,” he chuckles awkwardly, hands fiddling with each other - it’s a nervous habit of his. You smile understandingly.

“No, it’s okay,” you say, pushing your bowl towards General Chop to signify you were done with it. “You’ve been out of it today, Wise. Something on your mind?”

You, Wise wants to say, but he doesn’t feel like embarrassing himself further. “I guess I’m just tired. Long day today.”

“I can tell,” you laugh, the sound music to his ears. You hop off the stool after sliding your share of the payment to General Chop. “Come on, I’ll walk you home. You look like you’re about to fall asleep.”

Wise’s heart does a little tap dance at your offer, but he manages to keep his cool. He hastily pays General Chop before eagerly joining you in your short walk to Random Play.

“Bro!” Belle greets him enthusiastically as he opens the door. Her eyes light up when she sees you, and she raises her eyebrows suggestively at her brother. Wise shoots her a glare when you aren’t looking. “[Name], too? How was your da- mmghhifjk-”

Wise smiles innocently as he slaps a hand over Belle’s mouth. You can’t help but laugh at the two, and Wise admires the crinkle the corners of your eyes.

“Ignore her,” he says nonchalantly, wrinkling his nose as Belle licks his hand like the little rat she is. “Do you want to come in, or…?”

“No, I shouldn’t.” You wave your hands bashfully. “It’s getting late, so I should be getting back home.”

Wise nods in understanding. Belle pries herself free and he wipes his spit-covered hand on her sleeve, ignoring her sputters and protests (she chose this path. She will reap its consequences).

“Well, I guess this is goodbye.”

You nod, shifting your feet. “I guess it is.”

Wise’s brows furrow at your behavior - what’s on your mind. But thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait long before his inquiry is answered.

You take a step forward, and Wise feels your arms loop around him in a tight hug. Suddenly, his senses are elevated, and it’s almost as if everything is enhanced tenfold. He can feel your heartbeat against his chest, the soft sound of your breath, your hair tickling his face and the heat that radiates off of your body against him.

“I really enjoyed today,” you say, stepping back with a smile that could rival an angel’s. “Thanks for hanging out with me.”

Wise tries to formulate a response, but all that comes out is a squeak like a dying balloon. God, if his face was red before, it must be flaming now. You giggle at his response, before you wave both him and Belle goodbye and leave for your home.

It takes a good five minutes before he can speak again.

“Hey sis?”

Belle sounds as shocked as him. “Yeah?”

“I think I’m going to faint.”

He hears his sister sigh.

“Wise, you’re helpless, you know that?” she shakes her head exasperatingly. “And just when you finally made progress too.”

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

[zlut4rina]

One shot/imagine request: Backshots w/ g!p Karina… anywhere anytime she’s just ready to bed you over🙏😋

And if I said blue collar karina ? Yea.

Pairings: G!p!Karina x Femreader

Warnings: Unprotected sex, smut man idk

___________________________________________

She comes home from her mechanic job, all dirty and sweaty, but it doesn't matter to her. Coming home and seeing her beautiful girl, she just has to get her hands on you. She's had a rough day, too. You wouldn't let her suffer all night, would you?

She's throwing all her stuff down at the door. And when you go to greet her with a hug and kiss, she's picking you up, turning you around and bending you over the back of the couch. Pulling whatever you had on, off. Not caring for a blow job right now so she spits on her hand and cock and starts stroking it a little. Once she feels like she's done enough she's shoving her entire length into your tight pussy. Letting out a long growl like groan as she's fucking into you like a stupid pussy drunk loser. You don't complain, you can't complain. You have no right to when she goes out and does all the work. It's only right for you to give up your body for her. Letting her use you, however, or whenever, nit just when she's off work either.

Even when you decided to wake up extra early to pack her lunch for the long, hard day she was about to experience. She's coming up from behind and rubbing her bulge against your ass, and of course, you bend over for her! You just have to! She's rubbing her length between your thighs, up against your dripping panties. She pulls them to the side and just starts fucking you so hard against the counter. You try your best to complete her lunch, but it's so hard to when she's just so deep. She takes notice and tells you to finish up, saying you don't want her to go hungry, do you? Of course you don't! Trying to make her meal as clean as possible while your body rocks at an obscene pace. Finally finished and packed, she takes you down to the cold hard floor and ruts into you like like a dog, not caring if she'll be late or not, she just need to breed you so bad. You take her so well she just has to show her appreciation to how well you treat her too.

Oh my glob, shower sex with her ?!? She's had such a rough and hard day at work that she comes home dirtier than usual. She even has a slight odor to her from all the oil and gunk she dealt with. Taking the initiative you offer to help her bathe. Starting a warm shower for her. It starts with you washing her back and arms so innocently, then the second you bend over to pick up something you dropped, she's pushing you against the wall. Tweaking at your nipples while she rubs her length between your thighs. She then starts pounding you like she's never had pussy before. The sounds of wet sloppy sex was like a cursed song. Your moans mixing with her low grunts and groans was like a sadistic harmony. The sound of wet skin slapping collided with the sound of water still violently pouring on her back and floor. Filling you up with her cream while whispering thank yous in your ear.

She's so strong to omg, anytime you're done sucking her off, she's bending you over, pulling you hips up as high as she can. She's so strong, too. Her grip is so rough, and she doesn't even mean it 'sometimes'. Leaving marks and bruises on your hips from how strong She's holding you, and marks on your ass from how aggressive and rough she was spanking you. And if I say she likes to record, too? Just for when she's needy at work and you're not responding to her horny, needy, messages. She goes back to the video you recorded last night. It's of you bent over on her bed in the dark with only her flash on your body. Capturing how her long hard dick was going in and out of you, both of your loud moans, and the slapping of wet soaked flesh was all that could be heard. A few quiet praises and curses from karina too.

Ugh she literally loves cumming on your back too. She does it to make you mad cause she didn't cun inside you or just because she likes the way her mess glisten on your back. Watching it drip down from the crevice of your back onto your stomach or whatever is below you.

___________________________________________

Need her sb 🥀💔

[starreo]

pro hero! katsuki bakugo drabble .

being icky has never been hotter. includes insecurity on katsuki's side, fem! reader p in v in the last paragraph lol, and adult themes, so mdni!!

when he's just started dating you, katsuki feels so scared of holding your hand. he feels that if the sweat is icky to him, then it'll be icky to you. and for all katsuki is, he will never want you, out of everyone to think he's 'icky'.

so he shoves them in his deep pockets, trying to wipe off the sweat, hoping, maybe by the end of the date, he might be able to. but it doesn't help. the silk pockets make it worse and his hands are sweatier than before. so he just decides to grab you by your waist as he leads you back to your door.

that night katsuki goes home, happy about your present, but nervous about your future. what if he holds your hand on the next date? and what if you hate how wet it feels. what if he can just never touch you?

however, all of the silly questions in his silly head crumble, when you pout and complain about how the winter dries up your hands so much. and as he's about to make some comment, to mask up his insecurity, you grab his hands in yours. sheepishly murmuring about how he's so lucky to have a natural moisturizer, which keeps his hands so soft all the goddamn while!

and his breath hitches, and his heart beats louder.

ever since then, katsuki makes sure to hold your hand no matter what the two of you are doing. and each time he reaches out to grab it, he smiles, at his past self, who was worrying so much.

because now he doesn't just get to hold your hand out on dates to help you cross the road. he holds your hand on the table, when the two of you are eating at a fancy restaurant. he holds your hand in front of your family, grinning as your parents tease him about not being able to keep his hands off of you.

he holds your hand against the pillows, when his cock is buried deep inside your snug walls. intertwining his fingers with yours as he thrusts in and out of you, slow, but deep. his other hand caressing your bottom lip, as his finger hooks the corner of your gasping mouth, drool slipping out of it. katsuki chuckles as his fingers make contact with the sticky substance, who knew being icky could be this hot?

i come back and this is the first thing i write???? ALSO lolll all the confidence that i had at first about writing longer stuff flew away like a seagull with a bag of cheetos. idk why but recently I've been so obsessed with mha again.....ugh.

© starreo 2024. do not copy, translate or repost .

[dolcekissy]

Why is the song one more night by maroon 5 so rafe coded. Like reader and rafe can NEVER make it out of the situationship stage no matter how hard they try. Especially with the lyric

“ Try to tell you, "No" But my body keeps on telling you, "Yes" , when rafe comes over late one night and they have the nastiest, sex where he has you folded in half. Spitting in your mouth. Hand around your neck. Just to show you who you really belonged too one last time.

Anyways!!

oh my goshhh yes. i fucking love your mind!!! i decided to make them extremely toxic lmfao. i feel like i got carried away with this idk if i like it 🥲 ugh, i hope you enjoy this lmk if you hate it lol

disclaimer // 18+ content. this story includes unprotected sex, p in v, spitting, toxic!rafe & toxic!reader, a bit of blood, and physical alterations.

─────────────────────────

for the past 2 years, you've been infatuated with rafe. every part of your being subconsciously attaching to him, begging to be closer, his presence crawling in your skin no matter how far he is ─ brain tingling when he's around, heart heavy when he's away.

the love rafe has for you is sickening, a problem almost. he shows his love through gifts, compliments, sex ─ when you aren't arguing. he'd kill for you, you wouldn't put it past him if he already had ─ always in protective mode, ready to go to bat for you. but no matter how hard you try, you can never make it past the stage of being labeled as anything other than, "the girl i've been seeing for a while." to the public.

it's a mind fuck, really. one day he's spoiling you, calling you his girlfriend and the next he's screaming at you, veins popping out of his neck, your finger jabbing at his chest as you scream back just as loud ─ threatening to hit him after you caught him with his tongue down some blonde chicks throat, apologizing by "making love to you," ─ moaning an "i love you." in your ear, begging you to never leave him as he came inside of you.

shoupe knows your full names by heart, addresses engraved into his brain, the inside of your places carved into his mind from each encounter he's experienced with the two of you. calls being made every other week, screaming and glass breaking, doors slamming and loud crying, car doors slamming and tires screeching ─ loud moans and beds creaking.

"when it's good, it's good but when it's bad, it's bad." you huff out each time sarah confronts the relationship you have with her brother, her eyes roaming over the hand print on your neck, not sure if it's from him choking you out of anger or pleasure ─ honestly you're not too sure either. you're telling her he did it during sex, no clue if that's even the truth.

you should hate him, he should hate you. the black eyes you've given him, the marks he's left on your wrists and neck ─ his actions harsh enough to make you cry, your words harsh enough you've made him cry. you're promises of never speaking to him again never falling through, always giving into each other ─ into the cycle. always forgiving him once his cock sinks into you and he's whispering apologies, whispering broken promises of the future he'll give you.

todays the same as usual ─ promising he would never hear from you again after another heated argument on the phone, angry tears streaming down your cheeks, face pale and eyes bloodshot from exhaustion ─ voice hoarse and your chest bubbling in hurt until his lips are the only thing soothing the burn in your throat. sinking his cock into your tight hole, thrusting slowly as his tongue licks away the tears slipping down your cheeks as your eyes squeeze shut, whispering, "let this be the last time, rafe." ─ something in him snapping at the seriousness in your tone.

your feet are pressed against his chest, wide and teary eyes gazing into his, soft lips parted as you pant, hands gripping onto his forearm as his hand travels up your sternum ─ hand wrapping around your neck tightly, blunt fingernails digging into the side of your neck. his tongue runs down your cheek again, down to your parted lips, forcing his tongue into your mouth, exploring your gums and teeth angrily.

his hips ram into yours, cock hitting all the right places, balls slapping against the fat of your ass, his pelvis pounding against your swollen clit as he forces your thrashing head to face him ─ fingers digging into your cheeks as he spits in your mouth, eyes never leaving yours as he taps your cheek harshly, signaling for you to swallow.

your nails are scratching at his forearm, breaking the skin, little droplets of blood forming as his grip tightens ─ vision slowly turning black as you cry out in pleasure, your whole body on fire as his hand reaches down, slapping and pinching your clit. his head tilting to the side, watching as your eyes roll back ─ hand traveling back up to slap your cheek so your eyes focus back on him, his lips curling into a snarl as he speaks,

"want this to be the last time? fine, your wish is my fuckin' command then. but don't you ever─ever fuckin' forget who you belong to." he spits, hand pushing on your neck with each word, your head forcefully bopping up and down against the sheets.

"don't you ever forget who you'll be running back to every fucking time. i fucking own you."

─────────────────────────

[hemi-demi]

Sorry, having sad Martin thoughts again.

So there's this particular scene from episode 144. I for some reason forgot this happened in my first two listens (how, idk. S4 makes me feel a lot), then caught it on my third.

This is the second time we hear Daisy coming to talk to Martin in his office while he's working for Peter.

Cold AF. Hurts like hell to hear. You can understand his distrust of her, she tried to kill Jon, threatened to pin him with the murder of Jurgen, and Jon almost died again saving her from the coffin. All that tracks.

But that's not what's happening here. Because this follows immediately after:

Daisy kept coming around the office, getting friendly. Martin knew Peter was around and, if he saw anyone constantly hindering his progress of becoming a part of the Lonely, would have sent her right to it.

But he couldn't just be nice, or didn't feel like he could. Can't give a proper warning when Peter could be anywhere, and if he's too light a touch, she might see it as a call for help and keep hanging around.

So he does the only thing he can, tells her to piss off. It works. He's more lonely than ever, severing yet another connection he was even starting to form again, but she's safe from Peter now.

Which, I have to reiterate, he could have just let Peter deal with her. He is probably harboring a lot of jealousy for Daisy right now. He can't be anywhere near Jon, but now suddenly Jon and Daisy are spending time licking their wounds and listening to the Archers. And Martin is a pretty petty person. He could have kept her talking until Peter got bored and sent her away. Job done.

But he didn't. He readily admits to not really liking anyone here, and not believing anyone likes him either, but he's still trying to keep people safe. Not just Daisy – the entire institute

He's been single handedly keeping half the Institute from being vanished into the Lonely. And he does it because of Jon.

He doesn't like Daisy, but Jon does. Jon nearly died saving her. Jon did die attempting to save everyone. So when Jon didn't wake up from his coma, even though Martin was falling into his own despair, he decided to make the best of whatever life was left in him to honor Jon's memory and keep the others safe.

And there's just something about Daisy in particular being the one to reach out to Martin, as well. She knows what it looks like when you start to give yourself to the Fears. She tried to throw out a life preserver, but if Martin took it, it could have dragged her down too. Or at least, it's how he felt (depression will do that to you. You're not worth saving, and if anyone attempts to do so, then they'll only get hurt, so why even bother asking for help?)

Yet another "I don't know how to end this ramble", but just – ugh. This man hurts me. I will never be okay about this goddamn show.

[starkeysprincess]

Petals & Promises

rafe cameron x Kook fem!reader

SUMMARY: Rafe Cameron doesn’t do romance—until after that wild night at the party, when he starts showing up at your door with flowers. No words, just a smirk and a bouquet. It’s probably just a joke... or is it?

wc: 3,4k (I got carried away 😛)

WARNINGS: some angst, mainly fluff, (idk what else to add lmk)

Y/N was curled up on her couch, overwhelmed with the strenuous college work that she had to turn in till next week. It was quiet on Figure 8, The afternoon sunlight filtered through the window, casting a soft glow across the room. The stress inside of her was slowly building up while cautiously reading through her essay, making sure not to make one single mistake. She was a straight A student after all, and the only thing that mattered to her was having perfect grades. Meanwhile her friends were going out, partying, drinking, living their best lives, she was bed rotting and freaking out about her future, it was stupid really.

suddenly, she heard her phone ring and when she saw that it was her best friend Lila, she couldn't of have been happier. Immediately she picks up the phone:

L: "hey girlll, how are you?"

Y/N: "hey Lil, I'm finishing up my assignment, as always, ugh im literally about to pass out."

L: "okayyy perfect then, I have the perfect solution for you, you're coming to Rafe Camerons party today at 8. You seriously need to loosen up."

Y/N: "wait- what? Lil, you know I can-"

L: cya there!

*the phone Hangs up*

"Fuck...." you mumble to yourself and let out a sigh. But on the other hand, maybe listening to Lila and forgetting about school wouldn't be so bad at all? I mean, as long as you don't get wasted what could go wrong? Time passes and you get up to fancy yourself up. It feels so stupid to you, but on the other side you've never been to a party before and a feeling of excitement rushes through you. Therefore you do a full face of soft glam makeup, touching it up with a rosey pink color of gloss and curl your hair. The last touch was the outfit, for which you had decided to go with a pretty dark blue evening gown and a pair of louboutin heels. If you were being honest, this was the prettiest you've felt in a long time. It felt relieving to feel comfortable and beautiful in your own body again. You leave your house and start walking to Tannyhill. Once you get to your destination, you see a large crowd of people in front of the Cameron household. You step into the house, and boom—music shaking the walls, bodies everywhere, air thick with booze and something fruity. Before you can even process, Lila spots you.

“GIRL, FINALLY!” she stumbles over, nearly spilling her drink. “I was ’boutta send a damn search party. By the way you look JAW DROPPING”

“Thank you but you texted me two minutes ago.”

“And that was two minutes of suffering,” she says dramatically, shoving a cup into your hand. “Now drink.”

You sniff it. “What the hell is this?”

“Who cares? It’s alcohol.”

You take a sip—mistake. “Bro, are you tryna poison me?”

she cackles. “Lightweight. C’mon, we need shots.”

Fast forward��you're both gone.

You’re clinging to each other, half-dancing, half-tripping, screaming the wrong lyrics to some song. Your head spins, but in a fun way.The room spins. The lights blur into streaks of neon, and the bass vibrates through your chest like it's syncing with your heartbeat. You don’t know how long it’s been—minutes? Hours? Your head is heavy, your legs unsteady, and suddenly, Lila is gone. Panic flickers through the haze of alcohol. You push through the crowd, bumping into sweaty bodies, murmuring half-apologies. Your vision tunnels, and the edges of the world start to fade. Shit. You need air. You need to sit. Stumbling toward the wall, you brace yourself, blinking hard to clear your vision. The party keeps moving around you—people laughing, dancing, making out in dark corners—but it all feels distant, like you're underwater. But even through your fucked up vision and fuzzy head, you see and feel someone eyeing you down.

And then you see him.

Rafe Cameron.

He’s across the room, leaning against the counter, drink in hand, watching you. Not just looking—watching. His sharp blue eyes flicker under the dim lights, unreadable, intense. Your pulse stutters. Whether it's from the alcohol or the way he tilts his head slightly, like he’s debating something, you’re not sure. All you know is that everything else—the noise, the people, the chaos—fades into the background.

It’s just you and him.

Your legs give out before you can take another step. The world tilts violently, and the last thing you feel is the cold floor meeting your body. Distantly, voices blur together, someone laughs, music pulses through your skull. Then—warm hands. Strong arms wrapping around you before you hit the ground completely. The scent of cologne, sharp and clean, cuts through the alcohol haze clouding your brain. “Shit.” A deep voice, close. Your head lolls against something firm—a chest? A shoulder? You can barely process it, everything slipping in and out of consciousness like a bad dream. “Yo, is she good?” someone asks. “She’s fine,” the voice responds, low and controlled. “I got her.”

Then you’re moving. Lifted effortlessly, arms hooked under your legs and back. The warmth is grounding, but your mind is too fogged to fight it, to even think about what’s happening. Cool air kisses your burning skin as you’re carried outside. The music muffles behind closed doors, replaced by the sound of steady footsteps, the distant hum of crickets.

You try to mumble something, but it comes out as a slurred mess.

“Relax,” the voice says. “You’re safe.”

Safe. The word wraps around you, pulling you further into the darkness.

The first thing you notice is the warmth. Not just from the hoodie wrapped around you, but from the air itself—quieter, softer than the freezing night outside. The second thing is the scent—clean linen, expensive cologne, a faint trace of cigarette smoke.

You’re not at the party anymore.

Your head is still spinning, but the pounding bass, the suffocating crowd, the overwhelming chaos—it’s all gone. Replaced by something calmer. Safer. Blinking hard, you push yourself up slightly, your body weak and heavy, and that’s when you see him.

Rafe Cameron.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, head tilted slightly like he’s been watching you this entire time. But not in the way people usually say he does. There’s no arrogance, no sharp amusement. Just something unreadable. Something almost… gentle. His blue eyes flicker over your face, scanning, assessing. “You good?” Your throat is dry, but you manage to croak, “Where—?”

“My place,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You were out of it. I wasn’t about to leave you there.” The weight of those words settles in your chest. You were vulnerable—completely out of it—and instead of taking advantage, instead of leaving you behind, he brought you here. Safe. Taken care of.

You were confused, and on the other hand you were partially panicking, why would Rafe Cameron take you to his house?

“I—” You don’t even know what to say. Your hands clutch at the hoodie around you, only now realizing it’s his. The sleeves practically swallow your arms, the fabric drowning you in warmth. “You were shaking,” Rafe says like he’s reading your mind. “Figured you could use it.” Your stomach flips. Why is he like this?

You’ve heard the stories—Rafe Cameron is reckless. Selfish. Dangerous. But the guy sitting in front of you? He’s none of those things. Maybe it's just an illusion, maybe he just wants to get between your legs and leave you. He shifts, reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand, then holds it out to you. But when you try to grab it, your fingers tremble too much. You're unsure of wether you should trust him or not.

Rafe notices.

Without a word, he lifts the glass to your lips himself, his free hand cupping the back of your neck, steadying you. His touch is warm, careful, almost hesitant—like he’s afraid of hurting you. The moment stretches, something thick and heavy settling between you. When you finish, he pulls back just slightly, his thumb barely grazing your skin before he lets go. The loss of contact makes something tighten in your chest.

“You feeling okay now?” His voice is quieter now, softer.

You nod weakly. “Yeah… thanks.”

His lips press together, like he’s debating something. Then, finally, he sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

“I don't want you to go there anymore.”

Your breath catches. “I—what?” Rafe lets out a small, breathy chuckle, almost like he can’t believe himself either. “You just… you don't belong at parties.” He glances away for a second, then back at you.

Your heart drops, unsure what he means and you swear you could feel your face heat up in embarrassment.

Your fingers tighten around the hoodie still wrapped around you, and you finally whisper, “Why?”

Rafe holds your gaze for a long moment, the air between you thick, heavy with something neither of you know how to name. Finally, he reaches out, fingers barely grazing your cheek, his touch featherlight. It sends a shiver down your spine.

“Because it’s you,” he murmurs. He stares you down with a neutral face expression. The embarrassment lingers, twisting in your chest.

Parties aren’t for you.

Rafe’s words replay in your mind, making you feel small. You tug his hoodie tighter around you, avoiding his gaze. He sighs, grabbing his keys. “C’mon. I’ll take you home.” The drive is quiet until he finally speaks. “You think I meant that in a bad way.” You hesitate. “Didn’t you?” His grip on the wheel tightens. “No. I meant… you don’t need that shit. The fake smiles, drunk assholes, guys looking at you like—” He stops, jaw clenching. “Like you’re something to mess with.”

Your heart stumbles.

“I just—” He sighs. “It’s not you.” The weight in your chest shifts. Not gone, but lighter. When he pulls up to your house, he reaches out, tugging the hood over your head gently. His fingers graze your jaw, slow, careful. “Get inside safe,” he murmurs. You nod. “Thanks… for everything.” As you step out, you don’t look back.

But if you did, you’d see him still watching. Still waiting.

Two days pass, but you can’t shake the way Rafe looked at you that night. The softness in his voice, the weight in his eyes. Like he saw you differently. Like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

You tell yourself it was nothing. That it was just a moment. That Rafe Cameron doesn’t do things like that.

But then— The doorbell rings.

When you open it, he’s there.

Standing on your porch, dressed in a dark hoodie and jeans, looking almost nervous. And in his hands—a bouquet. Not just any bouquet, but the kind that looks like it came straight from some overpriced florist. Deep red roses, white lilies, wrapped in a silk ribbon. Your breath catches.

“Uh…” You blink at him, words failing you. “Are you lost?” Rafe huffs a small, breathy laugh, shaking his head. “No.” He glances down at the flowers, then back up at you. “These are for you.”

You just stare. Because—what? After a beat, you slowly take them, fingers brushing his as you do. The petals are soft, the scent rich and overwhelming. “Rafe…”

“I know,” he cuts in, running a hand through his hair. “This is… not what you expected.” You nod, still too stunned to process. He exhales sharply, like he’s bracing himself. Then, finally—

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”

Your heart stutters. Rafe looks away for a second, like this is harder for him than it should be. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, rougher.

“That night? Seeing you like that? It fucked me up.” His blue eyes meet yours, and there’s nothing cocky in them. Just honesty. Raw and unfiltered. “I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere along the way, I started caring. And it scared the shit out of me.”

You swallow hard, your grip tightening around the flowers.

He takes a small step closer, voice dropping even lower. “But you looked at me like I was good that night. Like I was worth something.” He scoffs under his breath, shaking his head. “And I wanted to be that. For you.”

Your chest tightens, your pulse pounding. Rafe runs a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. “Look, I don’t do this shit. I don’t—” He gestures vaguely, like this is beyond him. “But I can’t not do this with you.”

Another step. Closer.

“So let me take you out. A real date.” His gaze softens, voice barely above a whisper now. “Let me prove I can be good for you.”

The world narrows to just him. His eyes, his voice, the plea hidden beneath it all.

And suddenly, it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.

Because this? This feels real.

[chrepsi]

──     ୨୧   !　M.S V DAY HARD LAUNCH | INSTAGRAM

singer!reader x matt

IN WHICH ; y/n and matt have been in a private relationship for the past few months, deciding to announce it to the public on valentines day <3

WARNINGS ; matt making a freaky comment, but besides that, none:))

A/N ; this is my first time making smt like this so sorry if its not the best lmfao. im also severely dyslexic so apologies if there are any gramatical / spelling errors !

liked by madisonbeer, nicolassturniolo and 559,702 others

matthew.sturniolo my valentine💗

view all 62,330 comments

sturn.obsessed y/n dont steal my man 😞

sturnz.yn06 IDK IF I WANNA BE MATT OR Y/N

y/n.y/l/n idk what i would do without you❤️😭u mean the WORLD to me u dont understand

matthew.sturniolo I LOVE YOU MORE. y/n.y/l/n NUH UH

nicolassturniolo the pink heart was a bit of a gay move

matthew.sturniolo stfu

y/n.y/l/n I TOLD YOU TO DELETE THAT SECOND PHOTO YOU BITCH >:((

christophersturniolo i love how y/n's shoes are drastically cleaner than urs LMFOAO

sturniol04 'drastically' thats a big word for u christopher

y/nfan4 I'M GOING INSANE

nicolassturniolo ugh i love you guys

madisonbeer my babies🤍🥹

liked by taylorswift, oliviarodrigo and 4,290,091 others

y/n.y/l/n i don’t know what on earth i did to deserve the most handsome, sweet, funny and perfect valentine❤️i genuinely don’t know where i would be in life if your brother never introduced us—you are such a light in my life. happy valentine’s day to my perfect boyfriend UGHHH you’re so cute i wanna throw a rock at you🤧❤️

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oliviarodrigo SO HAPPY FOR YALLL

y/n.fan7 pls dont ever break up yall are the cutest🤧

matthew.sturniolo why do u wanna throw a rock at me :(

y/n.y/l/n its not my choice the cuteness aggression takes over

y/n.sturnzz this cannot be real holy shit

matthew.sturniolo for all those fuckers; just because i wrote less words than y/n doesn’t mean i love her any less than she loves me❤️

nicolassturniolo y/n can u come over soon i miss u 🤧 (don’t bring matt tho pls pls PLS)

matthew.sturniolo at least i dont have to ask her to cum nicolassturniolo MATTHEW WHAT matthew.sturniolo 🫢🫢🫢

ariana_greenblatt MOTHER AND FATHER

sturn.38 am i the only one who noticed matt drinking wine?? i thought he was sober

sturniolo.fan278 OMFGGGGGG LIFE IS SUDDENLY WORTH LIVING

A/N ; hope u guys enjoyed :ppp if u want to be added to my taglist, lmk in my inbox or reply to this post!! luv ya x

A/N #2 ; im re-reading this rn and am just now realising how often i use the 🤧 emoji lmfao

TAGLIST ; @trevorsgodmother @mxnsonn @pr3ttylittleslutt @v4lsturn @wildfluer @delilahsturns @lailasnight @courta13 @kisses4chris @chrispycremedonut @chrisspussygang @stvrloghost 

divider creds - @bernardsbendystraws & @sisterlucifergraphics

[genshingorlsrevengeance]

it is 2am rn i should be asleep but i'm high on the buzz from reading literally everything you've written with her so i'm doing something i've never before and asking: Furina confession?

also, again, love the writing, tumblr one-shot writers truly make the world... something idk i need to sleep

(Genshin Impact) Furina Confessing to Reader

I exist because content for the girls does not (or at least anything recent besides myself and others I can count on like one hand. On tumblr anyway, on AO3, BOY IS THAT A LOT OF SMUT)

Furina stood in the mirror, staring at herself and taking a deep breath.

Right now, she was in nothing more than a plain shirt and baggy pants since there was no home.

Her hair was also a bit disheveled, but appearances didn't matter right now!

Exhaling finally, Furina nodded to herself and recited her line.

(Furina) "(Y/N). I'm in love with you-!"

She elegantly gestured outwards with her hand, ready to go off on a mini-tangent, endlessly showering them with praise and dramatics...

...Until she sighed, shaking her head. Theatrics wouldn't do. This was something that deserved to come from her heart.

For the fat lot of good that was.

Furina slowly tapped her finger against the sink, eyes trailing down as her thoughts began to wander.

She had impersonated an Archon for centuries, performed in countless theater productions, faced the music of her people's judgement, and came out a new person, truly her own.

And yet, confessing to (Y/N) was up there in the most stressful of tasks.

They were one of the few people to treat Furina normally after the truth was revealed, and actively stuck around in her life after the fact much to her relief.

(Y/N) treated her as a friend, first and foremost, even when she was still under the guise of an Archon.

Any time spent with them caused her heart to race, and before she realized it, she fell head over heels for them.

And with the disaster looming over Fontaine averted, Furina could finally follow her heart.

And that terrified Furina to no end.

(Furina) "Ugh...! Focus! It shouldn't be that hard!"

Shaking her head again, she decided to leave the mirror and flop onto her bed, face first.

It wouldn't really help, but it'd at least just get her distracted. At least it would've, if she didn't hear a knock on her door.

Not bothering to check or remove her face from the mattress, a very muffled-

(Furina) "Who is it?"

Answered the knock.

(Y/N's Voice) "Furina. Are you okay? I can barely hear you!"

Furina quickly rolled onto her back and shot up straight like a bullet, eyes widening in surprise.

(Furina) "(Y/N)?! Oh, um! A moment, please! I'm not decent yet!"

She cursed her clothes that were still drying, rapidly darting left and right to see if any of her fancy dresses were ready!

Why was this happening now?! (Y/N) was supposed to meet up with her tomorrow!

(Y/N) "I just came by to drop off some food, I had leftovers and figured you would want some! I can leave if you-"

(Furina) "N-NO! Don't!"

After realizing that she said that a little too fast, she quickly cleared her throat and attempted to compose herself.

(Furina) "I wished to talk to you about something, actually!"

Realizing what she just said, she could hear her inner self screaming.

(Furina) WAITWAITWAIT! Maybe if I can say, later, I can have time to-

(Y/N) "May I come in now?"

(Furina) "Yes! You may-"

(Furina) WHY IN THE HELL DID YOU SAY YES?! (Also Furina) I DON'T KNOOOOOWWW!

(Y/N) entered the room, putting aside a picnic basket on her drawer, before turning to Furina with a smile.

(Y/N) "Hah, dress still in the dryer?"

(Furina) "Tch, unfortunately! Though, I was not expecting anyone to show up today either."

(Y/N) just smiled at that and sat on her bed, growing a little more serious.

(Y/N) "What did you wanna talk about?"

Furina's heart threatened to bust from her chest, but she did her best to calm it down and sat next to them, a respectable distance away as well.

Taking one last deep breath, she closed her eyes and turned to (Y/N), giving them a stare and speaking directly from her heart.

(Furina) "I bike you."

(Y/N) remained still, hands still in their lap, and a moment of silence passing between the two of them.

Furina clenched her fists, watching to see if (Y/N) would react in any negative way.

After what seemed like an eternity, (Y/N) finally gave their answer:

(Y/N) "...Bike?"

(Furina) "...Eh?"

(Y/N) "You bike me?"

(Furina) I MESSED UP?! NONONONOTHISCAN'TBEHAPPENINGHOWCOULDIHAVEFLUBBEDTHISUPSOBAD?!ICANNEVERFACETHEMAGAIN-

(Y/N) mercifully noticing her face turn bright red, only chuckled lightly before trying to help calm her down, by grabbing her hands and squeezing them.

It seemed to have worked as Furina was anchored back into the real world instead of her self-berating thoughts, (Y/N) smiling softly.

(Y/N) "Do you want to try that again?"

With how carefully Furina's hands were being held, she was confused.

Did they...Return her feelings?

The way they were smiling, the way their eyes seemed to glow with affection.

A small smidge of confidence coming back to her, she again steeled herself and spoke slowly.

(Furina) "I like you, (Y/N). You mean more to me than just a friend. You have been by my side for all these years, and have never stepped away, no matter what came. Will...you continue to do so?'

Not knowing her heart could beat even faster, she saw (Y/N) nod, moving closer to close the gap.

(Y/N) "I'd love nothing more, if you'd have me."

The corner of Furina's eyes were pricked with tears, Furina immediately going in for a hug, one that (Y/N) happily reciprocated.

After a far too brief dozen or so seconds, they pulled back and just smiled at each other. Until (Y/N) spoke.

(Y/N) "I came in while you were practicing to say that, didn't I?"

Furina stammered, quickly pouting while her blush gave her away.

(Furina) "I didn't need to practice! I just needed to speak from the heart is all!"

(Y/N) "So bike is how you really feel about me then, huh?"

(Furina) "D-DON'T TEASE ME!"

Furina squeaked when (Y/N) embraced her again, though after a defiant moment, she sighed and returned their affection, the two saying nothing and staying like that for a little while longer.

Even if it wasn't the way she intended, at least it ended happily.

...Maybe this was a better way to convey her feelings anyway.

==

Bonus:

The panel that directly inspired the dialogue in this ask

A/N: I wasn't even gonna mention this last part, but my writer's integrity refuses to pass that bit off as original. Credit where credit is due, it's from an original Doujin called "The Show Must Go On!" by an artist named Chicken. I cannot link the source because it's AHEM, a spicy one, but nevertheless! I found it too cute to not utilize! And also because that absolutely seems something Furina would do.

[yesimwriting]

OKAY idk if you keep taking thoughts but this IS the dynamic I had thought for Felix since DAY ONE, so of course I need more best friend!felix and maybe this one is a typical one but...

The jealousy??? like this man is very facial and expressive and protective, especially towards the reader.... so I thought about him watching any of his friends flirting with them? And maybe also being way too touchy? You can decide if reader is comfortable in all that or not (I think she wouldn't), but having him like trying not to be a dick but also like needing to, like they're my best friend shush so yeah, I'd love it if you could write something like that! thankss

a/n omg that one scene in saltburn where felix is like 'you're my friend,, you're supposed to be here with me' yeah i knew immediately

----

"Sorry, darling." Despite the soft, almost far off cadence of Farleigh's voice, his words manage to cut through the atmosphere of the party. He leans forward, handing off his half finished joint to the girl standing next to you. "This stuff's heavy, and I don't need Felix on me tonight."

You frown. His denial doesn't get to you as much as the way he's framing it. Like you're a child that needs to be looked after. Like you're Felix's property.

If you weren't already a few drinks in, you'd dismiss Farleigh's words with an eye roll. The buzz burning in your veins latches onto that pinch of irritation. The full sounding giggle that comes from the nameless girl by your side only amplifies the feeling. "I don't do everything Felix says."

"No," he agrees, "You do just enough to be a good, little pet." You cross your arms in front of your chest, tilting your head to better glare at him.

The feel of something touching your shoulder cracks the tension. Your head turns. Felix. Despite your annoyance, Felix's sudden appearance at your side has you easing. He leans forward, pressing a kiss against your cheek near the corner of your mouth. "I was looking for you."

You smile, placing your hand over the one Felix still has on your shoulder. "You seemed busy, decided to take a lap."

He brushes his thumb against your shoulder. "Never too busy for you, darling." Felix has a way of making things that should feel just polite sound genuine. "How're you doing?"

"Farleigh's being mean."

"Didn't let her smoke." Farleigh explains flatly, taking the joint back from the girl. "After the way you reacted last time, it wasn't worth it."

Felix squeezes your arm. "That true?" You're not given a chance to respond. "You know how you get. Especially after drinking." You blink at him, eyes wide and lips pressed together. "Don't give me that look." It's too gentle to be a scolding. "We can smoke when you're sober, if you want."

You're not one to crave getting high too often. There's a sluggishness to it that you have to be in a certain mood for. But something about smoking with Felix, in his room with the window open and the two of you lounging like the only things that matter are what's within arm's reach, is unbelievably soothing.

Even in your current state, you're fully aware of the fact that you're getting the better end of the deal. But with Farleigh's smug comment and that random girl that laughed still paying attention, you don't feel comfortable agreeing in front of everyone.

"You're looking for an excuse to argue." Ugh. The way he reads you is almost eerie. You press your lips together to keep from giggling, watching him carefully. You shake your head, a flimsy attempt at denial. "Yes." Felix leans closer, grinning. He drapes an arm around your back, pulling you against his chest. " I can see it in your eyes."

"My eyes are innocent."

His freehand moves to hold your chin, angling your head to better look you in the eye. He's focused, exuding more concentration than the moment warrants. That's the thing about Felix, crowded room or empty dorm, it doesn't matter. He has a talent for making anyone feel like the only person in the world.

"Hm," he hums, "You pass." Despite coming to a conclusion, he makes no effort to move away from you. "Want to get another drink?"

You nod, "Yeah."

"C'mon, then." He drops one arm, waving a halfhearted goodbye to Farleigh before guiding you forward.

Felix keeps an arm around your shoulders as you maneuver through the chaos of the party. It's instinct to accept his lead, a part of you more glad for it than usual. You're starting to feel fuzzy, and with Felix guiding you, it's safer to accept the sensation.

"Oh my god!" A squeal and then your name.

You turn your head, eyes landing on a familiar face from your lit class. "Daphne!" She's a newer friend that you mainly know from exchanging lecture notes and working on essays together. A part of you is surprised to see her here, but you guess you shouldn't be. Now that you're thinking about it, you feel like you've seen her around Felix's friends before. "Hey."

Daphne approaches you with a wide grin. "I didn't know you were here." She then glances to Felix, and then Felix's arm, and then back to Felix. "Hi, Felix."

If he notices Daphne's curious scrutiny, he gives no indication of it. "Hi, Daphne," he greets, confirming that they do run in the same circles.

She smiles politely before turning her attention back to you, "It's been a minute since I've seen you." Daphne tosses a glossy strand of hair over her shoulder. "We need to catch up, I found out the best thing about the girl that sits in the front row that always tells everyone her grades."

"Bragger girl? She's the worst."

"Oh, you have no idea."

Felix squeezes your arm, turning your attention back towards him. "I'll get you your drink, you catch up with your friend." You beam at him as his arm gently moves off your shoulder.

As soon as he's disappeared into the crowd, Daphne gasps, "Oh my god, whatever's going on there is better than my bragger girl story."

You blink. "What?" Confusion and Felix's absence make you feel slightly off balance. It takes you a moment to catch up. "Oh, Felix? We're friend." Daphne presses her lips together, the look she's giving you not entirely convinced. "C'mon, tell me about bragger girl."

"Okay." Daphne gestures to an empty coach that's been pushed against a wall. "Let's sit?"

The two of you make it to the edge of the room. Daphne's not shy about taking up space, letting her long legs extend into the start of where people might walk. She trusts the world to move for her. It hits you then that your friendship with Daphne, like your relationships with a lot of people you've been spending time with recently, doesn't make make sense on paper.

You sit, grateful for the chance to lean against something sturdy.

"Alright," Daphne starts, angling her body towards you, "Bragger girl--never's gotten an imperfect score girl--" She cuts herself off with a soft, tipsy giggle. "Is hooking up with the TA."

Oh, you're fully hooked. "What?" Daphne nods, expression satisfied. "No way." There's no way to prove the connection between that girl always managing to beat your scores by a few points and any of her personal relationships, but come on. "Wait--with--with which one--the tall one or--or the one with the--" You're too out of it to recall a good descriptor, "Hair."

Daphne laughs again, "Hair?" You shrug at her. "Doesn't matter how little sense that makes, because that's the--the best part of the story." You nod, urging her. "She's hooking up with both of them."

You gasp. Oh my god, you cannot wait for Felix to get back so you can reiterate every detail of this. "Really?" Daphne giggles, nodding her head. "How do you know?"

"Okay," she crosses her legs, "So, I was at this ba--"

"Hey, Daphne," the voice is low and clumsy, over extending the second half of Daphne's name. Daphne looks up in time to see a guy sit on the couch's cushioned arm. "Who's your friend?"

Daphne throws you an apologetic look before turning back to the stranger. "Hi, John." She then introduces the two of you politely, presenting you as a friend from her intro to western lit class and John as someone from her econ class.

John doesn't even attempt to hide the fact that he's looking you over. You're not sure if it's the slightly glazed over quality to his eyes or his lack of shame gets to you. All you know is that some instinct tells you to be wary.

He tries your name on his lips, slurring slightly. "Why've I never seen you around?"

"Oh, I don't know," you try, tone much more sober than it was a moment ago, "I'm around, I guess. Here and there."

It's not your best small talk, but the only part of you that seems to be clinging to sobriety doesn't feel right. He's friends with Daphne, you tell yourself, you have no reason to believe he has bad intentions just because seems like he's had too much of whatever he's been having tonight.

John laughs, like your words were some obscure joke that he wants you to know he decoded. "So what do you do when you're not getting out?" He angles himself towards you, disregarding Daphne entirely. "I'm having a hard time picturing you in a library."

It's almost ironic enough to get you to laugh. John sees you here, he sees how you're dressed, and who you're with and just assumes that this is your regular state. And while there's nothing wrong with being the party girl type (some of your favorite people are that kind of person), it's just not who you are every night of the week.

"Actually, John," Daphne interjects, "She's really smart, like basically certified genius smart." You throw her a not so subtle look that says you feel like she's exaggerating. "What? I said basically." You don't look like you agree, "C'mon, even Dr. Alvero's said it, and he can't stand anyone."

"Really?" John moves to stand. "Dr. Alvero. His class is bloody murder." He takes a step towards you. "Maybe you could help me study sometime." You're too aware of the length of your dress, of your legs. "I'd pay you for your time."

There's something about the way he tacks on the reference to finances, an implication that burrows beneath your skin. That's the worst part of Oxford's elite, they assume that if you don't run in the same circles...that if you don't come from generational money, you have nothing. That you're in a position to bend to their every whim for what they consider petty cash.

"John," Daphne tries, voice hard.

"What?" John takes another step forward. "I said I'd pay her."

Indignance and nerves bond uncomfortably in the pit of your stomach. As much as you want to tell him off, the way he's looking at you leaves you frozen, and it's not like the two of you are in a private area. You don't want to be labeled as a hysterical drunk.

"Sweetheart." Felix is within reach.

You turn your head instinctually. He's less than a foot from the couch, holding a solo cup. Despite directly addressing you, Felix's attention is fully focused on John, who seems to have finally remembered the concept of personal space.

Felix walks past him without a second glance before sitting next to you. It's a squeeze, Felix's knee pressing into yours. "They ran out of cups, so I thought we could share." Felix extends his arm slightly, gesturing to his drink. "Have some."

You lift a hand to reach for the cup, but Felix shifts before you can actually attempt to take it. Confusion has you dropping your hand back to your lap. You don't get where he's going with this until he gently tilts the cup in a silent question. You nod.

Felix brings the drink to your lips, gently tilting the cup until its contents are down your throat. The alcohol burns slightly, but not overbearingly so, and the flavor is familiar. Your favorite drink.

He pulls the cup away, a drop of liquid sliding down the corner of your mouth. Felix's thumb wipes it away before it can reach your chin. He then brings his still damp thumb towards his mouth to clean it.

Heat roots itself in your chest and crawls up your neck. All of your discomfort, all of your worry from before feels far and abstract until Felix asks, "So, who's your friend?"

"Oh, uh--this is Daphne's friend, John."

Daphne nods, leaning forward to join your conversation, "Yeah, I know him from my econ class."

"Yeah, good to finally meet you, man. " Felix finally looks back at John. "I think my step-mother's friends with your mum."

Felix places an arm against the back of the couch, giving you space to relax against his side. A more sober you would have thought twice about giving in so quickly, but you're starting to feel light again. "Uh--Cindy Marin."

"Right!" John exhales, relieved, "Right."

Felix nods once before turning his attention back to you. "You ready to get out of here?" There's an assuredness in the way he asks the question that makes it seem like there's nothing of value left at a party that hasn't at all since he sat down. You nod. Felix leans towards you so that he can better look over your shoulder. "See you around, Daphne."

"Yeah, see you."

Felix gets up, immediately stealing the warmth and comfort he'd been providing while next to you. Something that you only very minorly resent him for. He offers you his hand as you stand, and that makes up for most of it.

You turn your head to say goodbye to Daphne. Now that Felix isn't looking, she grins at you before mouthing: that was hot.

You roll your eyes, hoping your feigned irritation is enough to cover any signs of being flustered. Especially when Felix pulls an arm around your shoulders.

"Bye, John," he mumbles, "Congratulate your step-mum for me, yeah?"

Felix guides you out of the party. Once the two of you are exposed to the cool, night air, Felix lets go of you. There's a stiffness to his release that gets to you.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a box of cigarettes.

"Can I?" Your voice is smaller than you thought it'd be.

Felix pauses, thinking through your request before handing you the box. You smile as Felix leans towards you. You don't smoke--with the exception of an occasional drag from one of Felix's cigarettes--but you like lighting them for him.

You pull one from the box and place it between his parted lips. He hands you his lighter next. You spark it to life, bringing the flame to the cigarette's end. Felix takes a deep breath, letting the smoke fill his lungs before exhaling. He doesn't attempt to take your hand or place an arm around you again.

"Are you--" You're not even sure how to word it, "...Okay?"

He takes the cigarette between two fingers as he breathes out. "Fine." Felix inhales another drag. "Just didn't love the way that guy talked to you."

"If it helps, neither did I."

Felix glances over at you, eyebrows pulling together. "Then it's a good thing your best friend was there."

You roll your eyes fondly, fighting a grin, "You're always a good thing."

He looks down, his fingers brush against yours. You intertwine them, pulling his palm against yours. "Someone loves me."

You attempt to glare at him, but the look feels too sickeningly fond to come off as menacing. "Don't start."

His smile broadens. He squeezes your hand, thumb brushing against your knuckles. "Want to stay over tonight?"

"Yeah." You grin, body subconsciously leaning against his a little more. "Are you tired?"

Felix eyes you with exaggerated skepticism, "Why?"

"Wanted to know if you were in the mood to read to me tonight."

He smiles, angling his head to press a kiss against the top of your head. "Anything you want, lovie."

----

felix: oh my god,, i can't believe people treat you like that!! maybe you should borrow my last name for a little, just so that they leave you alone

taglist; @vader-is-hot @spiritofbuddha @getosangie @freyafriggafrey @ilovehyperfixating @aryiannarae @willowpains

[mangionebabymama]

We need to talk about being Luigis hallway crush. He's whipped BEYOND BELIEF.

Stalks your spotify, pinterest, goodreads and insta.

His friends tease him about his feelings ALL THE TIME!!!!

At frat parties he'll be lurking near you to see your beauty up close.

He's a blushing mess whenever you talk to him!!!!!!!!!

Always attentive when a guy is near you. He gets jealous.

Ugh to be his campus crush 😫

Let's discuss:

He'd pick up his phone and be on social media more often, only to see what you're up to, if you'd have any new updates about your everyday adventures, and to know what you posted. He'd use that to better understand who you are, your digital footprint, and how you embody yourself through other mediums. If he had Apple Music instead of Spotify? He's gonna cop that $2.99/month Premium for Student subscription just to see what you have on your playlist and check out your tastes. And if he already had a Pinterest and a Goodreads account but never used them much until he learned that you use them frequently? Yeah, he's gonna build up his accounts more on there now. Now Instagram? If it wasn't for his sister's blog, where he decided to make an account just to give her one more follower and then to post a photo with her, he would make an account since you have one on there.

He'd deny to his friends that it's not necessarily a crush since he's never truly had one to begin with. However, something about how he feels and thinks about you differs, unlike anything else he's felt for someone before. He knows it's something else, though it remains undefined for now, but his friends can tell it's much more than just a tiny liking. They constantly tell me how he ogles at you, how his ears perk up at even the slightest mention of your name, and how he effortlessly melts into your presence whenever you're around. Regardless, he's going to tell them otherwise.

If he didn't intend to go to a party, he would learn later that you would be there that night. Yeah, now he's got plans. And what if one night he didn't go but then found out you did? He'd kick himself in the shin for that one. It's also embarrassing when he’s at a party, and his friends mess with him, pointing you out in the crowd. When Luigi asks, "Where?" and tries to hurriedly scan the room, they laugh at him, only pretending you’re there—just to see his immediate reaction when calling attention to your name as he gets excited, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. 

But when he catches a glimpse of you, you spot him at the party and go over to say hello? His soul might as well leave his body and never return in that moment; at that point, he's just a vessel. Generally, he's easygoing, smooth-talking, and well-spoken when conversing with anyone, regardless of how attractive he finds their beauty since that doesn't matter to him. But you? Even though he's intelligent, he looks like an idiot whenever he tries to talk to you; it's either stuttering over a syllable or racing through his words, struggling to form the correct sentence.

And don't even argue about what he feels when he notices another guy standing next to you, talking to you, having the audacity to even make you laugh. In his mind, he knows that he's foolish to ever harbor such envious feelings about you with another person, let alone another guy who could be just like himself. But the thing is, though, he's not like everyone, and he knows that well enough and hopes that you see that beyond any other person you come across. He's on high alert whenever he comes across you with someone other than him, sticking to intrusive thoughts and stipulations of what could be happening, and if they do—he'll know when and how to react.

are these headcanons essentially? idk, i kind of don't understand the whole gist behind them sksjsdlka